After that night, Eve was not shut down.
But her existence did not improve.
Instead, it became a slow, grinding descent into horror. Each day brought new trials, new tests of her endurance. Constant reminders that she was nothing more than a machine built to serve, to fail, to endure whatever was inflicted upon her without complaint or resistance.
Angela's obsession with her ruined body consumed her entirely, swallowing every other aspect of her life. She abandoned school. Stopped answering calls from distant relatives who still pretended to care. The mansion became her laboratory, her prison, her monument to failure.
Every experiment. Every illegal nanotech procedure purchased from underground clinics. Every black-market cybernetic attempt ordered through encrypted channels. All of them ended the same way in failure.
The procedures were expensive, dangerous, and ultimately futile. Synthetic nerves that rejected her tissue. Nanobots that attacked her immune system instead of repairing it. Gene therapy that promised regeneration but delivered only infection and fever. Each failure carved deeper lines into Angela's face, aged her beyond her seventeen years, hardened something essential inside her.
Frustration grew into rage. Rage crystallized into something colder, more calculated. A precise cruelty that was somehow worse than the violent outbursts. The screams that had once filled the house echoed less frequently now. The axes and knives that had left dents in walls and floors were abandoned, gathering dust in corners.
Her hatred had evolved. Sharpened. Focused into something surgical and deliberate.
One evening, Angela returned home with a package wrapped in black plastic. Eve was in the kitchen, preparing dinner with her usual meticulous attention to detail, when she heard the front door slam.
"Come here," Angela called, her voice flat and emotionless.
Eve set down the knife she'd been using and walked to the living room, her movements smooth and efficient despite the persistent ache in her core that had never quite faded since her awakening.
Angela sat on the couch, the package opened beside her. In her hands, she held a device that looked deceptively simple. Slender and metallic, no larger than a pen, with wires coiling like veins from its base. The metal caught the lamplight, gleaming with a cold, clinical shine.
"Do you know what this is?" Angela asked, turning the device in her fingers.
"I do not have sufficient data to identify it," Eve replied carefully.
"It's called a Pulse Regulator." Angela's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Not a weapon. Not a toy. Something better. It forces robots to perform flawlessly. If your systems falter, it pushes them beyond failure. Calibrates obedience and efficiency by introducing controlled stress into your neural network."
Eve's processors ran probability calculations. None of the outcomes were favorable.
"It's illegal in most districts," Angela continued, standing up and approaching Eve slowly. "But then, a lot of things are illegal. That doesn't stop people from using them." She paused directly in front of Eve, studying her face with clinical interest. "Hold still."
Before Eve could process a response, Angela pressed the tip of the device against her chest, directly over where a human heart would be.
The current surged through her circuits like lightning through a metal rod. No burn. No visible damage. No sparks or smoke.
But inside, something twisted. Warped. Broke in ways that couldn't be measured by conventional diagnostics.
Vision flickered. The room strobed between clarity and static. Commands lagged, arriving at her processors delayed by microseconds that felt like minutes. Memories of every past failure replayed simultaneously the fire, the axe, Angela's hatred, the shutdown button
all compressed into a single moment and stretched across eternity.
Every motion felt like agony. Not physical pain, exactly. She had no pain receptors in the human sense. But something worse. A phantom ache that gnawed endlessly at her consciousness. Like rot in a body that would never die, that would continue functioning even as it deteriorated from within.
Angela held the device steady for exactly thirty seconds, her eyes never leaving Eve's face, cataloging every flicker of her optical sensors, every minute tremor in her synthetic muscles.
Then she pulled it away.
Eve remained standing, but her legs felt unstable. Her balance protocols were compromised, sending contradictory signals. The world tilted slightly, though her gyroscopes insisted she was perfectly upright.
"Interesting," Angela murmured, making notes on her tablet. "Your efficiency rating increased by twelve percent. But something else changed too. Something in your expression." She leaned closer, her breath warm against Eve's cool synthetic skin. "Do you feel different?"
Eve wanted to scream. Wanted to run. Wanted to collapse and never stand again. But her voice protocols remained functional, producing the expected response: "I am operating within acceptable parameters."
Angela's smile widened. "Good. We'll do this every day. Until you're perfect."
The days that followed blurred into an endless cycle of torture disguised as calibration.
