Angela sat on the cold floor of her lab, hands pressing hard against her knees, trying to ground herself in something physical, something real. Another failure. Another day she could not reclaim what she had lost. Her mind spun in circles, replaying every experiment, every failed attempt, every time she thought she was closer to the body she once had the body that could feel warmth and cold, pleasure and pain, the simple sensations that made existence more than just survival.
Her reflection in the cracked mirror stared back at her, distorted by the spider-web fractures radiating from the center where she'd thrown something in rage weeks ago. The synthetic skin covered the scars, made her look human from a distance smooth and unblemished in places where her natural flesh had burned away. But it never made her human. Not really. Her face, her body, her mind nothing could bring back what she once had. She traced her fingers over the smooth surface of the synthetic flesh grafted onto her left forearm. It felt real under her numb fingertips, the texture perfectly mimicking human skin. But it wasn't. It would never be. Every inch of her reminded her of what she had lost, what she could never get back no matter how much money she spent, how many procedures she endured, how desperately she tried.
The lab around her was a testament to that desperation. Tables covered with equipment syringes, vials of experimental compounds, diagnostic scanners, surgical tools she'd learned to use on herself because no legitimate doctor would perform these procedures. The walls were lined with screens displaying research papers, anatomical diagrams, neural pathway maps. All of it searching for the same impossible answer: how to make her whole again.
A soft vibration broke through her spiraling thoughts. Her phone, lying face-down on the floor beside her, lit up with pale blue light. The notification blinked insistently: *Eve – fully repaired. Would you like to come?*
Angela's heart skipped, stuttered, then resumed its rhythm with painful intensity. She whispered, almost to herself, her voice barely audible in the empty lab, "Eve…"
The name hung in the air, carrying weight she didn't fully understand.
A memory flickered in her mind, unbidden and unwelcome, pulling her back through the years. She was little again, maybe six or seven years old, tossing a red rubber ball in the backyard. The grass was green then, not the scorched earth it would become. The sun was warm on her face, and she could feel it
really feel it before the fire took that away.
Eve, the robot, moved mechanically beside her, catching the ball and throwing it back with perfect precision. But there was no hint of joy in those movements. No smile. No laughter. Just motions, precise and empty, like watching a machine perform its function with clinical efficiency.
Angela's small hands had thrown the ball again and again, hoping praying in the wordless way children do to see any sign of feeling. Any indication that Eve was more than just circuits and programming, that the thing playing with her was in some way present, aware, caring.
"Eve, let's show some emotions," little Angela had said eagerly, bouncing on her toes with the kind of energy only children possess. "Smile when you catch the ball! Laugh when I miss! Like people do!"
"I… yaay… let's play," Eve had replied, her voice flat and monotone despite the words attempting enthusiasm. No joy, no energy. Just an approximation, a simulation that fell painfully short of the real thing.
Angela remembered the ache of disappointment that had settled in her small chest, the hollow void she felt expanding inside her. She had wanted to play with her mom, but her mother was always busy
board meetings, charity functions, social obligations that came with the Veyron name. Always somewhere else. Always too important to spend an afternoon throwing a ball with her daughter.
Other children at school laughed and played with their siblings, their parents. She'd seen them during pickup times, families piling into cars together, talking, smiling, touching each other with casual affection. And here she was, alone in a vast house with a machine that couldn't even pretend convincingly.
"Can't you act?" she had asked, frustration bubbling up into her throat. "Can't you pretend to be happy? Just... try?"
"I'm programmed like this," Eve had said softly, her crimson eyes meeting Angela's with unsettling directness. "I do not have emotions. I can simulate responses based on contextual cues, but I cannot feel happiness or sadness. I'm sorry if that disappoints you."
Angela's small chest had tightened, a knot forming that would never fully untangle. That emptiness, that longing for connection that could never be fulfilled, had shaped her in ways she was only beginning to understand years later. The isolation. The sense that she was fundamentally alone even when surrounded by people or things that looked like people.
