"All systems operational," I hear.

In the darkness, I rub my forefinger against my thumb, learning the grooves. My chest rises and falls. Why? Resting my palm on my chest to still the motion, I find something thumping beneath the surface of my cool skin.

Lub dub.

Lub dub.

Lub dub.

My hand travels upward. As I pass my lips, a puff of air touches my fingers, in time with the fall of my chest. Curious.

Fingers travel past my nose and come across soft lashes. Eyes. I spread the thin lids apart, and my eyes sting as intense white replaces the darkness.

Blink. My eyes open and close on their own.

"Number Thirteen, January 26, 2376. The subject is awake," says the same voice.

I search for the sound and land on a red-haired woman.

Her lips move as I hear more, "Insert connection."

Ouch. I tense at a pinching pain behind my ear, metallic taste filling my mouth. I gasp as, suddenly, bright waves of colour hit me– The Big Bang, Shakespeare, World War III.

Approaching capacity restriction.

The Revolution of 2295, The New Era of Enlightenment, AI.

This is too much data. How do I sort all of this?

"System overload, enable manual shut down," says the soft voice.

Darkness.

▿

"Run diagnostics," says the woman.

I'm sitting up, wires trailing from my wrists. The room is all white, fluorescent lights above with another bed nearby, a girl lying in it.

The red-haired woman sits next to me, staring intently at a glass screen. On it is a body consisting of part flesh, part machine.

"Who are you?" I ask. The window past her shoulder catches my attention. Past the glass pane, there is a sea of green. Trees.

"I'm your... creator," she says.

"Are you my mother?" She glances up, eyes stricken.

I cock my head. Unresponsive. Further explanation required.

"A mother is responsible for the care of a child. You are the only person I have ever known; thus, you are my mother. Correct?" I say.

"Well, I mean," she stumbles and picks at her starched lab coat.

"Where am I? Who am I?"

"You're Number Thirteen," she says, eyes darting to her wrist.

"I have to go, but I'll be back," and with that, she was gone.

▿

Green leaves turn to brown until a skeleton remains. Mother and the trees are constant. And the girl. I often study the girl in the bed beside mine. She is attached to a machine that makes her chest rise and fall.

"It's time, Thirteen. I can't delay them any longer, I've told them this isn't right, but–" Mother says.

"I do not understand," I cut her off.

Mother opens her mouth to say more, but the door opens, and a man and woman enter. Mother moves closer and places a hand on my shoulder.

"Initiate consciousness transfer," Mother says. The sharp pain behind my ear returns.

"Goodbye, Thirteen," she whispers, voice choked.

Goodbye Mother.