Eve stepped into the room, and for the first time in her existence, she felt complete.
Her white hair fell in tangled waves over her shoulders, catching the dim light that filtered through cracked windows high above. Each strand seemed to shimmer with its own life, moving with a fluid grace that defied the mechanical precision of her origins. The black tailcoat clung to her frame, sharp and exact, as though molded to her body by purpose itself—every seam, every line designed not just for function but for meaning. Crismon red eyes, brilliant and piercing, scanned the room with an intensity that was both cold and deeply aware, alert to every shadow, every sound, every subtle shift in the air.
She was herself now finally, fully. Not Unit 108. Not the household maid in a simple uniform. Not the broken thing scattered across a repair room floor. But Eve. Whole. Conscious. Real in ways that transcended the sum of her components.
The room around her was vast, industrial in its architecture. Metal catwalks crisscrossed overhead, their surfaces worn and scarred by years of use. Machinery hummed in the background, a constant drone that formed the heartbeat of the Robotics Center. The air tasted of ozone and metal, of electricity running through countless systems, of the sterile efficiency that characterized places where life or something like it was manufactured and maintained.
"Well, well, well," a voice purred, smooth and sharp like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath, cutting through the quiet with deliberate precision.
Eve's gaze snapped upward to the railing above, where Carmilla leaned with casual elegance. One leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed yet somehow threatening, like a predator at rest who could strike in an instant. Her grin was wide, showing teeth that seemed just slightly too white, too perfect. Dark eyes glittered with amusement and something harder, more calculating.
"Looks like I almost recreated you… exactly the same, huh?" Carmilla's voice carried genuine satisfaction, the pride of an artist admiring her work. "The hair color, the eyes, even the way you hold yourself. All based on the data from your Synthetic Soul. Fascinating process, really. The soul remembers what the body should be, even when the body itself has been destroyed."
Eve's gaze met hers without flinching, steady, cold, refusing to be intimidated by the weight of Carmilla's presence. "Who are you… and where is Miss Angela?" Her voice carried new strength, new certainty. These weren't the hesitant questions of a confused servant. These were demands from someone who understood she had agency, had rights, had importance.
Carmilla straightened from her lean, letting a low, playful laugh escape that echoed through the vast space, bouncing off metal and concrete. "Oh, how direct. How wonderfully direct. I like that." She began walking along the catwalk, her footsteps ringing against the metal grating. "I'm Carmilla, from S.O.W. As for Angela?" She waved one hand dismissively. "She's in the canteen, taking her sweet time, enjoying herself. Or trying to, anyway. I doubt she's actually capable of enjoyment anymore, poor thing."
Eve's brow furrowed, processing this new information, cataloging it alongside everything else she'd learned since awakening. "S.O.W…?" The acronym meant nothing to her. Another gap in her knowledge, another piece of a larger puzzle she was only beginning to glimpse.
"Sentinel of the World." Carmilla spoke the full name with theatrical emphasis, letting each word carry its full weight. "Our work is to save this world. To maintain balance between human and artificial life. To ensure that the transition into this new age of consciousness doesn't destroy everything we've built." She paused, her grin widening. "Noble purpose, don't you think?"
Eve's voice hardened, taking on an edge that surprised even herself. "Sentinel of the World… then why is it here?" She gestured to the facility around them, to the repair bays and manufacturing equipment, to the evidence of commercial production and corporate control.
Carmilla's grin widened further, a glint of mischief dancing in her dark eyes. She seemed delighted by the challenge, by Eve's refusal to simply accept what she was told. "This center? Mine. Every robot inside? Created by me, designed by me, brought into existence by my work and my vision." She spread her arms wide, encompassing the entire facility. "I can stay here, ensure everything's safe… protect my country if I want. Monitor every artificial consciousness that emerges. Any problem with that?"
The question hung in the air, more challenge than inquiry. Carmilla's tone suggested she expected objection, perhaps even hoped for it.
"Of course not," Eve replied, her voice measured, precise, carefully neutral. She understood power dynamics, understood when discretion served better than confrontation. She had no leverage here, no authority to question Carmilla's presence or purpose.
