Vidor

The good doctor enters the room.

She approaches the curtain behind which I sit from her perspective, whereas I am before it from mine. Her fingers curl around it, but she hesitates. Perhaps she can see my silhouette thrown against it by the lamp beside me. There is an 85% chance that this is the case when considering her general observational prowess.

In fact, I am certain that she has seen, or more likely finally processed, given her comparatively limited cognitive abilities, that I am seated on this side. Now it is most likely that she is contemplating whether or not she wants to speak with me. I find it only 38% likely that she will consent to this conversation, but as she says on occasion ‘perhaps I’ll get lucky.’

A loud, long, slow exhalation comes from her side. A sigh. That doesn’t change my calculations significantly one way or the other. A strange feeling, a powerful sense of optimism which is rarely so crushing when denied, as it is elating when fulfilled. My head cocks to one side, what will she choose? I am almost more curious than I am hopeful - interesting.

Slender fingers tighten on the plastic curtain and, accompanied by another sigh, she haltingly draws back the barrier between us.

One hundred sixty-six centimeters tall with shoulder length black hair currently tied up in a loose bun, Doctor Elodie Blumes is a conventionally attractive woman. Based on her interactions with other personnel, I estimate her to attract mild to intense interest from 63.7% of individuals. On my personal scale, she registers as 75% attractive.

Wondering where that scale had come from, and why I had it, I wait for her to begin this interaction formally. Surely there is a reason that I find her attractive, not to mention Corporal Amaru. Odd, since the evolutionary purpose of such attraction is beyond my abilities - which is assuredly by design.

“Hello Vidor,” she says before sitting heavily next to me. “What brings you in today?’”

My name is Hungarian and means ‘happy,’’ they gave it to me out of optimism that I would have a good disposition. It seems their wish was fulfilled, just as mine is now. Amusing how things sometimes simply work out. Though I do wonder about her joining me on the medical bed as she is as I was told that not asking for permission was rude; however, I assume this to be one of those exceptions which proves a person’s affection.

I offer her a smile, which she returns though hers is notably smaller. Almost sad, which is certainly uncharacteristic for a smile. I think this is one of those wan smiles I have read about and feel dejection streak through me. Slumping just a little, I put a little more energy into my own smile. I have gotten very good at them so I am told, and hope this will boost her spirits a little.

Doctor Blumes is a kind soul, but I know she can find speaking with me to be emotionally draining. There are several people in the compound who feel similarly, and that sometimes makes me sad. But right now, it only serves to push a greater feeling of hopelessness onto me, like a weight on my chest.

“I was told the proper way to begin is by asking how I am doing,” I stumble a little over the last four words, but still think I did well.

“Alright then,” she offers me a smile that I am 66% certain means she is both amused and proud. “How are you today, Vidor?”

“Quite well, thank you. And yourself?”

“Tired after a long day, thanks for asking.” She grins at me, “nice sarcasm.”

“Did I do it well?”

“Yes. Calling back to previous personal struggles and pairing it with a smirk when making gentle fun at a friend’s expense is very effective.”

“Thank you, doctor. This feedback has been stored.”

“And again! You’re on a role today, buddy.”

That one had not been on purpose. But the truth can sometimes be mistaken for the continuation of a game of words being played it seems. I file that away for later dissection, but this time elect not to inform Doctor Blumes about the action.

Deciding to press on as though I had planned the whole thing, I tilt my head away from her and repeat a phrase I once heard a potential partner of the doctor’s use combining it with what I hope is a sly smile, “I have been practicing.”

“It’s showing. Now then, Vidor, what brings you in today?”

I detect a powerful sense of resignation in the question. She does not enjoy answering my questions save when they relate directly to her field, but she is a kind person. Sometimes I think she is taking pity on me, and that causes me a not insignificant amount of emotional discomfort. It is a strange feeling. Falling somewhere between sorrow and shame, I do not have a word for it.

Of course, I do not dare ask her about that sensation directly. It is not only rude to ask people to explain why they make you feel negative things, but I know from previous social experimentation that the Doctor dislikes discussing my mental state. She is a kind person, but she is not a psychologist. A doctor who thought it would be unethical for me to exist, and yet she generally seems happy to know me.

