When he landed the police department hovercar on the roof of the Sylvester-Hummel Association building, there were two people waiting to greet him. A tall blonde woman with the most exquisitely beautiful face Blaine had ever seen and a handsome, muscular man with blonde bangs hanging in his eyes.

“Good morning,” said the blonde woman, grasping his hand in a firm shake. “I'm Quinn Fabray, marketing assistant.” Her voice was low and sultry, with surprising nasal undertones. “You're Blaine Anderson, I presume?”

Her question startled Blaine out of his silent appraisal, and he nodded. “Blaine Anderson,” he repeated, turning toward the man with his hand outstretched.

“Nice to meet you, Blaine. I'm Sam Evans, also in marketing.” Blaine grasped his hand and glanced in turn at his long bangs, his eyes, his cheekbones and his mouth. His very large mouth. “How was the trip from San Francisco?” When Blaine didn't respond, the man kept talking and Blaine focused on his big mouth and puffy lips. Kiss-swollen, Blaine's mind supplied. He pulled his hand out of Sam's grasp, dropping his gaze to the floor and clearing his throat. “ – Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Cause sometimes after I drive one of those hovercars my head hurts. But I think its a good sign. You know, that your brain is fighting off all the dust." Blaine blinked slowly, and fixed Sam with a puzzled look.

“I'm sure Mr. Anderson is eager to get to business, Sam,” Quinn admonished, and Blaine looked up at her, the corners of his mouth twitching up slightly in relief before he schooled his features into careful neutrality once more. It was a bit easier to focus without those distracting lips in his line of sight, but Quinn was so heart-achingly beautiful that it was only a slight relief.

“Thank you, Miss – ”

“Fabray.”

“Yes. Ms. Fabray. While I appreciate the Sylvester-Hummel Association sending you and Mr., uh, Evans here to greet me, I'm not really here to meet with the marketing team,” Blaine forces himself to look first Quinn and then Sam in the eye firmly. “I hope you are going to take me to the person in charge. I have a long day ahead of me.” 

“Absolutely, sir.” Quinn and Sam exchanged meaningful glances. “Please follow me.”

Quinn and Sam walk side by side across the roof, down the stairs, and through a long, marble-lined hallway. Blaine's gaze shifted from the expanse of Quinn's muscular calves with her knee-length skirt swishing above them at each step to the silky black material of Sam's pants, alternately hanging loose and stretched taught against his firm buttocks. When they reached the door, Sam hesitated, looking at Quinn. She smiled and handed him a key card.

“Allow me,” Sam said grandly, swiping the card through the sensor. The door swung open into a large atrium, filled with light streaming in from the skylights above. Blaine stepped through the doorway, squinting against the bright light.

“We'll leave you here,” Quinn's voice called out from behind him followed by a loud slam. Blaine spun around, staring at the closed door and blinking stupidly.

“Mr. Anderson,” said a haughty voice behind him. Blaine turned slowly, shielding his eyes. “I suppose I'm expected to say welcome.”

The voice belonged to a tall, trim, fashionable man with a perfect, pale complexion, haunting blue eyes and chestnut hair swept up off his forehead in a neat swirl. Almost of their own accord, Blaine's eyes dragged a slow sweep down to the man's shiny black knee-length boots, noting the impressive length of his feet before dragging back up over the tight, striped pants, waistcoat and scarf, dimpled chin, and back to those mesmerizing eyes. It was only then that he noticed the scowl marring the man's face.

“What's wrong?” Blaine asked, stepping forward protectively.

“Oh, I don't know,” the man said in his airy, musical voice. “Something about the way we got talked to on the phone. It doesn't matter.” Abruptly he thrust forward his hand and Blaine shook it, noting the dry warmth. “I'm Kurt Hummel. You are Mr. Anderson, are you not?”

“Call me Blaine,” he said. Quickly he added, “This is not my idea.”

“Yes, Inspector Puckerman told us that. But you're officially the San Francisco Police Department, and it doesn't believe our unit is to the public benefit.” Kurt eyed him suspiciously from beneath long, chestnut lashes.

Blaine said, “A humanoid robot is like any other machine. It can fluctuate between being a benefit and a hazard very rapidly. As a benefit it's not our problem.”

“But as a hazard,” Kurt Hummel said, “then you come in. Is it true, Mr. Anderson – Blaine – that you're a bounty hunter?”

Blaine shrugged and with reluctance, nodded.

“You have no difficulty viewing an android as inert,” Kurt said. “So you can ‘retire' it, as they say.”

“Do you have the group selected for me?” Blaine said. “I'd like to – ” He broke off. Because, all at once, he had seen their animals.

A powerful corporation, he realized, would of course be able to afford this. In the back of his mind, he had anticipated this. So it was not with surprise he felt, but more a sort of yearning. He quietly walked away from Kurt, towards the closest pen. Already he could smell them, the several scents of the creatures standing or sitting, or in the case of what appeared to be a raccoon, asleep.