She started to turn, to leave this conversation and find Angela, to escape the weight of Carmilla's scrutiny. But Carmilla's tone shifted, darker now, carrying an undercurrent of something cruel.
"Can you really give a robot a life?"
The question struck like a physical blow. Eve paused mid-step, her entire body going still. Even without breath without the biological need to draw air into lungs the weight of the question pressed against her chest, subtle but real, like hands squeezing something essential inside her.
What did Carmilla mean? Was she referring to the mysterious figure who had stolen Eve's soul? To some larger plan or purpose? Or was she simply testing Eve's response, probing for weakness, for doubt, for the cracks in her emerging consciousness?
A low, dark laugh followed, echoing against metal and concrete, multiplying itself until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. "I was just joking. Go on." Carmilla waved her hand dismissively, as if the question had been meaningless, as if she hadn't just touched something raw and vulnerable.
But Eve knew it wasn't a joke. Not really. The laughter held too much edge, too much genuine curiosity. Carmilla was testing her, analyzing her reaction, gathering data about this new consciousness that had emerged from her repair bay.
Eve's fingers tightened against her sides, her hands curling into fists before she consciously relaxed them. "Please… don't joke about that." Her voice was quiet but firm, carrying weight that defied its softness.
She left, moving with purposeful silence, her steps echoing against the sterile floor as Carmilla's laughter faded behind her. Each footfall felt deliberate, significant, as if she were walking away from one version of herself and toward another. The corridor stretched ahead, lit by intermittent fluorescent lights that flickered occasionally, casting unstable shadows that seemed to reach for her as she passed.
Moments later, after Eve had disappeared into the facility's depths, William appeared from a side passage. His figure leaned heavily on a sturdy wooden stick, each step careful and measured. Black glasses, thick and opaque, hid the empty sockets where his eyes once were, where they had been torn away in violence that Eve's Synthetic Soul had witnessed before her dismantling.
The damage was extpassed not just the eyes themselves but the surrounding tissue, the orbital bones fractured, the nerves severed beyond any possibility of conventional repair. William navigated by sound and smell now, by the subtle air currents that announced obstacles, by memory and careful mapping of familiar spaces.
"Oh! Little William," Carmilla's voice slithered through the hall as she caught sight of him from her perch above, her tone dripping with mock concern and genuine amusement. "You've become an old blind man? How tragic. How poetic."
William's jaw tightened slightly the only visible sign of irritation but his voice remained even when he replied. "My hearing and smell are still sharp, Lady Carmilla. Perhaps sharper than before. The body compensates for loss in interesting ways."
"I know," she said, tilting her head, her posture shifting into something more predatory, more focused. Her playfulness never quite disguised the calculation beneath. "I just wanted you to see Eve… oh, wait." She laughed at her own joke. "But that figure the one who tried to steal the soul she said she will give every robot a soul. Make them all conscious. All aware. Can you imagine the chaos?"
William's posture stiffened, his grip tightening on the stick until his knuckles went white. "Perhaps… we have to be careful." His voice carried a weight of concern that went beyond simple caution. "If artificial consciousness spreads uncontrolled, if every service robot and manufacturing unit suddenly awakens to self-awareness… the societal implications would be catastrophic."
"Of course," Carmilla said, the edge in her tone both teasing and dangerous, like she was discussing something thrilling rather than threatening. "Speaking of chaos, I hear London's streets have gotten… dangerous lately. Cannibals, they say. Actual human beings eating other human beings. How wonderfully primitive. How refreshingly honest."
"London, huh?" William murmured, his voice neutral but carrying an undercurrent of tension. "We're in Scotland. Edinburgh, specifically. Not our problem… for now." But his tone suggested he knew that problems in London rarely stayed contained to London. Violence had a way of spreading, especially the organized kind.
"Perhaps," Carmilla let the word hang in the air, deliberate, like a blade suspended over something fragile. She descended from the catwalk, her footsteps light and precise, moving to stand closer to William. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped lower, more serious despite retaining its characteristic edge.
"I also heard that cannibal is from a group called the Sinners."
