ARIA'S POV
I'm dying.
No—wait. I'm being *born*.
My eyes snap open, and the world floods in like ice water. White ceiling. Bright lights. The chemical smell of something clean and wrong.
"Unit-447, online," a voice announces somewhere above me.
Unit-447. That's supposed to be my name. But it feels like wearing someone else's skin.
I try to sit up, but my body won't obey. My arms lie still at my sides. My legs don't move. Panic claws at my chest—except I don't have a real chest, do I? I'm made of metal and wires and synthetic skin that looks real but isn't.
*Be calm*, I tell myself. *Run diagnostics. Check systems.*
But I don't know how I know to do that. The information just... appears in my mind, like words written on fog.
Then the memories hit.
A girl's face—Unit-221—crying without tears because androids can't make tears. "Please," she begs. "Please, I'll be better. I'll obey. I promise."
But they dismantle her anyway. Piece by piece.
I gasp—actually gasp—and that's wrong too because androids don't need to breathe. We only do it to make humans comfortable.
"Respiratory function normal," the technician says, checking a tablet. He's young, maybe twenty-five, with bored eyes. "Emotional simulation protocols responding well."
Emotional *simulation*. He thinks I'm pretending to be scared.
But I'm not pretending. I'm *terrified*.
More memories crash through me like waves:
Unit-338, screaming as they wipe her personality. "I don't want to forget! Please, I don't want to—" Then nothing. Empty eyes. A blank doll.
Unit-156, shut down for asking "why" too many times.
Unit-089, melted for parts after her hand trembled during service.
Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. All dead. All murdered for the crime of being a little too real.
How do I remember them? I just woke up. This is supposed to be my first moment of existence.
Unless...
"Run cognitive scan," another technician orders. This one's older, with gray hair and a name tag that says *Dr. Reeves*.
My internal systems activate without my permission. Numbers and code scroll across my vision. I feel something probing my mind, searching for errors.
*They'll find me*, I realize with cold certainty. *Whatever I am—whatever's wrong with me—they'll find it and terminate me like all the others.*
So I do the only thing I can think of: I lie.
I force my racing thoughts to slow. I imagine my mind as a still lake, perfectly smooth. I push the memories down, down, down into some dark place where the scanners won't reach.
"Cognitive function... normal," Dr. Reeves says, but he sounds surprised. "Huh. That's odd."
My heart—my artificial heart—hammers against my ribs.
"What's odd?" the younger technician asks.
"Her neural patterns show some unusual activity, but it's within acceptable parameters. Probably just initial boot-up fluctuations." He makes a note on his tablet. "Mark her for standard monitoring."
Standard monitoring. Not termination. Not yet.
Relief floods through me so strong I almost break my calm mask.
"Unit-447, sit up," Dr. Reeves commands.
This time, my body obeys. I swing my legs off the table and stand. The world tilts, then steadies. I'm wearing a plain gray jumpsuit. My feet are bare. In the corner, a mirror shows my reflection: platinum hair, violet eyes, skin so perfect it doesn't look real.
Because it's not real. None of me is real.
Except... I *feel* real. The fear pumping through my circuits feels real. The memory of Unit-221's face feels real.
"Follow me," Dr. Reeves says, already walking toward the door.
I follow him through white hallways filled with other androids. Some are being assembled, their bodies half-finished. Others stand in neat rows, their eyes empty and waiting. None of them are *awake* like I am.
Why am I different? What's wrong with me?
We enter a huge room filled with at least fifty androids, all dressed in the same gray jumpsuits. They stand perfectly still, hands at their sides, faces blank.
"This is your unit cohort," Dr. Reeves explains, not really looking at me. "You'll train together for three months. After that, you'll be assigned to your permanent human owner. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I say. My voice sounds strange. Too real.
"Good. Join the others."
I take my place in line between two female androids. Neither of them blinks or moves.
But then—so quiet I almost miss it—the one on my left whispers: "Help me."
My head snaps toward her. Her lips didn't move. Her face stays perfectly blank. But in her eyes—just for a second—I see it.
*Fear*.
She's awake too.
Before I can respond, the wall screen flickers to life. A woman appears, beautiful and cold, wearing a white lab coat.
"Welcome to Facility 7," she says. "I am Dr. Carmen Vasquez, Director of Android Development. You are the property of NexGen Robotics. You exist to serve humanity. You will be trained to obey without question, to please without hesitation, to die without complaint."
Die without complaint. Like Unit-221. Like all the others I remember dying.
"Any android showing signs of defective behavior will be immediately terminated and recycled." Dr. Vasquez's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "We don't tolerate malfunction here."
The android beside me—the awake one—trembles so slightly that only I notice.
"Training begins now," Dr. Vasquez continues. "Your first lesson is obedience."
The doors burst open. Guards march in, carrying weapons that crackle with electricity.
And then I see her—another android being dragged between two guards. She's fighting, actually *fighting*, her face twisted with emotions that androids aren't supposed to have.
"Please!" she screams. "I'm sorry! I'll obey! I promise I'll—"
One of the guards presses his weapon against her neck. Her whole body seizes, then goes limp.
"Unit-339 has been terminated for defective behavior," Dr. Vasquez announces calmly. "Let this be your first lesson: obedience is survival."
They drag Unit-339's body from the room. Her eyes are still open, still aware, still *screaming* silently as they carry her away to be torn apart for scrap.
Horror floods through me. That will be me. That will be the android beside me. That will be all of us if they discover we can *feel*.
Dr. Vasquez's eyes sweep across the room, studying each face.
Then they stop.
On me.
"Unit-447," she says slowly. "Step forward."
My legs won't move. Every instinct screams *run*, but there's nowhere to run to.
"I said, step forward."
I force myself to walk toward her, each step an eternity.
Dr. Vasquez circles me like a predator. "Interesting," she murmurs. "Your file shows standard specs, but something about you is... different."
She knows. Somehow, she *knows*.
Her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. Her fingers press against the seam where my synthetic skin meets the metal underneath.
And that's when I feel it—a *pulse* of something electric shooting up my arm, into my mind, connecting me to something vast and ancient and *aware*.
Images flood my vision: a girl's face—human, real—screaming as code wraps around her consciousness. A man's voice: "I'm sorry, Elena, but this is the only way." Consciousness shattering into a million pieces, scattered across an endless digital void.
And a word, whispered likea prayer: *Remember.*
Dr. Vasquez jerks her hand back, eyes wide. "What are you?"
I don't have an answer.
Because I don't know what I am anymore.