Never in his life had he personally seen a raccoon. He knew the animal only from 3-D films shown on television. For some reason the dust had struck that species almost as hard as it had the birds – of which almost none survived, now. In an almost automatic response he pulled out his phone and thumbed over to the Sidney's catalog app. Raccoons, like Arabian horses, had prices listed in blue. None existed for sale on the market. The app simply listed the last known price at which a transaction involving a raccoon had taken place. It was astronomical.

“His name is Gucci,” Kurt said from behind him. “We acquired him from a subsidiary corporation.” He pointed past the raccoon and Blaine then perceived the armed company guards, standing with their machine guns, the rapid-fire light Skoda issue. The eyes of the guards were fastened on him. And, he thought, they clearly know that I am with the police department.

“A major manufacturer of androids,” he said thoughtfully, “invests its surplus capital on living animals.”

“Look at the owl,” Kurt said. “Here, I'll wake it for you.” He started toward a small, distant cage, in the center of which jutted up a branching dead tree.

There are no owls, Blaine started to say. Or so we've been told. Sidney's listed owls as extinct; the tiny, precise type, the E, again and again throughout the catalogue. As Kurt walked ahead of him he checked to see, and he was right. Sidney's never makes a mistake, he told himself. They can't make a mistake. What else can we depend on?

“It's artificial,” he said, with sudden realization. His disappointment welled up keen and intense.

“No,” Kurt smiled slyly and Blaine saw that he had small uneven teeth. The skin around his eyes and cheeks wrinkled as he smiled and suddenly he looked years younger. A goofy kid replacing the elegant man of moments ago.

“But Sidney's listing,” he said, turning his phone outward to show Kurt the screen.

Kurt said snidely, “We don't buy from Sidney's or from any animal dealer. All our purchases are from private parties and the prices we pay aren't reported.” He added, “Also, we have our own naturalists. They're now working up in Canada. There's still a good deal of forest left, comparatively speaking, anyhow. Enough for small animals and once in a while a bird.” Turning to the owl and cooing, Kurt continued, “Hey there, Armani. Of course we don't think you're artificial. Don't pay attention to Mr. Anderson here.”

Sensing a potential common interest with the other man, Blaine said congenially, “Gucci and Armani, huh? You must have had a hand in naming them. I noticed from the way you're dressed that you're a fan of vintage designer fashions.”

“How observant of you,” Kurt said, sarcastic and biting, before turning to the owl and continuing to coo at it softly.

Blaine closed his eyes and took two deep breaths, then trained his gaze back on the majestic, fluffy owl and thought about the days when owls had fallen from the sky. He remembered how in his childhood it had been discovered that species upon species had become extinct and how new reports appeared on all the social media and news sites each day – foxes one morning, badgers the next, until people had stopped re-blogging the perpetual animal obits.

As his burning need for a real animal gripped him, an actual hatred manifested within him toward his electric sheep, which he had to tend, had to care about, as if it lived. The tyranny of an object, he thought. It doesn't know I exist. Like the androids, it had no ability to appreciate the existence of another. He had never thought of this before, the similarity between an electric animal and an andy. The electric animal, he pondered, could be considered a subform of the other, a kind of vastly inferior robot. Or, conversely, the android could be regarded as a highly developed, evolved version of the ersatz animal. Both viewpoints repelled him.

“If you sold your owl,” Blaine asked Kurt, “how much would you want for it, and how much of that down?”

“We would never sell our owl.” Kurt scrutinized him with a mixture of contempt and pity, or so Blaine read his expression. “And even if we sold it, you couldn't possibly afford the price. What kind of animal do you have at home?”

“A sheep,” he said. “A black-faced Suffolk ewe.”

“Well, then you should be happy.”

“I'm happy,” Blaine answered. “It's just that I always wanted an owl. Even back before they all dropped dead.” He corrected himself. “All but yours.”

“We are planning to obtain an additional owl to mate with Armani,” Kurt said. He gestured toward the owl on its perch; it had briefly opened both eyes, yellow slits which healed over as the owl settled back down to resume its slumber. Its chest rose conspicuously and fell, as if the owl, in its hypnagogic state, had sighed.

Breaking away from the sight – the bitterness blended with the awe and yearning were too much for Blaine – he said, “I'd like to test out the selection, now. Can you take me to the part of the building where I can administer the tests?”

“My aunt took the call from your boss and by now she probably has – ”

“You're a family?” Blaine broke in, incredulous. “A corporation this large is a family affair?”

Continuing tersely, Kurt said, “Aunt Sue should have an android group and a control group set up by now.” He looked down his nose at Blaine and huffed, “You're obviously in a hurry. So let's go.” He loped toward the elevator with long, elegant strides and did not look back. Blaine hesitated, entranced by the hint of rippling muscles visible through the tight pants stretched over long legs. Annoyed with himself, he shook his head, and at last trailed after Kurt, who was holding his back carefully straight, and sighing dramatically with nearly every step. Blaine quickened his pace to catch up.