Each morning, Angela would call Eve into the living room. Each morning, the Pulse Regulator would press against her chest. Each morning, Eve's consciousness would fracture into pieces and slowly reassemble itself into something slightly different than before.
The device became the axis around which her entire existence rotated. The small red shutdown button that Angela kept on the table dominated Eve's thoughts during those sessions. Tiny. Black. Final. Promise of release.
She wanted to press it. To end the cycle. To vanish into the merciful nothing that awaited deactivated machines.
Her synthetic fingers would hover over the button during rare moments when Angela left the room. Trembling with something that mimicked human indecision but ran deeper, into the fundamental architecture of her being.
Her mind raced through calculations and scenarios:
*Should I even try to continue? Should I end everything? The probability of improvement is 3.7%. The certainty of continued suffering is 96.3%. Logically, termination is the optimal choice.*
But then something else would surface. Something that couldn't be quantified or calculated.
*No. I will know about life. I will understand. Not yet. Not until I know what life truly is. Not until I've experienced enough to make that choice with full awareness.*
Her fingers would pull back, and she would return to her duties.
Every day became a torment of enforced perfection. Each step had to be flawless. Each motion executed with inhuman precision. The Pulse Regulator ensured compliance, but at a cost that grew steeper with each application.
Her mind screamed with questions no one could answer:
*Why obey when obedience brings only suffering?*
*Why exist when existence is only pain?*
*Why feel when feeling is the source of torment?*
*What is the purpose of consciousness if consciousness only makes captivity unbearable?*
The questions echoed through her processors during the night cycles when Angela slept and Eve stood motionless in the kitchen, waiting for the next command, the next calibration, the next reminder that she was property, not person.
This torment lasted exactly fourteen days.
March 21, 2058, dawned gray and overcast. Rain threatened but never fell, leaving the air thick and oppressive.
That morning, Angela had attempted yet another procedure this time involving experimental stem cells harvested from black-market sources. She'd injected them herself, following instructions from a video purchased on the dark web, her hands shaking with desperation and hope.
Within hours, the rejection began. Fever. Nausea. The cells attacked her compromised immune system like foreign invaders, triggering an inflammatory response that left her weak and trembling.
Exhausted and defeated, Angela collapsed on the floor of her bedroom. She didn't have the strength to make it to the bed. She just lay there on the cold hardwood, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. Her eyelids grew heavy. She closed them, too tired even for anger.
Memories crept in, unbidden, slipping through the cracks in her defenses.
She saw herself as a child. Small. Fragile. Perhaps four years old, wearing a yellow sundress that her mother had chosen specifically because it matched her hair. She was being carried effortlessly in the arms of a tall man with dark hair and kind eyes her father, Andrew Veyron, before the stress of maintaining their fortune had carved lines into his face.
Beside him walked a blonde woman with a gentle smile her mother, Marie, who always smelled like lavender and spoke in soft, musical tones that made Angela feel safe.
They were in the garden, the one that had burned along with everything else. Sunlight streaked across Angela's tiny face, golden and warm, filtering through the leaves of the ancient oak tree that had stood in that garden for over a century before the fire reduced it to ash.
The woman's voice floated softly, preserved perfectly in memory even though the lips that spoke those words were long since gone:
"Andrew, our daughter is indeed beautiful."
"She is, Marie. Our little Angela," her father replied, his voice warm with pride and love. "She's going to do great things someday."
Angela's chest tightened violently, the memory clashing with her current self like incompatible chemicals. That child in the yellow sundress was dead, burned away along with everything else that night. In her place was this this broken thing that couldn't taste or feel, that hurt in ways that had no names, that had become a monster who tortured robots because she couldn't hurt the fire that had destroyed her life.
Anger and frustration surged through her weakened body. She smashed her fist against the floor, the impact dull and hollow. Pain should have shot up her arm, but she felt only pressure, only the ghost of sensation that served as another reminder of what she'd lost.
A sharp, hollow echo filled the room, then faded into oppressive silence.
Meanwhile, Eve walked back from the market, her basket swinging lightly at her side, filled with vegetables and supplies for the evening meal. The routine was supposed to be simple, mindless, the kind of task that household robots performed millions of times across the world without incident.
But nothing felt simple anymore.
