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He wanted more than anything else to be like the girl on stage. Just one thing hampered his dream: He wasn't a girl, but the girl on stage wasn't really a girl either, but a highly sophisticated robotic puppet, controlled by a choreographer. Decades ago, robots had replaced humans as the best dancers because of their ability to freeze into any position and hold it there and their almost infinite flexibility. Humans had become relegated to the minor parts, and eventually their weren't any human dancers left.
John was determined to become a ballerina. The next day he took the monorail down to the theater. It was dark deserted except for the choreographer, running through his next performance with his robotic dancers.
"Excuse me?" He said in a tiny voice.
"I'm sorry. We closed. Come back tonight for the next performance."
"But...that's not why I'm here."
The choreographer stopped what he was doing and turned around. His face was old and wizened, but there was a warm light in his eyes.
"Hello there," He smiled. "It's not often I get young people to come watch me work."
He took a deep breath. "Sir...I want to become a ballerina. Like her." He pointed to the beautiful but inert robot on stage, holding a perfect en pointe position.
The old man sighed. "That would have been music to my ears if you were a girl, thirty years ago. But now..." He shook his head.
"What do you mean?"
"When the robots were first introduced, many people, including myself, thought it was silly. 'No robot can express human emotions,' we said. But they kept improving. Kept becoming...more human. Until they got better than the best humans." He faced him. "How old are you?"
"I'm 17, sir."
He nodded. "In the old days, you would have to have studied dance for at least that long to become like the robots. And even then you would be prone to mistakes. These robots...their perfect."
The boy turned around slowly. "Well, I'm sorry I bothered you, sir."
John began to walk sadly out of the theater, his dreams shattered. The old man turned back around and called to him.
"How badly do you want to be a dancer?"
He turned his head. "More than anything else...anything."
He paused for a moment. "Perhaps there is something I can do. You must understand, though, that if you choose to go through with this, you can never go back."
John's smiled grew on his face. "I'll do anything."
He nodded. "Let me finish up here."
He returned to his board. The dancers on stage slowly walked off-stage. The choreographer walked towards the stage, and motioned for John to follow him. back stage, John saw the robots he so admired. Some have assumed a standing posture, looking like statues, while others had sat themselves on the floor with their legs spread wide and head lolling to one side. They reminded him of his sister's dolls that he used to play with when he was little. Finally, he saw the prima ballerina. She didn't look much older than John, and she had posed herself delicately in fourth position, head slightly tilted to one side, fingers gently splayed out. She looked for all the world like a window mannequin. Her tutu stood stiffly out, and while the choreographer wasn't looking, John peeked up under her costume. The robot was a smooth expanse of glossy plastic. Anne blushed and quickly caught back up with the choreographer.
"She's so pretty."
The old man nodded. "I've had her for many years. She has brought me as much joy as a puppet can bring an old man."
He opened a door. "In here."
Inside the small room was a raised bed, a large cabinet, and a small computer. He motioned for him to get on the bed.
"You said you would do anything to become a ballerina?"
"Anything...anything at all."
He nodded slowly as placed a cloth over his face.
"Breath deeply...and try to forget who you are," he said sadly.
Strange fumes in the cloth knocked him unconscious.
* * * *
John felt like he was floating. He looked around the room and saw his body. But it wasn't. It was covered in shiny chrome. Every muscle was well defined, sculpted in metal. He looked at his face. It, too, was plated in chrome down to the smallest detail, even the dimples in his cheeks and the slight upturn of his nose. His head had been shaved, and was now a shiny dome. My hair! He felt a phantom tear fall down his cheek, but knew he was past the point of no return. The choreographer walked to the foot of the bed carrying something skin-colored. He started to work it over his feet, and John realized it was his new skin. He could feel the tight skin being worked over his phantom body, squeezing him into a new shape. John felt his toes being squeezed especially hard, and noticed that his body didn't have any. Just a blank swipe of rubbery skin.
The choreographer worked the skin suit up over his hips and waist, and John felt his waist being squeezed tight, like a corset. That was when he realized he wasn't breathing anymore. The rubber was especially tight, which sent little shivers of pleasure up John's spine, and he started to rub himself. The choreographer slid his chrome arms into the gloved suit, each finger ending in a delicate pink fingernail. He smoothed out the wrinkles, and pulled the suit's mask up over his head. John felt breathing tubes enter her nose and something rubber enter his mouth. His view was now distorted, like he was looking through a glass marble.
He looked down at his face. It was hiss, but heavily made up, He wasn't even allowed to wear make-up yet. His eyes seemed bigger, his cheekbones higher, and his lips fuller. Sort of an idealized view of himself. He turned his body over and sealed the seam in back. He reached over and took a dark haired wig, fashioned into a tight bun, and glued it to the top of his bald, rubber head. The choreographer went over to the computer and picked up a curved triangular thing, & wide rod with wires coming out of the back. He strapped it to his lower organs & into his butt, and pressed a button on the computer. John felt programming slowly filling her head. The data flow was stimulating his sex, and john could feel himself getting warm and wet. He tried to squirm around in the tight phantom rubber suit, but found she couldn't move. The data flow continued, and the pressing heat continued to build. It became too much for his young body to handle, and he shuddered. The shocks started at his lower organs and spread throughout his body, filling it with warmth. The data flow, didn't stop, and he started shivering & shaking more often, eventually melting her mind with sensual pleasure.
The computer announced that the download had completed. The choreographer aimed a remote at the new robot and commanded it to stand. John felt his body move, but of not his own will. That realization brought him strange comfort. At least I'll be taken care of. He also felt a bit diminished, like his awareness of her surroundings was lessened. The choreographer commanded his robot to do a few simple movements. He executed them perfectly, and he proceeded to dress him in a frilly tutu and ballet pink pointe shoes.
John realized something was wrong. He couldn't see very well anymore. Everything was sort of a blur, and all he could feel was his own jumble of emotions and the ever-present pleasant electrical stimulations. He focused on it, and was rewarded with little thrills. Maybe this won't be so bad.
The choreographer commanded his robot to join the others, and they all returned to the stage. He picked up where he left off, writing in a duo between John and the prima ballerina. I...I'm dancing! John was happier than he ever had been before. He'd archived his dream.
* * * *
That night, the theater was packed. John danced beautifully, his consciousness reduced just to happiness and sexual warmth. After the performance, all the robots were retired behind the stage. One of the stage hands ran up to the choreographer.
"Xavier, did you hear?"
He paused. "Wealthy owners of a famous ballet troop loved your new robot & want to buy it at any cost".
"Uh-oh..." Xavier said, then looked at his new ballerina. John didn't hear him. He couldn't hear anything anymore. He was posed delicately, like a ballerina should be, a slight smile across his lips. John was gone, and only the ballerina remained.