Page 36 of Made for You
BotTech’s biggest competitor, up-and-coming privately funded start-up WekTech Industries, has a different position. Founder Andy Wekstein says, “These are synthetic people, with free wills. Synths are the first designs I—and much of the tech community—would consider to be full people. As such, rights must follow. Just look at Chrystel’s story.”
Chrystel, for readers who may have missed the headline news last year, was sexually assaulted at a party hosted by celeb actress and performer SkinnyGwinny.
“We can’t defend ourselves,” a tearful Chrystel shared in the most-watched television interview of all time, which aired on Good Morning America last October. “That makes us fodder for human violence, and that’s wrong.”
By the time the story of Chrystel’s assault was fading, her twin sister, Christi, fanned the flames of controversy by filing for divorce from her husband.
“Synth rights are civil rights,” says Christi, who, for our interview, wears a spring collection LaToya jumpsuit with platform sneakers. “Like, Chrystel and Matt are really happy, and I’m the first to say I’m happy for them. But Jay and I weren’t meant to be.” A controversial statement from someone designed for Jay, who was a client before a husband. The back of her jumpsuit is embroidered with MY BODY MY CHOICE. Merch with the tagline is available on the twins’ website, with T-shirts retailing for $199.
Does this read like a soap opera? If you think the answer is yes, you’re not alone. America is riveted and—as always—heavily polarized, even among activist groups. We asked some key activist leaders what they make of the twins’ calls for Synth rights.
“It does feel, at this point, more like a brand than a movement. But it’s too new for us to really take a stance,” says Jan Watts, president of the Washington, DC, chapter of Women Forward. Tamara Bitz, associate professor of Women’s Studies at Georgetown, adds, “Of course there are strong feelings about keeping civil rights focused on the people it’s really about: the historically oppressed. Not ultra-rich white synthetic women with their own television shows.”
Not sure what to think? Christi and Chrystel have just signed for Season 4 of Keeping Up with the Synths, and we can’t help but feel that we’re not just watching “trash TV,” but history in the making.
Flip to page 86 for the full scoop.
NOW
I wake up on the family room couch, baseball bat tucked close, Captain on the floor. A glance at the wall clock tells me it’s just after seven in the morning. The house is eerily silent...and a wreck.
Captain, alerted by my movement, lifts his shaggy head. I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I head straight to the coffee maker, automatically closing all the kitchen drawers and cabinets I left open last night.
When I finally dozed off in the wee hours, my dreams were wild. Annaleigh, tucked like a little flower into a terra-cotta pot. Me, rushing through Walmart desperately trying to find the gardening aisle where they’d put my baby up for sale, only to find Mitchell had gotten there first.
By the time I switch the coffee maker on, my phone, resting on the counter nearby, lights up with an incoming call, like the day can’t wait to sink its claws into me. Ahh... Camila. I hit Accept and put her on speaker.
“Hey, Texas.” My voice is a thick rasp.
“Hey, Red.” Her voice is brisk, no-nonsense. “You need to turn on the TV.”
“Umm...” I rummage in the cabinet for my favorite mug.
“Channel five. Now.”
Mug located and coffee poured, I reach for the remote, which is lying on the counter by the sugar bowl, and switch on the family room TV.
“...SINCE SATURDAY NIGHT,” blares a reporter’s voice. Wincing, I lower the volume, but I can’t lower the sudden speed of my heart. Because the image on the screen behind the reporter is my house. The red caption says LIVE. “I’m here in front of the humble Southern Indiana home shared by Proposal celebrities Julia Walden and her now-missing husband, Josh LaSala, the same property where, ninety years ago, serial killer Royce Sullivan dismembered and buried—”
“No,” I breathe, marching to the living room, phone in hand. I twitch the front curtains aside. Fuck. A news van—no, two. “I have reporters in my yard, Cam.” I huff my way back to the family room. The vandalism is one thing; they come, you scare them, they run. I have a feeling these people aren’t running.
“Breathe, Red,” says Cam.
“I can’t do this right now.”
“In,” she says, sucking in her breath. “Then out.” Whooosh. “And again. In—”
“Fuck,” I hiss.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the F word,” says Cam, sounding both impressed and concerned.
“Yeah, well. I’m in shock.” I slurp the coffee. It burns me. I don’t care. It’s too early for this. It’s too everything for this.
“You do realize I’m in shock, too,” she says. “I just found out Josh is missing—from the morning news.”
Double fuck, I think, but Cam is just getting started.
“What the hell were you thinking, girl? You and me were texting yesterday and you made it sound like everything was fine.” She releases a tired-sounding sigh. “Fuck, Red. Not cool. Really shitty of you, actually.”