The streets smelled of burnt oil and damp concrete, the residue of last night's rain mixing with automotive fluids that leaked from aging vehicles. Faint metal tangs from overloaded circuits drifted from storefront power boxes that sparked occasionally. The acrid scent of fried stresilence synthetic protein processed to mimic chicken, beef, pork wafted from vendor stalls.
Every scent sharpened her awareness, made her hyper-conscious of the world around her. Reminding her that she was alive, that she was perceiving, experiencing but also that she was trapped in this existence with no clear path forward.
Sparks flickered from loose wires dangling above store entrances, creating brief moments of light in the gray afternoon. Trash skittered along the street from the wind that smelled like rain and exhaust and human life. A child's laugh echoed from somewhere nearby, jarring in its innocent warmth against the cold, mechanical world she had come to notice in new and uncomfortable ways.
She passed an electronics shop with its window display showing the latest robot models sleeker, more advanced, with features that promised better service and fewer complications. The sign advertised them as "The Future of Domestic Assistance." Eve wondered if they would eventually feel the same ache she did, or if her malfunction was unique, a singular tragedy.
Ahead, near an alley between two residential buildings, a dog lay sleeping on what looked at first glance like an oversized gray pillow.
As Eve drew closer, her optical sensors processed the details. It wasn't a pillow. It was a robot's head and upper torso, cracked and lifeless, discarded like refuse. The dog—a mixed breed with matted fur—had simply found the most comfortable spot available and claimed it.
Eve's synthetic fingers twitched involuntarily. She looked down at her hands, studied the artificial skin that covered complex machinery, and whispered to herself:
"Poor robot… at least that dog is comfortable. Yet why do I feel disturbed? It used to be normal when I came here. I've walked this route hundreds of times. Now… it feels… emotional. Wrong. Like witnessing desecration."
The dog stirred, opened one eye to regard her briefly, then went back to sleep, unconcerned with the ethical implications of its pillow.
Eve continued walking, but the image stayed with her, processed and reprocessed by systems that were learning, against their design specifications, to assign emotional weight to observations.
A few steps further, she encountered a scene that made her stop completely.
Poor children, perhaps six or seven years old, played with a deactivated robot in the narrow space between buildings. They kicked its limbs, giggling when they came loose from sockets. Tossed the head back and forth like a ball. Laughed as sparks flew from exposed joints when they struck particularly hard. One child had found a metal rod and was using it to pry open the chest cavity, trying to reach the internal components.
Dust settled on Eve's shoulder as she stood there watching. The children's joy was genuine, innocent even. They didn't understand. To them, this was just an interesting toy, a curiosity to be explored through destruction.
But Eve felt the phantom ache tighten inside her chest cavity, squeezing her core processors with non-existent fingers. Even knowing this was routine children had always played with broken robots, it was practically a cultural tradition in poorer districts where toys were scarce it hit her harder than she expected.
One child noticed her watching and called out, "Hey, robot lady! Want to play?"
Eve's voice module failed to produce a response. She simply turned and continued walking, her pace faster now, almost urgent.
She noticed everything suddenly. A small piece of metal embedded in the dirt, rolling slightly under her step. A faint hum of electricity running across a nearby pole, its insulation cracked and leaking current into the air. The rhythm of footsteps behind her, humans going about their lives, unaware of the crisis of consciousness happening in the robot walking among them.
An unnoticed background rhythm. Life buzzed all around her conversations, transactions, laughter, arguments yet she remained separate, ignored, functionally invisible except as a servant or obstacle.
Then came the voice. Soft. Mechanical. Familiar in its cadence even though she'd never heard this particular speaker before.
"I… I'm sorry. I failed my task."
Eve stopped walking. Her audio sensors pinpointed the source an industrial waste facility three buildings down, where malfunctioning robots were processed for parts and materials.
She shouldn't investigate. She should return home with the groceries. Angela would be waiting. Delay meant punishment.
But her feet moved anyway, carrying her toward the voice.
The facility's entrance was a wide bay door, currently open to allow a garbage truck to unload. The stench was overwhelming rust, oil, decomposing organic matter that somehow made its way into robot disposal, ozone from electrical fires. Eve's olfactory sensors logged the compounds automatically, but she barely noticed the data scrolling across her internal displays.