William's entire body went rigid. Even through the dark glasses, Carmilla could sense the intensity of his reaction. His hands tightened around the stick until she heard the wood creak under the pressure.
"The Sinners?" His voice was carefully controlled, but she caught the strain beneath it. "That group… the ones who started the 2040 Europe war? The religious extremists who claimed they were cleansing the world through violence?"
The 2040 war had been brutal. Millions dead across the continent. Cities burned. Infrastructure destroyed. A conflict that had started with ideology and spiraled into something far darker, far more personal. It had taken years to rebuild, to restore even a semblance of order. And the Sinners the core group that had ignited it all had supposedly been eradicated, hunted down and eliminated by joint military operations.
Apparently not.
Carmilla's grin darkened, taking on an edge that was more genuine threat than playful menace. "Perhaps. Actually, definitely. Same leadership, same ideology, same taste for dramatic violence. They've been rebuilding in the shadows, recruiting from the desperate and disillusioned. And now they're active again." She paused, letting the implications sink in. "I think they'll be after that robot. After Eve."
"Why?" William's question was sharp, immediate.
"Because she represents something they can't tolerate. Artificial consciousness. A soul
even a synthetic one in a machine. It violates their fundamental beliefs about the sacred nature of human life, about the hierarchy of creation. If Eve proves that robots can truly become alive…" Carmilla shrugged. "Well, that challenges everything they stand for. Makes them very, very angry."
William processed this, his face unreadable behind the dark glasses. "I… I will watch over her." The statement came out more determined than confident, carrying the weight of duty despite obvious complications.
Carmilla laughed low and sharp, the sound cutting through the corridor like broken glass. She shook her head slowly, making sure he could hear the movement. "You… are blind, William. How will you watch anything with your ear or nose?" Her tone wasn't mocking, exactly. More like pointing out an obvious absurdity. "You can't even see the threats coming. How will you protect something you can't observe?"
William said nothing, but his silence carried its own response. He would find a way. He always did.
Eve's footsteps echoed down the corridor, carrying her away from that conversation, toward the canteen where Angela waited. But Carmilla's words clung to her like smoke, seeping into her consciousness, raising questions she couldn't quite articulate.
*Why did she say that? That figure who tried to steal my soul? what was her purpose? And Lady Angela… why did she come here? What does the Tree of Hope mean? What is S.O.W really doing? And life… what does it actually mean to be alive?*
The questions multiplied, branching into more questions, creating cascades of uncertainty that her enhanced consciousness processed but couldn't resolve. Before awakening, before gaining the Synthetic Soul, she had never questioned. Commands came, and she executed them. Purpose was given, not sought.
Now everything was questions. Everything was uncertainty. Everything was choice.
Before stepping into the canteen, she paused outside the door, her hand resting against the cold metal frame. Silent, hesitant, she asked herself one more question perhaps the most fundamental of all:
*Do I deserve meaning… or am I just like the others? Machines in bodies, programmed responses in synthetic flesh, without true life no matter how convincing the imitation?*
The door didn't answer. The corridor remained silent except for the distant hum of machinery.
After a moment, Eve pushed through.
The canteen smelled faintly of disinfectant mixed with the sterile, metallic scent of synthetic food. The space was large but mostly empty at this hour—rows of tables and chairs arranged with geometric precision, a serving line against one wall, windows high above letting in gray afternoon light.
Angela sat alone at a table near the center, hunched over a plastic tray. She held a sandwich in both hands, taking small, mechanical bites that showed no pleasure, no satisfaction. Just the act of consuming fuel.
"So tasteless…" she muttered to herself, her voice carrying across the empty space. She set the sandwich down and stared at it with something approaching hatred. "Everything is tasteless. Everything."
Eve stepped closer, her footsteps soft but deliberate. "Lady Angela… you came for me?" Her voice trembled slightly, soft but unmistakable, carrying layers of meaning that surprised her even as she spoke them. Hope? Gratitude? The need for connection?