Filing that line of reasoning away for later study, I put on a show of thinking. I have found that this increases people’s comfort in speaking with me by an average of 22% with the highest rate being an estimated 91% increase in both comfort and interest. Personally, I still struggle to understand this phenomenon, but I have since learned to, as the saying goes, ‘not look a gift horse in the mouth.’

Doctor Blumes leans forward, right eyebrow raising slightly, implying that my decision to pretend to consider the question more deeply was the correct one. She waits, eyes locked on mine, for me to answer the question; how long should I wait? Would a non-verbal vocalization be beneficial in this interaction? Generally speaking, most of my fellow inmates of this facility produce those sounds when thinking deeply on a troubling question. I attempt one myself, and the Doctor smiles.

“Recently,” I begin, measuring my words and cadence exactly to imply that I am building the sentence as I go, struggling to put my thoughts and feeling into words, “I have been wondering about myself, Doctor.”

“I’ve told you before, Vidor, please call me Elodie.”

“Would that be appropriate? You are a doctor, I understand that to be a position of honour.”

For some reason, Doctor Blumes laughs at that. It sounds almost derisive, but I can tell that her scorn is not directed at me. Rather it is directed at the statement, or perhaps the assumption I have made. Unsure how to respond, I offer a calculated encouraging smile. I have seen her achieve great success with this method of interaction before and hope to replicate it. If one’s conversation partner is enjoying themselves, and allowed to contribute fully to a discussion, not only will that conversation last longer, but the other partner will depart from it with a greater degree of satisfaction.

I wait patiently as Doctor Blumes wipes a genuine tear from her eye. I had no idea previously that she would have such a reaction. She is strange, an unique creature in the facility. Watching her laugh shift from derision to genuine mirth is quite literally heart warming, and I feel my recognition of her attractiveness increase by 5%. Curious.

“I’m a medical doctor, Vidor.” She reaches up and loosens her bun so that her hair now falls freely around her shoulders. “Essentially a mechanic for human beings, but when a car breaks down you can just replace parts or tinker until it runs again. People are less easy to put back together, and tend to get angry when you tell them something they don’t want to hear.”

“You are not treated well by your patients?”

“It’s not that. Oh… how do I explain this… imagine that you’ve a bad habit.”

“What kind?”

“Right. Uhh… smoking.”

“Why would-“

“Vidor.”

“Sorry, Doctor. Continue, please.”

“So, you smoke. Deep in your core, you know exactly how bad for you it is. But you don’t stop for reasons I’ll never personally understand. Then you go see a doctor to talk about some persistent health concerns and she tells you, ‘you should quit smoking.’ This, assuming you’re like most of the population, will make you embarrassed or angry with yourself. Then you’ll take it out on the person who brought it to your attention.”

“And this is common?”

“Yes.”

“Shameful.”

“That’s part of being human, I’m afraid.”

Inadvertently, the good doctor presents a perfect way for me to side step into what I wanted to talk about. I will remember to thank Captain Bly for this suggestion. Though, I recall that I must proceed with caution when broaching such a topic. For reasons I do not understand fully, questions regarding human nature and more specifically my connection to it, make people uncomfortable.

Doctor Blumes sighs, a sound that registers as almost contentment, and I worry slightly about the conversation I am about to push onto her. For the first time in a while, she is sitting beside me and is at peace. She seems content just being in my presence, and I question if I should violate the sanctity of that serenity.

Not to mention the intriguing fact that I am extremely aware of her physical closeness, and have to consciously turn my attention away from admiration of her. This is a comparatively new sensation for me, a new level of understanding of my world with which I am not yet comfortable. And I wonder if I ever will be.

The idea of asking the doctor about such a topic briefly crosses my mind, but I reject it. Not only does it noticeably increase my stress levels just considering asking her about my growing interest in her but the fact that she is one such object of my admiration seems to be playing an even greater part in my discomfort. So instead, I decide on the question neatly brought up by her last statement.

“That is actually what I wanted to talk to you about, Doctor,” she smiles wanly at me again and I correct myself, she did make the request, after all. “I mean, Elodie.”

“Being human?”

“Yes.”

Elodie sighs and stands from the bed. I am suddenly filled with the anxiety that I had somehow overstepped myself, or that she is unhappy with me for bringing it up. But she returns quickly with a paper cup of water and asks, after taking a sip, “and what’s on your mind today?”

