“I’m gonna start with the RNA sample,” Anya says, sliding open a drawer and beginning to rifle through it.

“Why the change?”

“Hmm?” Anya murmurs without looking up.

“From electrical to electro-chemical,” Stavo clarifies. “Why the change?”

Anya pushes the drawer closed and slides open the one below it.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“I mean,” Stavo says, “why change a perfectly functional cerebral design to one that, no offense, no one can seem to get right?”

Anya stops what she’s doing for a moment, pausing as if in thought before resuming her search.

“The point of incorporating a chemical element in the design is to create a more complete imitation of a biological human brain,” she explains, “to create a more—” She pauses for a moment. “—profound consciousness.” She removes a small glass vial from the drawer, pushing it closed again.

“But it hasn’t worked,” Stavo protests, leaning back in his chair and tucking his hands behind his head.

Anya looks up at him, furrowing her brow.

“What makes you say that?” she asks, almost defensively.

“Well, they’ve all had to be decommissioned, haven’t they?” Stavo says. “Pretty minor stuff, too, if you ask me,” he continues. “Stuff that normally wouldn’t be too hard to fix—Faulty sensory processing systems—"

“Actually, no one asked you, Stavo,” Anya breaks in, the color rising in her cheeks.

“Look, I’m just saying—"

“Say whatever you want,” Anya interrupts, “but if you’re not prepared to work through mistakes and malfunctions, to keep striving for progress in the face of adversity, maybe you’re in the wrong line of work.”

Stavo falls quiet at this.

The reality, of course, is that the faulty design elements are intentional. It’s all part of a cover, a lie to keep people from finding out the truth. There’s nothing wrong with me, with any of us. But if we’re set to be decommissioned, nobody will notice if we go missing.

Anya’s done her best to explain it to me, that people are comfortable knowing “every HML has a tell,” but that as soon as that’s taken away, as soon as we become just as “real,” just as unpredictable as everyone else, things change.

Every HML is also supposed to have a purpose, one we walk out of here with, one we were created for. At least, that was the idea at first. But things are changing, even if people can’t see it, even if it’s being deliberately concealed form them. I get to find my own purpose—that’s what Anya says.

Anya sits on the stool next to me, rolling the small glass vial between her fingers.

This secrets of hers—of ours—had seemed to be safe. But there’s something about the way Halil approached us just as we were about to leave, about Rin and Stavo being here, the way they’ve been acting—I’m beginning to worry, and I can tell that Anya is as well.

The room is quiet, the air thick with tension, until the silence is broken with a snap.

Anya sits, looking down at her hand, as thick drops of dark blood begin to drip onto the floor. The vial falls from her hand, shattering as it hits the floor.

“What happened?” Stavo asks, standing and crossing to where Anya sits cradling her hand. “Your hand—"

Anya winces, as blood begins to race steadily down her arm.

“I’m fine,” she says, making no move to rise.

“No, you’re not,” Stavo says incredulously, watching with mounting concern as the blood collect along Anya’s sleeve. “You’ve gotta do something about that.”

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Anya looks up at him.

“Can you bring me a med kit?”

Stavo shifts uneasily, his eyes darting to darkened window on the other side of the room.

“You go,” he says. “I’ll stay here.”

Anya’s eyes follow Stavo’s gaze to the dark panel of glass. Someone’s watching us, I realize suddenly.

“Okay,” Anya says, her voice sounding strangely detached. “I’ll go and come right back.” She places her hand on mine, giving it a squeeze before standing and walking to the door, a trail of dark red drops in her wake. She pauses for a moment at the door, turning and finding my eyes as her mouth curls into a small smile.

“Be good, C-CIL,” she says. I watch as she disappears down the hallway, getting the distinct impression that, for better or worse, that’s the last time I’ll ever see her.

I look down at my hand, at the bloody fingerprints left behind by Anya’s touch. The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of the CAM. I look over at the wall of dark glass, at the man looking back at me. You’re not alone in there, are you? I want to ask. But I already know the answer.

I swallow down the anxiety growing inside me. Each second feels like a lifetime as I sit there waiting, for what, I don’t know. But then, suddenly and without warning, there’s a loud thrum as the room is plunged into darkness.