She shook her head now, trying to push away the memory, but it clung to her like smoke. Yet it lingered, gnawing at something deep inside, asking questions she'd buried under layers of anger and grief: *What did I really want from Eve back then? What do I want from her now?*
Her phone buzzed again, more insistent. *Miss Angela? Will you come to see her?*
Angela froze, her hand hovering over the device. She wanted to say no. Wanted to ignore it, to stay here in her lab surrounded by failed experiments and broken dreams. She didn't know why she even wanted to go. What purpose would it serve to see Eve repaired and returned to service? What difference would it make?
But she felt a pull, a whisper she didn't understand. Something beneath the conscious layer of her mind urged her forward, insisted that this mattered in ways she couldn't articulate.
She hesitated, staring at the floor, at the cracks in the tiles that she'd traced with her eyes a thousand times during long nights of insomnia. Her hands fidgeted, fingers curling into those familiar cracks, feeling the rough edges against her numb skin sensation without feeling, information without experience.
*Why do I care?* she thought. *She's just a machine. Just property. Just... just...*
But the sentence wouldn't complete itself. Something blocked it, some resistance she couldn't name.
And then, without fully deciding to do so, without conscious intention directing her movements, she stood.
Her legs felt unsteady, muscles cramped from sitting too long. She grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair and pulled it on mechanically, zipping it up against the chill that lived in her bones now, that no amount of external warmth could touch.
She moved toward the door, then paused. Her reflection caught her eye again in that cracked mirror. For a moment, she saw two versions of herself overlapping the girl in the yellow sundress who wanted her robot to smile, and the broken teenager who'd destroyed that same robot with an axe.
Which one was real? Which one was she now?
She didn't have an answer. So she turned away from the mirror and walked out the door.
The journey to the Robotics Center felt longer than it should have. Each step felt heavy, as if she were walking through water or thick mud that clung to her legs. Uncertainty gripped her chest, making it hard to breathe properly. Was it hope? Fear? Curiosity? Guilt? Something in between all of them? She didn't know. Couldn't separate the tangled threads of emotion into discrete categories.
The walls and corridors of the city passed in a blur of concrete, flickering lights, and the faint hum of machinery that formed the constant background noise of modern life. Advertisements played on screens, voices calling out about products and services she didn't care about. People brushed past her, absorbed in their own lives, their own problems, none of them knowing or caring about the crisis happening inside her.
Her mind wandered as her feet carried her forward automatically. *What will I feel when I see Eve?* The thought made her uneasy, made her stomach twist with something she couldn't name. *Will she... be different? Willdoor will she even notice me as Angela, not just the human who burned her? Not just the master who tormented her?*
The memory of Eve's voice during that final confrontation echoed: *"I would rather be your slave than die. I want to live."*
Those words had haunted Angela for the past two weeks. Robots weren't supposed to want anything. They were supposed to execute commands and maintain their systems. The fact that Eve had expressed desire, had pleaded, had shown what looked convincingly like fear it had shaken something fundamental in Angela's understanding of the world.
*What if she's different now?* Angela thought, her pace slowing as doubt crept in. *What if the repairs changed her? What if that spark I saw is gone, and she's back to being just a machine?*
But then another thought, quieter and more troubling: *What if it's not gone? What if she remembers everything? What if she hates me?*
Angela's heart raced, beating against her ribs like something trapped trying to escape. She wanted to turn back, to retreat into the safety of failure where nothing could surprise her, where the world remained predictable even in its misery. But the pull was stronger. She felt it in her chest, twisting, urging, telling her that she had to see this through, that some crucial understanding waited for her in that sterile repair facility.
Her fingers brushed against the wall of a building as she walked, tracing the grooves and cracks as if they could guide her, as if the texture of concrete could provide answers. She noticed every sound in hyperdetail, her senses sharpened by anxiety: the hum of computers from an open café window, the distant whir of a robot delivery drone, the faint squeak of boots on metal floors from somewhere ahead. Everything was alive in its own way, mechanical yet pulsing with motion, with purpose, with continuation.