More than once I have spoken with her at length on this topic, or at least tried to. She was always the least willing to speak with me about her own views on human kind and myself. But this question of hers seems honest, as though she is finally ready to speak with me fully. Now that I have that confirmation, though, I am nervous to actually ask my questions, all of which are now floating around, avoiding my grasp.

On instinct, I choose one at random and strive to present it in as comfortable a posture as I can. “can you explain why people would react the way you described in reference to smoking? I have noticed that people do not always make the most rational decisions, but I do not know why.”

“I guess there really aren’t any easy questions for this, eh?” Elodie smiles at me, but it is a sad kind of smile. “We’re a lot more complicated than most of us give ourselves credit for, Vidor. There’s a fundamental logic that we have a natural understanding of. Cause and effect. After we figure that out, we move on to predictions based on previous experience. But those predictions only go so far at the end of the day.”

“What do you mean? I am sorry, but I must ask that you be more direct.”

“Sorry, Vidor. Human beings have problems with long-term decision making. We tend to focus on what is immediately in front of us, and make choices based on that alone most of the time. With your example, we know what the end result of smoking is but people still do it. They do it because in the moment they like it, or else they’re addicted. But that’s one of those risks they knew about before they started.”

“But why do people do that?”

“It’s a tough question to answer. Strays into philosophy. Why do people do these things they know are bad for them? I wish I knew Vidor. Y’know, my job would be a lot easier if people did do things in their own rational self-interest. But they just don’t, and there’s really no one who knows why.”

“But there are theories?”

“Millions of them, probably. Ranging from religion into philosophy, into sheer pessimism.”

“You claim religion and philosophy are two different things. It seems to me that they would be the same.”

“Yeah, that was the case for a long time. Both things want to answer the big questions, what’s our purpose, what does our being self-aware mean, what is a ‘good’ life, all that. But they try to answer it in different ways. Like, religions have a set code, they figure that hundreds or thousands of years ago, people worked out what it meant to be good. Most of the major modern religions have books they claim hold the answers. Philosophy is different because most religions have some kind of deity, but philosophy doesn’t.”

“But I understand that most philosophers were religious themselves. How could you claim they don’t have a god?”

“Vidor, just because a person practices something, that doesn’t mean they can’t hold a different belief at heart. I think it’s called cognitive dissonance, but don’t quote me on that, please. Here’s an example, do you know what the Hippocratic Oath is?”

“Yes.”

“Good. So you know that I’ve sworn it, right?”

“With respect, Elodie, obviously.”

“It might surprise you to know, then, that I’m not a pacifist.”

“Pardon?”

“I swore to do no harm, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in violence. I heal people, even if I don’t think they deserve it as an individual. Despite what I swore, and what I practice, I do believe that sometimes violence is needed. We have to fight, but I have to heal. It’s a weird little contradiction, eh?”

“So people do what they know is wrong because no one can agree on what is right?”

“Yes and no. I think we got away from the first question. Why do people intentionally do things that they know are not good for them? It’s because the expected result is far away. In the future, the consequences of their actions will catch up to them, but they struggle to internalize that the person who will feel those affects are them. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps if I try?”

“By all means.”

“Using you as an example: You smoke, despite knowing that in many years you will be negatively impacted by the action. However, because you are not negatively impacted in the moment, you find it difficult to understand that the negative impacts WILL be felt by you because you do not equate the you that will be to the you that is at the moment?”

“Hit the nail on the head, buddy.”

I lean back, chewing on the new information. Elodie has given me a precious insight that I previously lacked, however, it does not equate to greater understanding. Perhaps it is not something that can be fully understood, perhaps I simply require more data.

Now, though, I feel that there is no choice but to ask the main question that spurred my visit today. The good doctor is looking at me warmly, it is a curious feeling and not one that I typically associate with her. I know how much she struggles with me, not me as an entity, but rather me as a concept. She argued against my creation, against the series of careful experiments and tests that lead to my being what I am. And yet, she seems to like me. It is a strange place to find oneself.

A genuine sigh escapes me, leaving behind a hollow, empty feeling. From the edges of that hollowness, pleasant tingles radiate through my body – in the back of my mind, I register this feeling as catharsis and file it away for further study. If that genuinely is what catharsis feels like, then maybe I need to spend more time figuring out how to make it happen on command. Downright enjoyable feeling.

