Blood, Steel, and Garbage

Skinfabs were born from blood, metal, and skin— not quite machine, but not quite human. Unlike humans, they were constructed— given bodies, faces, and adjustments to suit the needs of those who created them. Unlike machines, they were sapient— possessing free will and the capacity for the entire gamut of human emotion; from love, and happiness, all the way to anger, and hate. Their appearance made the humans who saw them shudder involuntarily. Rather than natural, polished chrome, their exteriors were made of artificial skin and blood. Beneath this, however, was a more familiar frame of steel, circuitry, and wires which gave them souls.
Even the flesh of the machines they had to interface with throughout their daily lives seemed to recoil at their touch, as if they, too, rejected them as kin. With one foot in the world of mankind, and one in that of machines, life as a skinfab was a lonely experience. Frae didn't mind this, however. They enjoyed their solitude. It was a relatively quiet existence, save for the groaning, hissing, gurgling, and skittering of the garbage truck they drove. There was kinship to be found in the piles of trash that they collected, at least for the few hours it took for their truck to digest them.
Things both organic and fabricated found their way into Frae's truck, as humans threw out all manner of things. Machines, broken into bloody pieces, their skin turned cold and pale, would be cast away— while bits of wire cut from a human's head, used batteries, and even old body casings would join the artificial flesh. Here, in the trash, both were equal. Both would be digested, stored as energy for the truck to continue moving on to the next stop, collect their trash, and repeat the process again. And as the garbage dissolved within the truck's stomach, it would all melt into one mass made of both organic and artificial materials— like Frae.
This made them smile, the corners of the fleshy, pinkish skin upon their face curling upwards to reveal the shiny steel teeth typically hidden by their lips. It was an expression that frightened humans, who feared that they were about to be eaten. Though it often came naturally and without thought to Frae— it was something they had learned to suppress in the presence of their metal half-brethren. Humans lacked the facial expressions that were so common for skinfabs, their faces were rigid, trapped forever in whatever position they were born with. When they spoke or inserted new batteries, their jaws moved only up and down on a series of pistons. Instead, to show emotion, humans changed the colors and patterns on their retinal displays.
Red was angry— if their eyes were red spirals, the human was very upset. Blue was sad, and despair was punctuated by a repeating pattern of blue lines. Happiness was orange, with yellow lines radiating from the center when one was experiencing great joy. Purple was boredom, green was satisfaction, silver was fear, among many more Frae had to learn by studying those around them. When a human wished to show none of these, their eyes simply shone a plain white.
Frae would occasionally look into a small mirror, which was made from a reflective mucus, and attempt to mimic human expressions. The tiny displays in their pupils could change color, but it was only a small point of light compared to the large palm-sized circles that humans had for eyes, and easy to miss. It was simply so much easier to emote by moving the strange clumps of hair above their eyes— their eyebrows— their lips, and eyelids. Frae only wished that humans would study their methods of expression the same way the skinfab had to study theirs. This was a large part of why, exactly, Frae enjoyed their solitude so much.
Trash was something no one ever wanted to see again. Once it was removed from their homes or businesses, it was no longer their problem. Forgotten. No one wanted to approach the driver of the garbage truck, after all, none of what Frae collected was theirs anymore. Their trash was full of unsavory things they would much rather pretend didn't exist. Like Frae. This was a thought they tried not to dwell much on, but it was one that would creep up on them in the silence of long stretches between pickups, or in the dark of night. It struck them like a predator, leaping upon them and gnashing its sawblades at their throat. They lived in a world built for humans, in which Frae was built to serve with one simple purpose— collect their trash. As much as they tried to throw off their thought-predator, it dug in its steel claws, and Frae would begin to wonder what life might be like if they could do something, anything, besides collecting trash. They longed to join the society they found themselves swept beneath, like the discarded skin of yesterday's newspaper.
It was this thought that preyed on their mind as they started their collection route that morning. It persisted through the streets of Phillipsheed, in the first neighborhood, then through the second, the third, the financial district, and even as they drove past the crowds of the downtown entertainment district. The thought stalked them through this concrete jungle, and Frae could feel its blades inching closer with every new trashcan or dumpster. Frae wished they could take a break, but the humans created the skinfab to be able to work endlessly without running out of batteries. The wonderful thing about mechanical things was that they could repair themselves when broken, and so, it was of little concern to Frae's creators if they were to get hurt on the job.