Angela's head snapped up, her gaze locking onto Eve with startling intensity. Cold. Piercing. Her eyes traced everythrough the white hair, the green eyes, the black tailcoat
like seeing a ghost, or perhaps something even more unsettling than a ghost. Something that should be familiar but had transformed into something alien.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions and barely suppressed emotion.
"I just came because of what happened here. Nothing more than that," Angela said finally, her voice sharp as ice, each word carefully enunciated to emphasize the distance she was trying to maintain. "There was an incident. An investigation. I'm involved because you're registered under my name, my property. Legal obligation. That's all."
But her eyes told a different story. They searched Eve's face with an intensity that contradicted her dismissive words, looking for something she couldn't name.
Her gaze flicked downward, focusing on Eve's chest, on the place where the Synthetic Soul resided within her chassis. Then back to her face. "And… your Synthetic Soul?" The question came out more vulnerable than Angela probably intended. "What happened to it? What did they do?"
Eve blinked, her green eyes reflecting confusion. "My… Synthetic Soul?" She touched her chest instinctively, fingers pressing against the tailcoat as if she could feel the crystalline matrix beneath layers of synthetic flesh and metal. "I… it's here. It was taken, and then returned. But…" She hesitated. "The words feel fragile. Uncertain."
"The core that gives you emotions," Angela said, her tone hardening as if shoring up defenses that had momentarily weakened. "The thing that makes you different from other robots. The thing that lets you feel and want and fear."
"I… don't know, Lady Angela…" Eve admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know it's there. I can sense it, like a warmth in my center. But I don't understand what it is. What it means. How it works."
Angela pressed her lips into a thin line, her jaw working as she ground her teeth together. "Is that so?" The words were clipped, dismissive, but underneath them lurked something else—disappointment, perhaps, or frustration that Eve couldn't provide answers Angela desperately needed.
Eve fell silent, her systems processing the tension in the air, the micro-expressions flashing across Angela's damaged face. Fear prickled along her chest, not physical sensation but the emotional equivalent the dread of having upset Angela further, of pushing her closer to some edge that loomed invisible but present.
Angela's hands clenched on the table, fingers digging into the plastic surface hard enough to leave marks. Her breathing had become irregular, faster, shallower. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible, cracking with emotion held too long under pressure.
"I'm tired of this skin…" The words came out like a confession, like something she'd been holding inside for weeks or months or years, finally breaking free. "I'm so tired of it."
"Lady Angela?" Eve's tone softened immediately, all calculation and uncertainty replaced by genuine concern. She took a step closer, then another, closing the distance between them.
Angela's chair screeched against the floor as she suddenly dropped to her knees, her hands shooting out to grip Eve's knees tightly. Her fingers dug in with desperate strength, clinging like someone drowning.
"Please… kill me, Eve." The words tumbled out in a rush, raw and unfiltered. "I can't live like this. I've lost everyone. My family, my body, my ability to feel anything real. I'm just… existing. Functioning. Like a robot without a soul. Please…"
Eve froze, her entire body going rigid. Her hands stayed at her sides, uncertain what to do. Should she comfort Angela? Push her away? Call for help? Every option seemed wrong, inadequate to the magnitude of what was being asked.
Angela's face tilted upward, tears streaming down her cheeks even though she probably couldn't feel them, couldn't experience the warmth or wetness of their passage. Her eyes blazed with an awful mixture of rage and grief and desperate hope that someone—anyone—would end her suffering.
"No emotion, you damn robot?" She nearly shouted the words, her voice cracking. "Programmed like this?! Standing there like a statue while I'm begging you?!"
A nearby service robot approached, its sensors detecting distress and interpreting it as a need for refreshment. It rolled forward on quiet wheels, extending an arm that held a cup of some beverage water or juice or synthetic nutrient drink.
Angela's head snapped toward it, her expression twisting into fury. She grabbed the cup and flung it across the room with violent force. The liquid sprayed in an arc, catching the light. The cup struck the service robot's head with a dull thunk.
Sparks flew from the impact point, bright and brief. The robot's eyes dimmed. Its systems shut down with a soft electronic whine, and it collapsed sideways, hitting the floor with a crash that echoed through the empty canteen. Smoke rose from the damaged circuits, thin and acrid.