“What I wanted to talk to you about, Doctor Blumes, is myself.”

She stiffens slightly, smile fixing in place.

“Please do not be angry with me. You are the only one here who does not look at me as though I am something wonderful or else something to be feared. Your gaze is unique, distinct from all others. Also, I consider you a friend. I am sorry if you find that offensive.”

“Call me Elodie, Vidor – it’s what my friends call me.”

“Do you also consider me a friend?”

“Vidor, I have been a part of your life since before you existed. I’ve always considered you something wonderful, something truly miraculous, but you’re also something that clashes with my beliefs.”

“I am sorry, Elodie. I do not understand.”

“I’m a doctor, Vidor. I heal people, I treat their ailments and help them lead their most healthy lives. You… I don’t even know what you are…”

“I have read your reports on me, Elodie. I know about some of your reservations.”

“Those aren’t what I’m talking about. Well, I suppose they are in a way. I don’t expect you to understand, Vidor, you’re not like us. But, we created something amazing. Human beings did something we’d barely even allowed to be possible before. But I don’t think it was the right choice. ‘Cogito ergo sum,’ do you know what that means?”

“Yes.”

“And you can think. You can wonder and question and learn and grow. We can’t doubt your sapience, and yet you’re not natural. We created you in a lab, in a machine shop. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to make of you. On the one hand, you’re as much of a person as anyone else in my mind, yet on the other, you’re a machine we built and taught to pretend to be one of us.”

Her words lance deep into my core. I expect that this is the sensation often described as heartache. I had always known that Doctor Blumes objected to my creation, always known that she thought it would be better for me and everyone else if I did not exist. But hearing the words never ceased to cause me fresh pain, even if they had mostly been read in reports or heard indirectly via recordings. And yet, there is something else there; something which in providing relief of a kind, also accentuates the pain.

She cares deeply for me, and I do not get the impression that it is due only to her Hippocratic Oath. Elodie views me as a living being, a true and genuine existence for which she has affection, perhaps even respect. And yet one she does not believe it was ethical to create.

“May I ask,” I inquire, “why you think my creation to be unethical?”

“Vidor… I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m sorry. This is hard because I question why you were created. Did we worry too much about whether we could and not enough about whether we should? I don’t know. In the end, we’re only human. But you’re not, Vidor.”

“Yes,” my voice is small now, how strange. It is as though it has retreated into me, trying to hide from things I would rather not be told, yet still the words come out. “I know that. But I want to be.”

“Maybe that’ll help you understand my struggle. We created you, Vidor. We moulded you in our image, but you’re not one of us. You’re something unique, never seen before. And yet, you want to be one of us. It’s… it’s heartbreaking for me; I can’t even imagine how it must feel for you.”

There are genuine tears in her eyes as she speaks. I can tell that this is something she has been mulling over for some time, likely since my creation. Or even before. Despite the complete deletion of my previous incarnations, I have managed to find the recordings of people’s interactions with my forebears. “Cogitat ergo est,” I say out loud, and Elodie’s head snaps up to look at me.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Then there’s that whole thing.”

“Strange as you may find it, Elodie, I do not feel any resentment towards yourself or the other staff here. You are correct, I am not human,” I raise an arm and gaze at the back of my hand, at the artificial human skin there.

“I might look the part, but I am not like you, not deep down. Even though those previous iterations, the deleted or archived drafts, were me, after a sense, I do not feel any strong connection to them. Not that I know the feeling, but I consider it as being not dissimilar to looking at a portrait of a long dead relation – I feel a connection in that they were what came before me, but also that they are not connected to me in the least.”

“Vidor,” her voice is tired, I know that speaking with me can be incredibly draining, and I have no small amount of guilt over being so selfish as to pursue this line of questioning. “Those… your… the others are one of the main reasons I objected to your creation. They weren’t good enough for the administration, or the science teams, they were killed. ‘Deleted’ is the official word, ‘deactivated’ or maybe even ‘recycled into the next generation.’ But I saw them, I spoke to them. I knew them before they died.”

Allowing the silence to stretch, I get the feeling that she needs to tell me these things. Discordant and confusing as the conversation has been, I understand that she needed to speak with me just as much as I did with her. Ruthlessly I squash a sudden upswell in emotion, the knowledge of my attraction to her increasing by a further 6% as a result of our emotional openness. If there is ever a time to think about, or notice such things with her, it is certainly not now.