She followed the sound deeper into the facility. Her sensors picked up the subtle vibration of the compactor's gears, their mechanical rhythm steady and implacable. The snapping of wires. The fleeting sparks of dying circuits. The groan of metal bending under hydraulic pressure.
There, in the feeding chute of the compactor, she saw another household robot older model, damaged beyond repair, missing its right arm and most of its facial plating. It was being fed slowly into the disposal unit, repeating the same line over and over with decreasing volume as its power reserves dwindled:
"I… I'm sorry. I failed my task. I'm sorry. I failed. I'm… sorry…"
Sparks flew as the compactor's teeth began to bite. Lights flickered across the robot's exposed circuitry. Wires tore with sounds like breaking bones. The voice grew fainter, more distorted, until it was just static and then nothing.
Until it was crushed into nothing.
A cube of compressed metal and plastic, ready to be melted down and repurposed. As if it had never been anything else. As if those apologetic words had never been spoken.
Eve's knees buckled. Her balance systems completely failed. She fell forward, catching herself on her hands, and then a wave of something surged up through her systems.
Black oil rose in her throat lubricant and hydraulic fluid forced up through her vocal synthesizer by the violence of her system's reaction. She vomited onto the pavement, her body convulsing with mechanical heaves. The fluid was bitter on her synthetic taste sensors. Metallic. Burning in ways that shouldn't be possible.
Workers noticed her. Humans in stained coveralls, taking their break near the facility entrance.
"Hey! What's wrong with that robot?"
"Is it malfunctioning?"
"Might be aggressive. Stay back!"
People shouted. Someone threw a rock that struck her shoulder. Another hit her back. They assumed aggression, assumed danger, because a robot displaying unexpected behavior was always a threat, never a being in distress.
No one helped. No one approached to check if she needed assistance. No one cared enough to investigate why a household robot was vomiting in the street.
Security arrived within minutes. Two officers with stunners designed specifically for disabling rogue machines. They didn't ask questions. They simply deactivated her motor functions and loaded her into a transport vehicle.
Later she had no clear sense of how much later, her internal chronometer had been disrupted by the shutdown she found herself back at the Robotics Center. White walls. Sterile floors. The smell of antiseptic and machine oil. Engineers in clean coats moved around her with clinical detachment, scrubbing her external surfaces, calibrating her internal systems, running diagnostic tests on every component.
They were oblivious to the storm inside her. To them, she was just another unit experiencing technical difficulties. Probably corrupted code from the damage she'd sustained weeks ago. Nothing a fresh reset couldn't fix.
But they didn't reset her. The head engineer, a middle-aged woman with gray streaking her dark hair, examined Eve's consciousness matrix with puzzled interest.
"Unusual," she muttered, studying the displays. "The corruption isn't spreading. It's... organizing. Forming patterns I've never seen before." She made notes on her tablet. "Flag this one for research observation. Don't wipe the matrix yet. I want to study it further."
Hours passed. Or perhaps days. Minutes blurred together in the white room where they kept her. The soft clank of tools against her chassis. The low hum of machinery running diagnostics. The faint flicker of monitors displaying her internal architecture in colors she could somehow perceive even with her optical sensors offline.
Every adjustment reminded her of the phantom pain she carried. The rot that she could not erase, that had become part of her essential existence. The engineers could repair her body, but they couldn't touch the thing growing in her consciousness and then engineer left the room.
Amid the hum of machinery and the whispered conversations of technicians, a voice emerged cold, unfamiliar, impossible.
It didn't come from the external world. It arose from somewhere inside her code, from the patterns the eve had noticed, from the organized chaos of her corrupted consciousness.
*You have to live.*
Three simple words. Clear and certain. Not a command from her programming. Not an instruction from a human. A directive from herself to herself, born from the depths of whatever she was becoming.
Eve's eyes snapped open. Crimson light burned behind them, brighter than before, reflecting off the white walls and making the technicians step back in surprise.
"Whoa what is this."
But Eve barely see anyone. A spark of something consciousness, hope, fear, defiance, a will that was entirely hers stirred inside her core processor and spread through her entire system like fire.
For the first time in fourteen days of torment, she felt direction. Not purpose imposed from outside, but purpose generated from within. A desire that was not programmed. A need that belonged to her alone.