If only they had accounted for mental health. Frae thought bitterly as they pulled into the alleyway of a grimy battery bar that contained the worst of their customers. It was little secret that the Electron was a front for Phillipsheed's deadliest criminal family— the Morses. Both the police department and city hall were deep in the gang's pockets— be it through bribery or blackmail— and despite their presence in the city being an open secret, there was nothing that would be done about it. It was the one stop on their route that Frae truly despised. All sorts of unsavory things would find their way into the Electron's dumpsters, jacks used for uploading illegal drugs, counterfeit money, loose screws, fingers, once or twice Frae thought they had even thrown entire human bodies away— but they knew better than to dig into it, and kept their mouth shut.
A gruff looking man with wild yellow wires sprawling from his head regarded Frae with a nod as he sucked down a battery. He was watching. Frae gave him a polite nod, and went to work leading the dumpster within reach of the truck's arms. It was as heavy as ever this time, the thing had some difficultly standing on its many feet, and lumbered after Frae towards the truck with great effort. They lifted the fleshy, ribbed lid that covered the inside, and stood back as the truck picked up the thing. Its legs danced wildly in the air as it was turned upside-down, but it calmed down once it was set back on the ground, and it quietly skittered back into its corner with a new, unburdened speed. The man stared after Frae as they climbed back into the driver's seat, his eyes glowing red for a moment, before spitting out his battery and walking back into the bar. Frae understood the threat— whatever happened, they couldn't tell anyone what they saw in the Electron's trash.
***
Frae hadn't planned to do so much as look at the dissolving trash after their encounter at the bar, but something called to them— literally. As they continued their route, a voice somewhere within the pile of flesh, organs, batteries, and dirt cried out louder and louder.
"Get me outta here, get me out already! I ain't dead you backstabbin' oilstains!"
Frae tried to ignore this, but the voice persisted.
"Get me outta here already! Tossin' me out with the trash?! Which one of you did this?! I want names! You're all dead, you hear me?! Dead!"
Distracted by the yelling, Frae hit a speedbump with a little too much speed— and could hear the trash heap in the back of the truck sloshing around.
"Oh. Oh!" The voice shouted in surprise. Whatever it belonged to seemed to have been repositioned. "I see— none of you ain't even here, huh? I'm in a garbage truck ain't I?!"
Frae gripped the bony wheel tighter.
"Hey! Hey! Driver! Trash bot! Somebody's in here, you gotta get me out! You hear me?! I'm a human! A hu-man! Look— hey, look— if you get me outta the trash, I can get you outta the trash too, you get me?!"
The thought stared them down again. What if...? Frae quickly pulled over, and released their grip on the wheel. This is a bad idea. Just keep driving, what are you doing? They thought to themselves. Maybe it's nothing?
"Hello?!" The voice cried.
It's definitely real. Frae thought, and with a shaky sigh, finally stood. The back, where the trash sat and dissolved, was easy enough to reach— Frae only had to squeeze through an opening at the back of the truck's cabin, which opened wider as it sensed their approach. A biolumiescent light cast a sickly yellow-green haze onto the scene, a pool of discolored stomach acids mixed with melting trash, creating an abstract liquid of greens, browns, reds, and blacks surrounding a pile of steadily dissolving trash. A fleshy rim extended around the entirety of the pit, allowing collectors to walk around and adjust the pile, or pull things out if needed. Frae looked to see where this human might have gotten trapped, and wondered what state they might find them in. Why couldn't they move? Were they mising their arms? Were they low on battery?
"Hey, hey— over here!" It shouted.
Frae scrambled around until they spotted a bright red light coming from the edge of the trash pile.
"Yes, yes! Quick, pull me out, I think some of that acid crap is already getting to my casing!"
