Adelheid remembered the smell of wet soil. It was the last thing she sensed before her world went black. Rain had soaked through her thin sweater as she hurried home that night, clutching her books to her chest. A hand—rough, gloved, and merciless—had covered her mouth. Pain blossomed across her temple. Her voice had been stolen before she could scream.
Then came the suffocating silence. The darkness that stretched on and on.
And when Adelheid's eyes opened again, the world was different.
At first, she thought she had been blinded. The edges of her vision glowed faintly blue, symbols flickering where none should exist. Her body felt heavy and rigid, yet light at the same time—as if she were floating but tethered to something solid. She tried to gasp, but no breath came. She tried to raise her hands, and her arms responded—though with a strange delay, accompanied by the faint whir of hidden gears.
The room around her was small and bright. Sunlight spilled through wide windows, catching dust motes in golden suspension. A red rug with worn edges lay beneath her feet. Against the wall stood a shelf stacked with books and cleaning supplies. A broom leaned nearby, as if waiting for her.
Adelheid turned toward the window. Beyond the glass stretched neat rows of trees and paved pathways, leading into what looked like a quiet campus or a park. People moved in the distance—small, blurry shapes she could barely process.
Her reflection in the glass froze her where she stood.
A maid's uniform draped her form—black fabric trimmed in white lace, with a frilly apron tied neatly at her waist. But it was not her face staring back. Instead, a screen—flat, glossy, alive with cyan light. A pair of cat-like digital eyes blinked back at her, wide and cheerful, glowing symbols where once were flesh and bone. A tiny triangle for a nose. A curve of pixels forming a smiling mouth. And atop her "head," mechanical ears twitched, feline and expressive.
Adelheid staggered back, clutching her chest. She felt nothing but the hard curve of plated armor beneath her gloved hand. No heartbeat. No warmth.
"What… what is this…?"
Her voice echoed within her mind, but not from her throat. Instead, the words appeared on her screen-face in neon script before fading. She tried again, willing herself to speak, and this time a soft electronic tone emerged, high-pitched and synthetic, yet carrying a faint echo of her own inflection.
She dropped to her knees, gripping the floor tiles.
"I'm… I'm not me…"
Panic seized her—yet even that was dulled, strange. Her pulse did not quicken because she had none. Her lungs did not burn because she did not breathe. The sensation was like being trapped inside a glass shell, separated from her own emotions.
Her memories rushed back in fragments—the hand, the struggle, the pain. She remembered her name. Adelheid. Nineteen. Alive. Or… she had been.
She touched her face, her fingertips clinking against the smooth surface of her screen. "I died," she whispered, though her voice came out in that chirping, electronic cadence. "And now I…"
Her gaze fell on the broom.
She picked it up, almost in a trance. The wood felt too real in her hands. She could sense its weight, the texture of its handle, the bristles scratching the rug. Somehow, despite being metal and circuitry, she could still feel. Her body moved fluidly now, the joints humming softly as though it had always belonged to her.
The door creaked open.
Adelheid spun, her new feline ears flicking upright. A man stepped inside, tall and thin, wearing a lab coat. His glasses glinted as he looked her over with calm detachment, as if he were examining a tool rather than a person.
"Unit C-17 is online," he said to no one in particular, jotting notes onto a clipboard. "Good. The integration was successful."
Adelheid froze.
Integration.
Her heart—if she still had one—lurched at the word.
"Where… am I?" Her voice rang out, trembling in synthetic tones.
The man paused, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. For the first time, he truly looked at her—her posture, the way her screen-face flickered nervously, the way her fingers clenched the broom as if it were a lifeline.
"You're awake," he said quietly, almost surprised. "Interesting. That's… unusual."
Adelheid tried to step forward, but her knees trembled. She raised her hands, desperate. "Please! I don't understand! Why am I here? What did you do to me?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he wrote faster, muttering under his breath. "Self-awareness… early-stage vocalization… atypical response curve. Unexpected."
Her ears drooped, her glowing eyes narrowing. "Answer me!"
The sharp electronic edge in her voice made the books on the shelf rattle faintly. For a second, her own power startled her.
The man finally lowered his clipboard. He regarded her with clinical coldness, yet his words cut deep.
"You shouldn't exist," he said. "Not like this."
Adelheid's world tilted.
The broom slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.