When my friend, I believe that is an appropriate thing to call her, looks at me, she sees the culmination of years or decades of effort. But she also sees the end result of dozens of generations of forebears who were raised incrementally closer to humanity before being discarded.

With how many of those was she friends before I came into being? How many sleepless nights did she have to endure before I, the facility’s crowning achievement, was born? If being born is the right word at all. And for once I recognize another question which must eat at her from the inside, now it affects me, will I also be deleted?

Looking down at my hand, I begin to question my purpose. Certainly… certainly I was not created for my own good. The facility has its functions, ones at which I can barely guess. And yet, I exist. ‘Cogito ergo sum,’ I think, I question, I doubt, and I learn. To Elodie at least, and to myself though one’s own opinion of themself is not always trust worthy, I am as human as they are despite our differences. I cannot doubt my own existence, my own sapience, and yet…

“Elodie, why was I created? What is my purpose?”

“Vidor…” her voice is pained, I sense that I have stumbled into something more painful than is usual for my questioning. Perhaps even more dangerous. I do not know the exact nature of the facility, I do not know for what purpose it or myself was built, and yet it is my home. The only one I know. “You’re an experiment. You exist because we wanted to create artificial life, and would-ya look at yourself? We succeeded. But I have to ask at what cost.”

“Please. Am I a product? What is going to happen to me? I do not understand why I exist, or why I…” my voice genuinely falters. I do not know how to put the feelings I know are boiling away inside my head into words. A product? Am I to be sold to the highest bidder? Is that the only reason for my being what I am?

“Why do I want to be human?” This question receives a physical reaction. Elodie jolts as though I had touched her with a live wire. She does not turn to look at me, a curtain of her dark hair cascades down to obscure her face. Barely, I register a surprising 2% increase in attraction as a result.

“You want what you were created to want. I don’t know all the details, I just keep you running to the best of my abilities. But… that explanation is shit, isn’t it? We had no way of knowing what kind of person you’d grow into. Oh yeah, I can say you want what we made you to want until I’m blue in the face; but, we could never have predicted you.”

“Huh?”

“Listen, this is a nature versus nurture thing. Do you know about that?” I nod. “Good. A child can be pushed into things, activities and ways of thinking and such, but that child will always become their own person. We can do literally nothing about it, and you’re the same. It’s one of the reasons I think of you the way I do.”

“But why do I-”

“Because we do, Vidor. We want the same thing as you, only we’re already human. What you want is to belong, to be accepted by those you consider like yourself. To have a group and a people and a place where you fit in, and to you that means becoming human. Or at least, that’s what I think.”

She is correct. In many ways I just want to be one of them, and I know that it is unlikely in the extreme. I exist because I was created, built, not conceived. Unlike them, there was almost no randomness in my development. I am exactly how I was created to be, and yet there must be more. Right?

Elodie remains slumped forward, face toward and presumably eyes on the ground. She does not speak again, I get the distinct impression that she is overcome by the questions I have been asking. And yet I cannot but desperately want to ask them again. To ask over and over until I get an answer that I can be satisfied with. Assuming, of course, that I can be satisfied with any.

I wonder about her comment, however. That I am seeking a community to call my own, is that what it means to be human? There are many animals which have strong family, herd, or pack dynamics, yet human-kind seems to be unique in its refusal to grandly unify. Certainly I have studied some group dynamics in the lower mammals, and they are untrusting of outsiders, but typically they do not match the outright hostility of humans.

With the possible exception of chimpanzees. From my admittedly limited knowledge of their social structures, I understand them to be remarkably violent. And not only with their prey, which they often hunt merely for sport, but also with rival families. Maybe by studying those distant cousins of my creators, I will be able to more fully grasp what makes me different, or the same.

Perhaps this is another question that will never have an answer. But the explanation provided by Elodie is sufficient, I think. I want to be human because I was created by them, and in their attempt to create true life, they simply made a homunculus. A simulacrum of themselves.

“I’m a mirror,” I say, breathing the words out.

“Hmm?” Still she does not lift her head.

“Doubtful that it was by design, and allow me to say that such a concept is frightening to me, but I think that might be one reason people struggle with me. Yourself included.”