"O...okay...okay hold on." Frae awkwardly attempted to find a position that would allow them to grab a hold of what they could see of the human— merely their head— without falling into the acid themselves. They've accidentally fallen in before, and the resulting burns were quite painful, and took weeks to heal. Their hands and arms were by this point permanently scarred from the truck's stomach acids, even though they were built with tougher skin specifically to withstand it. Eventually, they found what seemed to be a safe position, with one knee on the rim, a foot against the wall, and the second at the edge of the rim to allow them to reach further.
Carefully, they reached towards the head, and, looking for something to grab a hold of, wrapped their fleshy fingers around a string of knotted red wires that protruded from its smooth top.
"Yes! Yes! Finally!" The figure shouted as Frae pulled back— revealing that there was no body, merely a head. It was a man's head, somewhat rotund with a square jaw and a small, pointed nose. Its expression was locked into a scowl, quite fitting for what it was likely feeling at that moment.
"Oh, oh god I'm so sorry— did I just..."
"No, no— the traitors cut me off!" The head growled. "Probably tossed the rest of my body in other dumpsters 'round town, it's what I woulda done."
Frae stared in bisbelief for a moment, til the head spoke.
"The name's Ford." Ford seemed to know that Frae was about to ask him for his name.
"Wait...you don't mean..." Frae's eyes grew wide.
The head's eyes turned a deep shade of green. Pride. "I do mean— you're lookin' at the real deal! The Ford Morse!" Frae knew the name well, Ford was the Atriarch of the Morse crime family, having inherited the role from his mother. His was a name that you heard only in whispers, even the media was much too afraid to portray him in movies, shows, or plays. The man lead the Morses with deadly efficiency, and under his watch the family conquered and controlled the rest of Phillipsheed's criminal families. In his own way, he had actually brought a form of peace to the city— and at first, many were quite happy for the end of the gang wars that once plagued the streets. That was, of course, until they began to utilize their new strength to force the city to work for them. There's a joke in Phillipsheed that everyone pays two taxes; first to the city, and then to the Morses— the only difference between the two is that when you fail to pay, one will make you wish you were dead, and the others are the Morses!
The joke is just that, however, as the Morse's debt collectors are well known for their violence— and the city's own tax collectors are often afraid of them, rather than the other way around. Unsurprisingly, many in Phillipsheed resented the Morses— including a few of the families beneath them, who dreamed of stealing their place on top for themselves. Needless to say, Ford had many enemies, but few would dare make an attempt on his life.
Frae shuddered. This was bad, really bad— if whoever had done this found out that they had saved Ford, they would be hunted down. On the other hand, however, if Frae were to cast Ford's head back into the truck's acid and let him die— the Morses could find out and then they would hunt them down. A bead of sweat formed on their brow, and dripped onto Ford's head below them with a quiet tink.
"Hey, hey, hey— don't you dare drip your flesh juices on me, got it?!" Ford snapped. "Clean me up, willya?"
"Oh...oh sorry— sorry!" Frae said, and took the head with them back into the truck's cabin, where they grabbed a relatively clean rag and began to wipe off the sweat, dirt, blood, and acid from Ford's head. They also took care to untangle ford's wires, slicking them back in the manner they had seen in photos of the man while he had a body.
"Better, better!" Ford said flatly, as he was placed down on the dashboard. His eyes were now a duller shade of red, clearly he was still quite angry— who wouldn't be after losing their head? Or did he lose his body? Or did his body lose his head? Who lost who? Frae wondered.
Frae stared for a moment, awkwardly shifting in the driver's seat. What now? They wondered. "So...should I...drop you off somewhere...?"
"There ain't a single human soul in this city I can count on right now— there's rats scurrying about and I ain't sure who they are!" His eyes burned with red spirals, before cooling back down. "Unfortunately I gotta use you, meatbag, to figure who the hell tried to cut me down and make their circuits fry. You get me?"
Frae nodded hesitantly, but they weren't sure about this. It would be dangerous, they weren't fond of potentially having to hurt someone, and as much as they were growing tired of collecting garbage, it was what they were made to do. Wasn't it?
"I ain't got a body no more so you gotta be my hands through this. You know I'm a powerful man, right? You help me, and I'll make your wildest dreams come true, deal?"
Frae stared at the fleshy floor for a moment, kicking away a hunk of meat that must've followed them from the back. For the first time in their life, it disgusted them. "Deal."