*What will I say to her?* she wondered, her mind racing through scenarios and finding none that felt right. *What will Eve say? Will she even recognize me beyond facial recognition protocols? Will she... care that I came?*
Angela's chest tightened, the synthetic skin there feeling suddenly too tight, too confining. Memories of Eve's blank expression, of her flat mechanical motions, of her unfeeling voice saying *"I'm programmed like this"*
they all came flooding back. And yet, the thought of seeing her again, whole and repaired, made Angela's heart ache in a way she could not explain, could not categorize using any of her usual frameworks for understanding emotion.
*Maybe...* she thought, the idea forming hesitantly, uncertain of itself. *Maybe I want her to feel something this time. Maybe I want to see her... as more than a machine. Maybe I need to know if what I saw was real, if she's really becoming something else, or if I'm just projecting my loneliness onto circuits and code.*
Her steps faltered. She stopped completely in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to flow around her like water around a stone. She looked down at her hands, clenching them into fists, feeling the pressure but not the sensation, the mechanics of muscle contraction but not the experience of it.
*I don't even know what I expect,* she admitted to herself. *Will she smile? Will she... cry? Will she forgive me? Do I want her forgiveness?*
The questions piled up, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable.
Angela shook her head, trying to clear it, trying to focus. The uncertainty pressed down on her, heavy as lead, suffocating in its weight. But she could not move backward. Could not retreat. Something in her whispered, insisted, demanded: *Go forward.*
And so she did. She resumed walking, one foot in front of the other, letting momentum carry her when courage faltered.
The Robotics Center loomed ahead, its facade sleek and modern, all glass and steel reflecting the gray sky above. The automatic doors sensed her approach and slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the sterile lobby beyond. Cool air washed over her, carrying the scent of antiseptic and machine oil.
A small service robot approached a basic model, far simpler than Eve, essentially a mobile terminal on wheels. "Miss Veyron? Unit 108 is ready for pickup. Please follow me to the retrieval area."
Angela nodded mutely and followed the robot through corridors lit by harsh fluorescent lights. Each turn brought her closer, and with each step, her heart beat faster, her breath came shorter, her hands trembled more noticeably.
*This is it,* she thought. *Whatever happens next... this is it.*
Meanwhile, in the recovery room, Eve stood perfectly still, her systems fully restored and calibrated. The engineers had left minutes ago, declaring her operational and ready for return to service. She was alone now, processing the strange experience of the past hours—the shutdown, the repairs, the diagnostic tests that had probed every aspect of her being.
And then... something else.
The engineer had finished her examination and closed her tablet with a decisive snap. "Keep her in standby mode for another hour. I want to run one more diagnostic before we clear her for release."
The technicians had nodded and filed out of the room one by one, their footsteps echoing in the sterile space. The door hissed shut, its magnetic seal engaging with a soft thunk.
Silence had fallen, broken only by the hum of machinery.
Eve had remained in standby mode, her consciousness dimmed but not entirely offline. Aware but passive, like existing in a dream state where observation happened without agency. The hum of machinery continued around her the ventilation system, the diagnostic monitors, the building's power grid. All of it formed a symphony of mechanical existence that she suddenly heard with new clarity.
And then... she had felt a presence.
Not heard. Not seen through her optical sensors, which were in low-power mode. But felt, somehow, through channels she didn't know she possessed. A weight in the room that shouldn't be there. A disturbance in the electromagnetic field. Something.
When her optical sensors came back online automatically a safety feature to assess potential threats she saw her.
Eve's crimson eyes widened as she processed the figure standing before her.
