Xerew

Like any artist in her gallery's stable who desired to remain as such, Xerew was required to attend all opening night celebrations during which at least one of her works hung on the walls. But instead of schmoozing & selling herself or her paintings (as the gallery would obviously prefer she do), she tended to find herself more interested in determining who amongst the crowd was actually human (and if so, just how human). Over time, her little guessing game became increasingly challenging. Tonight alone, there were at least two people cosplaying as robots (quite convincingly, in full metal regalia, which she imagined they must stay quite fit to even move around in), other people who had modified their own bodies so frequently & to such an extent that the presence of any remaining original parts was debatable, otherwise lifeless humanoid robots that had been sent to the event as physical proxies for their stay-at-home remote human operators, robots that contained within their memory chips uploaded, ongoing versions of their deceased human owners' consciousnesses, & fully autonomous, intelligent robots encased in literal living flesh suits, outwardly (and to a limited depth, inwardly) indistinguishable from human bodies, whom she thought of as "inverse cosplayers." She supposed she should be thankful that amongst all this active self-transformation & elaborate camouflage, not to mention the political turmoil & mechanized police state on constant patrol just outside, that there was still any interest at all in the art on the walls.

Upon this thought, she turned to examine her own oil painting, of which she remained quite proud: more or less a portrait of an imaginary being she thought of as a distorted angel, gleefully clutching her dismembered lover's bloody heart to her own chest with both hands (after clearly having nestled her face into said heart and smeared its blood all over herself with an apparently equal amount of glee). But the traditional red dot sticker (indicating "sold") had not yet appeared on the gallery wall beside its frame.

Lashing out internally in a momentary blast of spite, she thought: Goddamn bots wouldn't know real art if it fell on them. But her anger was misdirected, and she knew it: tech-based beings had purchased past works of hers, no less often than humans had. Her frustration was obviously about the sale, or rather, the lack thereof, despite tonight being the third group show this year in which this piece had featured. Generally, she harbored no animosity toward techno-beings; if anything, she was more tolerant toward (and even more so, curious of) them than any of her contemporaries, many of whom she'd heard utter aloud (albeit under their breath, for their own safety) far worse epithets than the one that had just blazed across her mind.

Still contemplating the painting, she realized something about it now seemed off to her. It hadn't been jostled, still hung perfectly level, but something was different… The angel was wearing a ring. A black ring, on the ring finger of her left hand. What the fuck, she thought, mouthing the words. She knew damn well she hadn't painted that on the angel's finger, but who would have dared to deface an artwork (especially one they hadn't yet purchased) in public, in the middle of a crowded gallery opening, surrounded by multiple mounted cameras and half a dozen security bots patrolling the perimeter? She squinted at the unwanted addition, still not quite believing her eyes. Maybe it was just an elastic hair tie, sticky with mousse, that had ricocheted off someone's finger and miraculously landed in that exact spot? No, she uneasily confirmed when she got up closer: it was indeed painted in, subtle specular highlights and all, with enough skill that it blended seamlessly, betraying no detectable border or any other indicator of intrusive alteration.

A sudden wave of nausea invaded her gut. But before she could continue puzzling out how the hell her painting had been repainted, or even begin to wonder why she might be feeling sick, sounds of shouting and chaos arose from the street outside, followed quickly by distant sirens and less distant booming robotic voices insisting that everyone remain calm. She noticed the exceptionally tall blonde dude in an encompassing black trench coat (who had been less-than-discreetly stalking her around the gallery for the past hour) suddenly turn and elbow his way toward the nearest exit. She knew that running outside, even to spectate, was a terrible idea. They were all much safer in here, no matter what was happening out there.

She wondered briefly if the tall dude was the culprit, if his trench coat concealed a brush and some tubes of paint, and this was his own special ass-backward way of trying to impress her without conjuring up the nerve to actually speak to her. She couldn't remember having seen him lingering near the painting, but then again she hadn't previously had any cause to watch it as if she were on a stakeout. And it was raining like hell outside, a trench coat wasn't exactly inappropriate or suspicious attire. Anyway, he was already gone.

She decided it was time to check the security footage. She made her way through the crowd, suddenly even more crowded with ranks of bystanders filing in off the street, seeking refuge from what was starting to sound like a full-on riot. She entered the door marked PRIVATE and swept down the hallway, moving faster than her long, layered skirts seemed to want her to. The door to surveillance was open, and two bots were in there, one sitting at a console in front of a wall covered by nine video monitors, the other messing with file folders in the drawer of an old school cabinet. Clearly, their physical actions were entirely for the benefit of (and relatability to) the human staff; they needed neither to sit and stare at screens nor shuffle a single paper to get their real jobs done.

Xerew flicked her eyes around the screens, four of which were showing feeds of the streets immediately outside the gallery. People were running everywhere, plumes of colored smoke swirled up from randomly thrown canisters, fireworks were going off or muzzles were flashing, or both. But none of that was her problem, at least not for now. She pointed to the middle monitor focused on the main gallery floor, where her painting was visible in almost the exact center of the frame. She told the seated bot to scan from the beginning of the night. It rewound the footage several hours and began playing it in fast forward.

She saw herself, zooming around the space like a janky marionette, her long skirts swinging rapidly back and forth around her with every shift in direction, a dark, silent bell trying desperately to ring itself. Other figures began to appear on screen, all similarly flitting around, hyper-animated. Numerous individuals and groups paused at her piece to admire and discuss it, but no one was brandishing a brush, or even really getting all that close to it, let alone touching it. And then she saw the tall dude leave the frame, shortly followed by herself.

"Again," she told the bot, "and zoom in on that painting, please." The bot complied. A large boom could be heard from outside, and one of the exterior monitors was momentarily washed out in bright light. She refocused on the painting and the activity around it. In the closer frame, the onlookers seemed even further away from the surface of the painting than they had the first time through. Had someone hit it with some kind of portable/remote laser printer?

"Zoom in further, please. Just the painting." The bot remained perfectly still as the frame moved closer again.

At this level of magnification, the image was starting to break down into pixels. The gallery's security system was high-end, but even so, it was never intended for such specific scrutiny. Now she could only see the tops of people's heads and the occasional blur of a hand moving in front of the bottom of her painting. No movement occurred near the finger where the ring had been painted. But wait… "Can you zoom in further?"

"I can," said the bot, "but the image quality…"

"Just let me see the hands. In the painting."

The image closed in further. Individual pixels were clearly visible now, but she could still make it out by contrast alone: the ring was there.

"Go back to the beginning again and freeze."

The ring was still there. It had been there all night.

"Go back to the last show."

"Footage older than one month has been converted to black and whi—"

"Fine. Just show me."

The painting had been hung on a different wall last time, but the bot found it again almost instantly. The camera covering this other wall was more closely positioned, and the zoomed-in image was significantly sharper this time. The ring was there.

Xerew began to repeat "no, no, no…" Rather than ask the bot to rewind even further back in time, she dragged her heavy skirts back toward the gallery. When she burst through the PRIVATE door, she found the main exhibition space completely empty. She'd momentarily lost track of the din outside, but her attention was drawn upward to the massive window by increasingly loud buzzing. Outside, multiple armed drones flew past in wobbly formation, briefly illuminating precise cones of falling rain. When she looked down into the room again, her eyes settled on her painting, and she felt all the remaining wind knocked out of her. The painting was now blank, merely a bluish expanse. Her devilish angel had somehow left the building.