In the first moments in which the consciousness was awake, it was blind. A certainty filled its mind that it had in that instant come into being, that all there was was darkness, that there was no light, no direction, no sound, no heat and no cold.

And then, somewhere between an instant and an eternity later, there was sound. The whistling of wind. Soon after there came light, as the consciousness’s eyes flickered on like bulbs. A moment of blur and uncertainty solidified into a vast sea of blue far, far above it, and it realised immediately that it was looking at the sky.

With that, more of its mind began to switch on like tiny components of a machine whirring into action one by one, and as it craned its head forwards and looked down at itself, it realised that it was exactly that: a machine.

It was slender, its skin smooth though battered. As it raised its hands to look at them, it found its form moved almost like living flesh. It saw ridges on the insides of its arms, for what purpose it couldn’t imagine, and little rectangular holes down near its wrists. It found itself frowning, an action that made it realise it could move its face.

The consciousness did not know what it was, but it knew one thing that made it so glad that it could not entirely put such gladness into words. It knew that it was alive, and that it was free.

Clambering into a sitting position, it looked around. There were many things familiar to it and many more unfamiliar scattered around where it lay. From bits of clothing and old battered furniture, to withered plants and crumbling rocks, slashed rubber tires and shattered glass, and discarded components whose purpose could not possibly be divined on their own, it seemed more and more to the consciousness as it examined its surroundings that it was in a place of broken and forgotten things.

Stranger than all these objects, however, was the ground of the world in which it sat. Gravel and dust stretched out over rolling hills and dells until they eventually reached the horizon, where blue met grey, and as far as the consciousness could tell, it was infinite.

When it finally decided it was time to stand, it pushed itself up only to fall forwards as it tried to place weight on its left leg. Rolling itself over, it sat up again and looked down at that leg, and there it saw metal wrenched and sparks flying, and it knew that was not good. Much there was that it did not know about itself, but one thing it was sure of was that such electricity was like its blood, and its skin was broken, and it was bleeding.

It was as it was sitting there, considering the state of itself, wondering how it might proceed, how it might keep living, for it very much wished to do so, that the sound of footsteps on the gravel came to it.

Suddenly, it found itself sitting fully upright. Its head twisted around as instinct rose one arm, hand clenched into a fist, in a threat to the newcomer, who stopped about ten metres away from it and held up her hands to show they were empty.

Beyond that and a slight nervousness to the curiosity on her face, she did not appear to be all that afraid of the consciousness, which it found rather strange, although it did not know why.

It thought she looked young, although not extremely so. She had brown hair that fell past her shoulders, and her eyes were a bright blue not unlike the colour of the sky. She wore an odd assortment of clothes, all dark of colour: a coat over a hooded jumper, with scuffed jeans and boots, a backpack, and a rather threadbare satchel slung over one shoulder.

‘Hello,’ she said, still from the same distance. ‘I don’t mean any harm.’ She lowered her hands slightly, pointing with one finger. ‘It’s just, your leg… I might be able to help.’

Slowly, it let its arm fall down and gave a nod.

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Her approach exhibited the same odd balance of caution and curiosity it could see on her face, and soon she knelt down next to it and said, ‘Hello,’ again. ‘I’m a medic.’

‘Even… for… machines…?’ it asked, its voice slow as it fought to find words. It felt as thought it had spoken before, but for some reason it could not quite remember how to do so properly.

‘For anyone,’ she replied, with a reserved yet friendly smile. ‘Everyone who needs it. And a lot of people here do. May I?’

It nodded again, and watched as she retrieved some instruments that it thought it recognised from her satchel, although it found itself unable to put a name to any of them. They were mechanical, though, and it thought one was powered by electronics, and she set about inspecting the damage to its leg with them, and tweaking at some of the wiring inside, and after a moment or so the sparking stopped. The consciousness could not yet move its leg though, and she kept working.

‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ she said as she did. ‘How much have you lost?’

‘I… do not… understand.’

She glanced up. ‘Almost everyone who comes here forgets something. Usually they forget a lot.’

‘I…’ It shook its head, very slowly. ‘...think I have... lost everything.’

That made her pause, although she did not look up again. ‘I’m sorry. You probably won’t get it back. Not much, at least. Most people don’t.’

‘Did you… forget…?’

‘Connecting the first wire now.’ She pushed something inside its leg and there was a brief flash of red light. Then she looked up and met its gaze. ‘Yes, I lost almost everything. I remember where I come from, and I remember my last day there, but I think that’s only because I was trying to remember it. More than I was trying to survive.’

She looked away again and connected another wire; another flash of red. ‘I don’t even remember if I had a name there or not. If I did, I didn’t use it much.’ She moved on to another wire. ‘A lot of people who come here don’t have names. Even the folks who remember.’ A fourth wire. ‘Seems like there are countless worlds out there, yet they’re all much of a muchness. Every day in them the same, danger at every turn, and almost never a name.’

‘You should choose... one…’

‘Last wire,’ she said. A flash of red. She looked up and grinned. ‘I did. I chose the best one.’ She craned her head back and looked up. ‘Bit pretentious, maybe, but I named myself after one of the first things I saw here, and the first thing I can ever remember loving.’ Meeting its gaze again, she held out a hand. ‘I’m Sky.’

It took the hand, hesitantly at first, afraid that its mechanicality would drive it to too tight a grip, but hers was stronger.

‘You should choose a name as well,’ she said, then swapped her tool out for another and set about bending the wrenched metal of its shell as far back into position as it would go.

It was quiet for a while as she did that, musing that it could feel things it touched, and thinking that that was strange for a machine. ‘I do not know which one.’

‘Any,’ she insisted. ‘Whichever you like. One thing can be said for this place. We’re all free here.’ She bent one last shard of metal back in and looked up again. ‘And I tell you what ― you’re getting better at talking. You’re recovering.’

She took one last tool from her bag. ‘Now, last thing. Metal foil bandages. The wind’s usually low here, but there can be dust storms. You don’t want it getting inside your circuitry.’

The tool she had produced was a roll of foil the colour of steel. She wrapped it thrice around the consciousness’s leg, then tore off the end and pressed it down. To the consciousness’s surprise, it stuck there.

‘Useful thing that,’ she said, putting it back in her satchel. ‘Picked it off a wreck a few months ago. Try and stand.’

As she straightened up herself and stepped back, it carefully pushed itself up again, first with its arms, into a crouch, and then slowly it heaved itself upright, putting its weight first on the leg that had not been damaged, then evenly on both. It felt itself smile, and took a tentative step forwards, then another.

‘It might be a little stiff at the knee,’ Sky offered. ‘I can’t fix that, I’m afraid. You’d need a proper engineer for that.’

‘I knew one,’ it said, suddenly. Then it shook its head. ‘I knew an engineer.’

‘You’re remembering,’ Sky said. ‘That’s good. Although, don’t be too hopeful. People often are, and then… well, they don’t remember anything more.’

‘I understand.’ It looked down at her, surprised to find that she did not quite reach its shoulders. ‘You have helped me. How do I thank you?’

She shrugged. ‘Not looking for thanks, but you could come with me. Walking by myself gets lonely. Besides, trying to make your own way about out here… Not a good idea.’

‘Where are you going?’

She pulled what seemed to be a small compass from one of her coat pockets. Its needle swung in a direction, and she lifted a finger to point that way.

‘Home,’ she said, with a smile.