4RT, otherwise known as Art, is your greatest invention.

See, you’re something of a science prodigy. From earliest childhood; you’ve had your nose deep in textbooks, more interested in reciting the periodic table than whatever games of jump rope was being played outside.

And now, in your early twenties, it’s all come to fruition—all through Art! You originally created him to be a helper for sports events, an android that works efficiently to distribute equipment, set up the nets, call out scores.

“Love!” He called out, when it got to tennis, and no one scored a point. Love, he said, and something in soft blue eyes changed.

Love seemed to have stuck with him, after that point. He’d sit down, stare off into space as you sat on your couch, sketching out the designs of a hundred other Arts.

“What is love?” He asked you, watching you draw a bunch of pale imitations of him and if you looked up, you would’ve seen his eye twitch in an oddly human peevishness.

“Love,” you explain idly, too immersed in your drawing to spare your robotic sidekick a glance. “Is when no one scores a point. When no one wins.”

He leans back, thinks on that, searches through his database. It’s like a burst of life through him. Though he has no lungs; he feels like he can breathe.

He thinks on your answer. Thinks it’s wrong. His search shows love has many meanings, many forms. It’s very antithesis is loss. Love is abundance. It’s kisses in the rain, sweet nothing whispered in the night, bodies writhing against each other on creaky mattresses.

He looks at you, realising his conscienceness, and thinks that he is a failure of a synthetic. He looks at you, eyes on your sketches, and thinks are a failure of a human.

He makes an executive decision. That he will teach you what love is, because only he knows what love is. After all, he loves you and he was made to help.