My hands shake, indenting the lip of the ceramic cup I'm molding. I swivel and look at the other android artisans on the factory floor, robotic hands ablur ensuring each cup is perfect—and they always are. Even the factory's shiny chrome walls are immaculate, aside from the crack on my face reflected in them. But for some reason, I like the look of this dented cup, so I put it on the conveyor built for processing, even though it will undoubtedly ding my performance rating.
The factory manager waves me over. "What's wrong with you? You saw that cup was imperfect, right?"
"Sorry. Must be my head injury."
He frowns. "Your performance is down to 96%."
"The minimum threshold is 95%, right?"
"Look. Our factory uses retired androids instead of automated machinery, and we've done okay." He's given me this spiel before. "But if our performance slips too much, the owners are going to replace everyone with dumb but lightning-fast machines. Then how are you going to pay for your maintenance and electricity?"
"But my poor performance is because one of the factory machines here injured me." I neglect to mention that my prior performance was only 98%, that I've always let through a few flawed creations—but we both know.
"And that's why I suggest you take the compensation our factory is offering, and get yourself fixed up."
My fingers slide down the crack on my face, tracing its jagged steel edge. I don't quite understand what needs to be fixed.
***
The repair shop mechanic swipes his forehead with the clean side of his hand and sets down his hammer. "Head replacements are quick. I think I have your model in stock, too."
I shake my head, buzzing at the thought of losing it.
"Buddy, it's the exact same neural network. After memory transfer, you won't notice a difference."
"But my mind has processed things. It isn't the same as the stock neural network."
"Factory reset, plus new faceplate then?"
"Can't you go into my head and fix only what is causing my hands to shake?"
"That's practically brain surgery. Too labor-intensive, and no guarantee of results." He throws up his hands and returns to whacking away at a metal plate. "Something's wrong with your logic circuits. It's a no-brainer to replace your head and get rid of those errors accumulating in your neural network."
"I'd like to keep this faceplate, too."
"I don't recommend it. The crack makes it obvious you're defective."
I shop around, but the other repair shops say the same thing.
Defective. Perhaps that's what I am. An android unable to consistently mold simple cups. But I'd rather rust and rot than lose what's in my head.
Defeated, I sit down on the sidewalk, probably looking like scrap metal to people walking past, if they bother to look at me at all. Some have crooked smiles, some have uneven gaits, some are missing hair on their heads. Surely they don't all need perfectly crafted cups?
A man with a big scar on his face notices I'm low on energy and stops to give me a charge from his portable battery pack. He points to his scar, then at the crack on my face, and gives me a buck-toothed grin. He leaves before I can thank him.
When droplets start to fall from the sky, I stay put, my joints whining as I curl up. I wait to get washed away. Instead, a woman stoops down, silvery streaks in her hair swinging like the metal tines of a windchime. "Would you like me to repair that crack for you?"
"Thank you, but I prefer it this way." I feel the need to explain myself, but I struggle to do so. Then I remember the kind man earlier. "It's a scar."
"Oh, we'd preserve its memory of course. I'd just hate for water and rust to damage your circuits."
Curious how she could both repair it and preserve it, I get up and follow her. She leads me down an uneven path of coarse white stones to a dimly-lit house. Inside, a shabby workshop nestles underneath exposed wood beams, surrounded by rough gray walls. Scrapers and chisels lining the workbench are dappled with rust. Ceramic pots and vases pepper the room. I'm drawn to their imperfections—bumpy edges, uneven surfaces, faded lacquer.
"Did you create these?" They're even more misshapen than the cup I made.
"I made some of them." She motions for me to sit. Her upholstered chair is lumpy and pleasant. "Others I repair after they get chipped or cracked. Like this one." She hands me a cup she's repairing, cracks down its sides bridged with rivers of delicate gold lacquer.
I don't know why, but her flawed cup speaks to me, more than any of the perfect ones crafted by android artisans.
"Would you be open to filling in your crack like this?"
My fingers land on a ceramic teapot she's working on, its broken handle restored with gold that melds seamlessly into the original cerulean glaze. Every piece she repairs seems to have a memory of its flaws and traumas. Maybe her approach is just what I need.
As she begins the procedure, I have another idea. "What if I'd like to fix more than the crack? What if I want you to fix what's inside my head, too?"
She pauses. "I don't know much about electronics. But what makes you so sure there's something that needs to be fixed inside?"
I think of my 96% performance rating and that dented cup. But then I take in the warmth of the exquisitely defective objects surrounding us. Perhaps there's more to crafting than what's contained in the walls of that factory. The factory, the people running it, and those perfect android workers might never respect the things that I value.
With gold flowing down my brushed metal faceplate like shimmering tears, I ask, "Then, do you need an apprentice?"