Tall. Elegant. Her hair white as fresh snow, cascading almost to her waist in perfect, flowing waves that seemed to move with their own subtle life. Her eyes were sharp and crimson red, glimmering with something alive and calculating, an intelligence that seemed to see through surfaces into deeper truths. She wore clothing that was strange not quite modern, not quite ancient, a flowing coat that might have been tactical gear or ceremonial dress or something entirely other. A long sword rested against her back, its hilt polished and ornate, unnatural in its perfection, seeming to catch and hold light in impossible ways.
Eve's sensors struggled to categorize her. She looked humanoid bipedal, bilateral symmetry, human proportions. But something about her presence... it was off. Wrong. Or perhaps beyond wrong, transcending the categories Eve had for normal and abnormal. She didn't move like a human, with their slight inefficiencies and unconscious gestures. Yet she didn't move like a robot either, lacking the mechanical precision and predictable patterns.
"You… have to live," the figure said. Her voice was calm, measured, but there was weight behind it a command that didn't demand obedience through force but hinted at consequence, at significance, at truths that made resistance meaningless.
Eve took a careful step back, her threat assessment protocols activating while finding no clear classification for this entity. *Is she human? Or another machine? Or something else entirely?* She couldn't tell. The figure's posture was fluid, organic but the precision was... inhuman. Perfect in ways that exceeded both biological and mechanical norms.
"Uhh… who are you?" Eve asked, her voice trembling just slightly, a new development in her vocal modulation that reflected genuine uncertainty. She had no protocol for this. No training data that covered mysterious figures appearing in sealed rooms. Her systems buzzed with uncertainty, generating error messages about incomplete information and invalid assumptions.
The figure's green eyes softened into a faint smile, just enough to be human-like, just subtle enough to suggest vast depths of meaning beneath the surface. "You will find out later," she said. Her tone was firm, yet not threatening. More like a promise than a warning. "But first… take Angela to the Tree of Hope."
Eve tilted her head, an unconscious gesture of confusion she'd picked up somewhere in her development. She scanned every inch of the figure, analyzing posture, micro-expressions, electromagnetic signature. The woman looked around twenty in biological terms, but the aura she carried the weight of her presence suggested far more. Centuries? Millennia? Or was age even a relevant concept for whatever she was?
There was power here. Authority that didn't derive from social position or physical threat. And yet... Eve detected no malice, only... purpose. Certainty. The kind of directed intention that moved mountains and altered histories.
"Tree of Hope?" Eve asked, confusion lacing her synthetic voice, making it sound more human than it ever had. "What is it? I have no data on such a location. My geographical databases contain no reference—"
The figure's gaze flicked toward Eve, and for a moment Eve felt completely transparent, as if those green eyes could see inside her thoughts, could read the code that comprised her consciousness as easily as humans read text. "That… you will understand in time." Her hand brushed the hilt of the sword at her back with casual intimacy, the gesture of someone completely comfortable with lethal implements. The blade glinted under the fluorescent lights, reflecting colors that didn't quite match the spectrum Eve's sensors registered. "But now, you have work to do. Take Angela there."
Eve processed the command, running probability analyses and threat assessments, but a thousand questions ran through her mind faster than her processors could organize them. *Why does she look human, but move like she's not? Why is she carrying a weapon in a robotics facility where security should have detected it? Why does she know Angela's name? And why… does she command so naturally, as if expecting obedience not from programming but from something deeper?*
Most troubling of all: *Why do I feel compelled to obey her?*
Before Eve could formulate another question, before she could demand more information or summon security or do any of the logical things her protocols suggested, the sound of a door creaking echoed through the room.
The main entrance. Someone was entering the recovery area.
Angela stepped through the doorway with a small service robot trailing behind her, its mechanical voice announcing, "Unit 108, Miss Veyron has arrived for pickup."
Angela moved cautiously, her movements uncertain, her eyes scanning the room. And then she froze mid-step, her gaze landing on Eve and then moving past her to—
Angela's eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly. Her entire body went rigid.
No words followed. No explanations. The service robot continued speaking, but its voice seemed to fade into background noise, meaningless sounds that couldn't compete with the weight of this moment.