She was oblivious.
The female automata, dutifully dampening the garden surrounding the outskirts of their tiny encampment, appeared negligent to the scuttle of scurrying members into their relished site. This morning, she was
NOT assigned to
WATCH, but to
CULTIVATE, ignoring the insightful significance of the anomalous troupe bearing a few Pulsians, a flying Moogle and a single bound PSICOM officer, in addition to the wavering heat signatures of a particular imprint that almost branded each individual. Whitefield seemed not vociferous nor hostile, based on her cardiac scans before and after his engagement with Julian; thus, logically no alarm beckoned.
Besides, drudgery called.
The fashionably dressed machine neither disliked nor enjoyed this assignment, but, somehow, inherently felt drawn to nurture such inferior life forms. Despite a plant’s inability to easily communicate or perceive pain, the android often referenced historical scientific ledgers while in pursuit of her designated dawn’s mundane task, which proclaimed that some evolved sprouts notoriously possessed far more senses, heightened past a spectrum that people could barely distinguish.
She muttered verbatim the text to herself, inaudibly, while showering the roses and lilies with her outstretched arm. She stood intermittently motionless with the hose, except for the spewed water, then, with every few seconds adjusted her pivoting midriff to accommodate the position of the ejected stream in an arc slowly gaping elliptically, similar to a sprinkler. Her torso then finally returned promptly, in a counter-clockwise fashion, to a new designated position, once the last portion of the vibrant patch received its due dew.
“Arabidopsis thaliana wields more than ten different photoreceptors, far beyond a human’s three photopsins for red, blue and green, the two rhodopsins extricating light from shadow, and the cryptochrome that regulates the circadian rhythm. Plants detect electromagnetic waves both longer and shorter than people can. While we can convert these visual indicators to pictures, they can convert these signals into growth cues.”Olfaction without noses? Again a letter-perfect response entered the ambiance; its muted pitter-patter rhythm mimicked the systematic aquatic splashes upon leaves and stems, hewn from her sunrise obligation.
“Ethylene gesturing allows the volatile detection of ripening amongst fruits. As another instance, the parasitic Cuscuta Pentagona ferrets its tomato host via multiple chemical odors, avoiding noxious repellents.”Tactition and thermoception without a nervous system? More rote was whispered.
“The process centers on Pulvinus motor parenchyma, rather neurons via touch-activated TCH gene transcription and translation; these are the same calmodulin proteins involved in such animal processes as inflammation, vascular function, nerve growth, and memory.”Memory? The capacity to encode, retain, and retrieve information.
“Fir and birch trees, together, network themselves underground through labyrinths of mycorrhizal roots, to convey warnings of impending insect assaults, and also to deliver carbon, nitrogen, and phosphorus to saplings in need. They recognize and remember their seedlings as kin, utilizing the fungal web to trade nutrients, sharing resources to propagate harmoniously each of their respective species.”Abaxas Daniels paused her quiet recital, rocking back and forth. The abundant dihydrogen monoxide dribbled haphazardly, while she pondered the difference between her existential state and the orchard’s. Dropping the irrigating tube, the feminine machination paced suddenly to the center greenhouse, which lodged the jewels of her creator’s farm.
Amorphophallus titanum. The Titus Arum.It harbored the greatest unbranched inflorescence between both worlds, typically residing on limestone hills in rainforests, populated more densely on Gran Pulse than Cocoon. Its stench reeked of death; the smell of rotting corpses was funneled to surround their bivouac as a deterrent for any stray, unwelcome Cie’th. These carrion flowers bloomed though once every 7 years, a mythic semblance to every epoch of grains and machines Cid had sown and manufactured. They required many to be fostered in various seasons to urbane its unattractive perfume.
Then that familiar voice, several hundred yards away, registered loud and clear.
“Maurice, please make sure our guest of honor wakes up and sees me in my tent. I’ll need to figure out what we should do with him. The rest of you, please introduce yourselves. Get to know the crew. With PSICOM on our heels, we’ll need to pack up and leave soon, but we should have time for a short rest first.”The camp was compromised.
With this instruction, the robot dashed, with the lower extremity prosthetic always taking a larger stride, to arrive eventually in front of the approaching company. Her amiability proceeded, hinting no sign of cordiality or reserve, in her primer.
“Greetings. I am a Biological Retro-Activated Xenologue. You can call me, B.R.A.X. for short. I enjoy Chocobos.”A forced smile erupted on her mechanical façade.
“What are your names?” 
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