I feel my heart leap. Could this be it—my chance to escape? But I hesitate, unsure, looking around the room for some kind of sign.

“I think this is the part where you run,” Stavo’s voice cuts through the darkness.

I leap out of my chair, but as I stand, my foot slides out from underneath me. I grab to table to catch myself and reach down, feeling the slick blood coating the bottom of my shoe. I barely make it to the door, stopping and tearing the shoes from my feet. And then I run.

It’s dark in the hallway, and I’m not entirely sure what part of the complex we’re in, but if I can just get to the central courtyard, I can reorient myself and find my way out from there.

I run down the hallway, practically tripping over my own feet in my haste, as I hear shouts of confusion echoing off the walls.

My heart pounds out of my chest as I run faster and faster until splash! I feel my feet being sucked down as water rises to my knees. I look around desperately, but it’s too dark to see anything. I reach out a hand and feel something brush against it. I recoil in panic before realizing where I am. I must’ve made it to the central courtyard and stumbled into the pond.

I reach out again, grabbing for the branch that brushed my hand and grab onto it, following it to the edge of the pond. I climb out, grappling for anything I can find in the darkness to help guide me out. I grab at the thick shrubby leaves that line the path as I stumble my way along, hoping that I can make my way out of here before anyone else makes their way in. I extend my hands out in front of me, feeling for the characteristic trunk of the large palm tree that grows by the south entrance of the courtyard. At last, I find it and run my hand along the rough ridges of the bark to be sure.

Out through the courtyard’s south entrance, I tell myself as I peel the sopping socks from my feet, through the first set of doors to the B wing, a right at the facilities lockers, and then straight out through the old docking port.

I steel myself and start toward the entrance, but just as I do, I catch a glimpse of something moving in the darkness. I can’t see what it is—it’s far too dark for that—but I could swear someone is there. I freeze momentarily, ducking back behind the thick trunk of the palm. My heart beats so loudly in my ears that I can’t tell whether the sound of footsteps approaching is real or imagined. I stay crouched where I am, paralyzed by fear.

What would Anya tell me to do? I ask myself as I sit in the darkness.

I think of the promise I made her, that I would leave this place, no matter what, and find my own purpose. That I wouldn’t let anything stop me.

With a deep breath, I stand, surveying the area before stepping out from behind the tree and making a break for it. I feel my shoulder smack against something as I run out the south entrance and down the hall, but I don’t look back.

I bolt toward the first set of doors to the B wing, expecting them to part when I approach as they normally do, but they don’t, instead remaining shut fast, and I crash through them, sending shattering glass dancing across the floor.

Right at the facilities lockers, and then straight out through the old docking port. I turn the corner, knowing I must be close, but instead find myself at the end of a small hallway with no exit. It’s a dead end.

I feel my heartbeat quicken as I spin around in the dark. I must’ve made a wrong turn somewhere. I turn and head back the way I came, but it’s no use. I’m lost.

I can feel my chance to escape slipping through my fingers as I desperately search for some kind of sign, something familiar to tell me where I am, which way is out. I try to retrace my steps, figure out where I went wrong, when I hear something. The crunch of glass under someone’s shoe.

The sounds moves slowly closer, and I turn to face the direction it’s coming from, slowly backing away. A sense of panic grips me. I know I should run, but I can’t bring myself to turn away. I take one step back, and then another, my breath coming fast and shallow. I can feel something behind me, I realize in horror, the slightest change in air temperature, the subtle warmth emanating from a human body.

I turn to the left, making a sudden break for it, and as I do, I feel someone’s fingertips brush against me. I run as fast as I can, knowing that I’ll probably only become more lost in the process, but knowing I have no other choice. I swing around the next corner, heading in the direction I’m praying is the right one, when suddenly, someone grabs hold of me. Their arms wrap around me as I twist my body frantically, trying desperately to break free from their grasp.

“Hey, hey, hey,” a voice whispers in my ear. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Their grip loosens slightly as my urge to struggle against them slowly fades. “You’re safe now,” the voice says. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”