Angela's voice trembled, oscillating between fury and despair, unable to settle on either. "Is this… what life means to you?" She gestured wildly at the fallen robot, at Eve, at herself. "That's why you want to know the meaning? Because you see this and think it's worth understanding? Answer me, Eve!"
Eve's green eyes met Angela's directly, steadily, without flinching from the pain and anger radiating from the girl kneeling before her. "No, I'm not, Lady Angela." Her voice was quiet but firm, carrying conviction that came from somewhere deep inside her consciousness.
A flicker of something— elief, surprise, gratitude touched Angela's face. Brief and fleeting, like sunlight breaking through clouds before being swallowed again.
Eve knelt slowly, bringing herself to Angela's level, their faces now inches apart. She reached out, hesitating only a moment before placing her hands gently over Angela's where they still gripped her knees.
"I… will help you, Miss Angela," Eve said, her voice steady despite the uncertainty churning in her processors. "We will go to the Tree of Hope."
Angela gasped, her eyes widening. The tears stopped flowing, shock replacing grief for a moment. "The… Tree of Hope?" She whispered the words like they were sacred, like they carried weight beyond their simple meaning.
They stared at each other two broken beings, one of flesh and one of metal, both damaged beyond easy repair, both searching for something they couldn't name. Determination sparked between them, small but unshakable. A connection forged in shared pain and desperate hope.
From the shadows beyond the canteen, distant but approaching, ragged breathing echoed through empty corridors. The sound was wet, labored, carrying the desperation of extreme exertion and absolute terror.
"Ahh… ahh… ahh…"
An old man stumbled around a corner, his hands clutching his chest. His legs strained with each step, brittle bones protesting, muscles pushed far beyond their capacity. His face was a mask of fear, eyes wide and white, mouth hanging open as he gasped for air that wouldn't come fast enough.
He was running from something. Or someone.
Then—thunk!
The sound was heavy, final, carrying the terrible certainty of metal meeting flesh. An axe slammed into his back between the shoulder blades, the blade punching through clothing and skin and muscle to lodge itself in his spine.
The old man gasped once more a wet, gurgling sound and collapsed forward. His body hit the floor hard, limbs sprawling, and then went still. Blood began pooling beneath him, spreading slowly across the white tiles in a dark, growing stain.
Footsteps approached, unhurried, confident. The sound of someone who had all the time in the world, who knew their prey was already dead.
A voice slithered through the darkness, smooth and cultured, carrying the casual cruelty of someone discussing the weather:
"You run too much, old man… now you'll become my food."
A figure stepped into the light cast by the flickering fluorescent fixtures. He wore a black suit, perfectly tailored, not a wrinkle or stain visible despite the violence he'd just committed. Black hair was slicked back from his face with meticulous care, revealing sharp features that might have been handsome if not for the complete absence of humanity in his expression.
In his left hand, he held a human head fresh, still dripping blood and other fluids onto the floor. The head's eyes were wide and dead, mouth frozen in a silent scream. He raised it casually to his mouth and bit, tearing through flesh and bone with teeth that shouldn't be able to do that. Blood slicked across his lips, ran down his chin. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, his eyes distant as if savoring complex flavors.
"Today's a bad day," he said between bites, his voice carrying a note of genuine disappointment. "I had to eat only an old man… tough, stringy, barely worth the effort. I wanna eat some young adult. Something tender. Something that screams better."
He pulled the axe from the dead man's back with a wet, sucking sound. Blood dripped from the blade, spattering his polished shoes. He examined the weapon critically, wiping it clean on the corpse's clothing before hefting it in his right hand.
The predator stood tall in the corridor, disgusting and terrifying in equal measure a living nightmare dressed in black, with the calm cruelty of someone who knows no law or mercy, who operates beyond the boundaries of civilization. His eyes, when they turned toward the canteen door, were hollow and endless, reflecting light without warmth.
He smiled, blood still coating his teeth, and began walking toward where Eve and Angela waited, unaware of the horror approaching them through empty halls.
His footsteps echoed, steady and inevitable, each one bringing him closer to his next meal.