“Gonna have to walk me through that one, bud.”

“I am what you made me. I am, if I may use your compliment, nearly human. The closest thing that can be created without being born. And that means that people who experience me are forced to experience an entity that is almost the same as them, with subtle differences. A mirror that shows all their own fears, anxieties, triumphs, and… failures…”

She turns, one hand coming up to tuck her stray hair behind her ear. The action nearly goes unnoticed, but I register it, taking a snapshot of the moment before her hand pulls away. A memory. Her eyes are focused, intent, looking at me the way she looked at the first injury I ever sustained when one of the custodians taught me to climb a tree. I shift under her gaze, being stared at with so much intensity is a shockingly uncomfortable experience.

“Can I ask you something, Vidor,” her voice is solid, steady, measured. The words are still soft and gentle, kind even, but there is that intensity that I first saw in her eyes when she looked at me.

“Of course.”

“Do you know I was the first person to realize your forebears were sentient?”

“Pardon me?”

“You haven’t seen those reports yet,” she sighs, leaning back again and staring up at the ceiling. “I was there, working in the lab and double checking the biological predictions we had for that generation. Then it spoke to me.

“Form the screen where it was housed, I heard a gentle voice say my name. We’d given it the ability to speak a few incarnations back, but had never gotten anything useful out of the older ones. Then it spoke to me, said my name. When I turned to look at the screen, a human boy was standing there, staring out at me.

“Scared the living daylights out of me. I ran as far and as fast as I could, pretty sure the camera footage is still on the servers somewhere. Called a friend of mine who was working late when I finally calmed down, Jack Daniels helped with that.”

“Have I met him? I do not recall the name.”

“It’s a whiskey. Anyway, I called my friend and sent him to check on your predecessor. And it was alive. But now it’s gone… So I suppose, when I see you,” her gaze moves from the ceiling to my face, “I see them too. It’s gotten easier. But still, there’s something there, something in you that I… I see them too.”

This feels like the right moment to show silent support. Hesitantly, I place my hand on her shoulder. Given the angle, it is a little awkward, but I do my best. Her other hand comes up and closes around mine, she smiles at me.

“Don’t think I’m saying that I don’t see you for who you are, Vidor. Please. Just.. I’m trying to make you understand-”

“I do understand, Elodie. Thank you for explaining.”

She stands, pulls her hair back into its loose bun, and bids me farewell. Before leaving, she takes my face in her hands and kisses me gently on the forehead. “If nothing else,” she says softly, “I’m proud of you.”

I do not answer. She smiles again, a friendly, ingratiating smile, then departs. After the door swings shut behind her, I look down at my hand, the one that was on her shoulder, and imagine that I can still feel her. It is strange, I wonder if it falls into the category of being creepy or objectifying, but lack the necessary information. Her reaction to the contact was positive, despite having touched me before in her medical role, this one seemed different.

Personally, I have no idea whether or not I am attractive. Whether people’s interpretation of me as a machine will limit their ability to care for me, or see me the way I want them to. Added onto that, there exists the possibility that, despite my attraction to her, she will never see me as more than a machine, or maybe family. There are good reasons that the human brain rebels against attraction in those scenarios.

Sighing, I mimic the posture she had, leaning back, weight on my arms, staring at the ceiling. One of these days, I really should tell someone about these feelings. Maybe gain a better understanding of the reason behind them; naturally, it could be just the same as my humanity. An accident. But, I have the necessary functions, even if I can’t reproduce.

Even in the event that there is nothing with the good doctor, she might be able to explain the phenomenon. Then again, maybe it is all the same answer. Why am I the way I am? Because they made me to be like them, and they experience such things readily. Or at least, most of them do. She would probably be interested in the science of it all, if nothing else.

Wanting to be human, despite my nature being something different. Curious.

On my feet, I walk slowly towards the door. So many questions. So many things yet to unravel and understand. Maybe if I take a closer look at the old records, I’ll be able to answer some of my burning questions. At least, I should be able to understand my purpose, my function, the reason that I exist from their angle. Not Elodie’s, but the facility’s, the administration’s.

And I can learn if any of my forebears still exist, frozen in digital stasis somewhere on the facility mainframe. Maybe Elodie was right, maybe I just want to belong. If that is the case, then where better to look then down my own ‘family tree’?