The exam

You lean over the side of the bed to grab your laptop, pulling it into your lap with the casual dexterity of a man who has performed this same motion hundreds of times. You proceed to scroll to the top of the exam document and skim through the text, reading aloud any portions that may be of interest to your anxious artificial companion:

"So, it runs until the last day of classes... 'Students are expected to bring their subject to class every Friday for an interview presentation about the progress of their relationship.'" you recite. "'A computer equipped with neural monitoring software will be employed by the teacher to determine whether a subject is telling the truth about their experiences...'"

"Really!? Is that even possible?" your Love Doll interjects, looking to you as if she expects you to be some kind of authority on the subject.

Luckily enough for her, you'd looked into this topic obsessively in the days leading up to her arrival.

"Not for people, really, unless you have some seriously high-end hardware for reading neurochip signals through the skull... Shit like the LDC's satellites." you explain, "But you're not people, exactly. Your brain is like one big, fully-mapped model of Alex's brain rendered in code. Far as I know, any computer that can access your development record can see and make sense of what you're thinking."

She looks less thunderstruck by this information than you'd expected. Instead, your beleaguered Love Doll just looks done with the whole thing... As if she's become tired of predicting the worst only to be proven right again and again.

At a loss for words of comfort, you go on:

"'The goal of the exam is to... Form a patriarchal family unit with the subject.'" you relate, turning the laptop's screen to face her, "Here's the rubric..."

You'd anticipated that her weary, apathetic front might crumble in the face of the exam's grading criteria, and this instinct is quickly validated by the sight of her quivering lip and expression of hurt disbelief as her eyes scan the screen.

"50% of the grade... Is based on whether or not I have sex with you...?" she paraphrases, "...And up to 10% for how visibly pregnant I am on the last day of class!? This...! This is-..."

The tears start flowing again, and one manicured-looking hand lifts to cover her mouth as she continues to make her way down the list.

"Up to 10% for 'domestication' - the subject's willingness to perform tasks for her student... Up to 10% for 'adventurousness' - the subject's willingness to... Have lewd or unpleasant things done to her..."

You know it's against your spoken contract, but you can't help but slide an arm about your Love Doll's shoulders as she approaches the end of the document. She doesn't squirm or recoil, apparently fixated on the reading of the rubric's last criterion:

"U-Up to 10% for... 'Exhibitionism'." she croaks, finally slumping into your side; "The subject's willingness to... Share herself with the class..."

You remain this way for several minutes, only pausing the embrace long enough to lower your laptop to the floor again. You rub her back gently, trying to assist in winding down her quiet sobbing, but it seems unlikely given the twistedness of the reading material that set her off.

That fucking teacher...

Wait. The teacher! Your eyes focus on your phone and, sure enough - as if one cue - your alarm goes off.

"I have more bad news," you sigh, silencing the phone alarm with a flick of your thumb.

"...It's Friday morning."