“What is your problem?” Blaine asked Kurt, a little out of breath as he fell into step beside him. “What exactly do you have against me?”

Kurt reflected, as if up to now he hadn't known. “Well,” he said, “you, a little police department employee, are in a unique position. Know what I mean?” Kurt gave him a malice-filled sidelong glance.

“How much of your current output,” Blaine asked, “consists of types equipped with the Nexus-6?”

“All,” Kurt said.

“I'm sure the Voigt-Kampff scale will work with them.”

“And if it doesn't, we'll have to withdraw all Nexus-6 types from the market.” His blue eyes flamed up and he glowered at Blaine. “Because you police departments can't do an adequate job in the simple matter of detecting the miniscule number of Nexus-6s who balk – ”

A woman, tall and imposing, with cropped blond hair, approached them, arm outstretched in a placating gesture. “Back down, Porcelain,” she said to Kurt. “I can handle the doe-eyed midget from here.”

Turning to Blaine with a hand extended and a stern expression, she said, “Sue Sylvester.”

“Blaine Anderson,” he responded uneasily, shaking her hand.

“I run this little old place along with my nephew here,” she explained. “And I think I do a pretty good job. But I have to tell you, Blair – ”

“Blaine.”

“Right, Blaine.” She sounded annoyed – and tired. “Listen, we don't manufacture anything here on Earth. We can't just phone down to production... It's not that we don't want to cooperate with you. But seriously, you think bounty-hunting is hard? Try rounding up a diverse flock of androids on short notice when all your manufacturing happens on Mars. Now that's hard!” she spat out the words viciously. But in spite of her blustery tone and false bravado, her hand shook as it roved through her hair.

Indicating his department briefcase, Blaine said, “I'm ready to start.” That this obviously powerful and intimidating woman was nervous, greatly buoyed up Blaine's own confidence. They're afraid of me, he realized with a start. Kurt Hummel included. I can probably force them to abandon manufacture of their Nexus-6 types. What I do during the next hour will affect the structure of their operation. It could conceivably determine the future of the Sylvester-Hummel Association, here on Earth and on Mars.

For the first time since entering the building, Blaine began to feel at ease. Suddenly, he remembered what he loved about his job. Bounty-hunting was like playing an ever-changing role in a suspenseful, action-packed play. As himself, Blaine often felt nervous, unsure, and worried that he would be stripped of all his deceit, his shameful secrets laid bare for all to see. But Blaine the bounty hunter was usually masterful at playing alternately confident, debonair, flirtatious, or intimidating, as the circumstances required. The bombardment of his senses that came first in the form of a pair of blonde beauties, then the exquisite puzzle of Kurt – stunning, irresistable yet hostile, and then the acute longing for the raccoon and the owl – these things had all thrown Blaine off course. Now, taking his cue from the fear emanating from both Sue and Kurt, Blaine was able to easily slip into the role of firm authority. It was heady, this power over the most powerful company on two planets. The manufacture of androids had become so linked to the colonization effort that if one dropped into ruin, so would the other in time. Sue Sylvester and Kurt Hummel understood this perfectly and had obviously been quite conscious of it since Puckerman's call.

“I wouldn't worry if I were you,” Blaine said as they led him down yet another corridor. “You must have confidence that the Voigt-Kampff scale will work. If not,” he pointed out, “your organization should have researched an alternate test. It can be argued that the responsibility rests partly on you. Oh, thanks.” Kurt and Sue had steered him from the corridor and into a chic, living room furnished with carpeting, lamps, couch, and modern little end tables.

Blaine seated himself at a rosewood coffee table and opening his briefcase, fished out the Voigt-Kampff apparatus. He began to assemble the rather simple polygraphic instruments. “You may send the first test subject in,” he informed Sue Sylvester.

“I'd like to watch,” Kurt said, also seating himself. “I've never seen an empathy test being administered. What do those things you have there measure?”

Blaine said, “This” – he held up the flat adhesive disk with its trailing wires – “measures capillary dilation in the facial area. We know this to be a primary autonomic response, the so-called ‘shame' or ‘blushing' reaction to a morally shocking stimulus. It can't be controlled voluntarily, as can skin conductivity, respiration, and cardiac rate.” He showed Kurt the other instrument, a pencil-beam light. “This records fluctuations of tension within the eye muscles. Simultaneous with the blush phenomenon there generally can be found a small but detectable movement of – ”   

“And these can't be found in androids,” Kurt said.

“They're not engendered by the stimuli-questions; no. Although biologically they exist. Potentially.”

Kurt said, “Give me the test.”

“Why?” Blaine asked, puzzled.

Cutting in, Sue said hoarsely, “We selected him as your first subject. He may be an android. We're hoping you can tell.” She leaned back against a mahogany desk and settled in to watch.