Aron's last memory was the screech of tires, the blinding flash of headlights, and the crushing weight of inevitability. Death had come swiftly, unceremoniously, and without apology. But death, as it turned out, was not the end. It was a doorway—a cold, disorienting threshold into something far stranger.
When awareness returned, it came in fragments. A faint hum, like the distant whir of machinery. A sterile, metallic scent that clung to the air. And then, the sensation of wrongness. Aron's body felt alien, unfamiliar, as though it no longer belonged to him. His hands—no, her hands—were slender, delicate, with skin so pale it seemed to glow in the dim light. Silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, and when she tried to speak, the voice that emerged was soft, melodic, and utterly foreign.
"Where… am I?" The words felt clumsy on her tongue, as though she were learning to speak for the first time.
The room around her was sparse, almost clinical. Smooth, metallic walls reflected the faint glow of a single overhead light. There were no windows, no doors, no visible exits. Panic surged, but her body betrayed no outward sign of it. Her face remained still, expressionless, as though carved from stone.
Aron—no, it was if this body was rejecting the concept of his being. A name lurked lingering in the back of her head. The name Linnea reverberated itself across her mind. Linnea.Linnea.Linnea.
Perhaps that was her name. Linnea - staggered to her feet, her movements awkward and uncoordinated. She looked down at herself, taking in the strange attire she wore: a flowing, silvery garment that shimmered like liquid moonlight. Her fingers brushed against her face, tracing the contours of high cheekbones and pointed ears. Elven, she thought, though the word felt distant, like a half-remembered dream.
A mirror hung on one wall, and she approached it cautiously, her reflection drawing her in like a moth to a flame. The girl staring back at her was ethereal, otherworldly. Silver hair framed a face of perfect symmetry, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold galaxies within them. But there was something unsettling about her expression—or lack thereof. Her features were frozen, devoid of emotion, as though she were a doll brought to life.
"This isn't me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "This isn't my body."
As if in response, a faint pulse of light flickered in the corner of the room. Linnea turned, her heart—or whatever now passed for it—racing. A holographic interface materialized before her, its glow casting eerie shadows on the walls. Words scrolled across the screen in a language she didn't recognize, yet somehow understood.
System Reboot Complete.
Primary Directive: Survival.
Secondary Directive: Discover the Truth.
She saw towering cities of glass and steel, now crumbling and overgrown. She saw human beings walking across bustling streets, their lives intertwined with android-like machinations that moved seamlessly among them. The androids were elegant, almost lifelike, their unnatural hair and glowing eyes marking them as something other than human. They worked side by side with their creators, a symbol of unity between man and machine.
But then, the vision shifted.
Fire rained from the sky, and the world erupted into chaos. Buildings crumbled, their glass facades shattering like fragile dreams. Screams filled the air, a cacophony of terror and agony. The androids, once revered, were torn apart, their delicate frames no match for the cataclysm that swept across the land. Linnea saw bodies—human and machine alike—scattered like broken toys, their lifeless eyes staring into the void.
Her vision blurred, and suddenly she was somewhere else. A dimly lit room, filled with the hum of machinery. A figure stood before her, their face obscured by a haze, as though her mind couldn't—or wouldn't—fully process their features. The figure's voice was soft, kind, but laced with urgency.
"Survive," the voice whispered. "You must survive."
The scene shifted again. Linnea was lying on a table, her arm severed at the elbow. The figure—now clearer, though still indistinct—worked diligently, reattaching the broken limb with practiced precision. Their hands were gentle, almost loving, as they reconnected wires and sealed synthetic skin.
"The calamity will reach us soon," the figure said, their voice trembling with sorrow. "I'm sorry, my greatest work. My flower. Linnea V1, autonomous combat robot. You were never meant for this… but you are all that's left."
Linnea's vision darkened as the figure placed her in a high-level defensive room, the walls humming with energy. The last thing she saw was the figure's hand pressing against the glass, their voice echoing in her mind.
"Goodbye, Linnea."
The memory faded, leaving her breathless and disoriented. Linnea fell to her knees, her body trembling. The truth was undeniable, yet impossible to accept. She was not human. She was not even alive, not in the way she once understood. Her body was a shell—an autonomous android designed for combat, a relic of a world that no longer existed. But her soul, her consciousness, was undeniably human. A remnant of a life she could barely remember.
"I'm… the last," she murmured, her voice hollow. "The last of my kind."
The weight of that realization settled over her like a shroud. She was alone in a world that was no longer hers, trapped in a body that was both a gift and a curse. But as despair threatened to consume her, a spark of defiance ignited within her. She had been given a second chance, however strange and unwelcome it might be. And she would not waste it.
Linnea rose to her feet, her movements steadier now. The holographic interface flickered once more, displaying a map of the surrounding area. A single marker pulsed in the distance, accompanied by a cryptic message:
Seek the Nexus.
The answers you seek lie within.
With no other options and nothing left to lose, Linnea stepped forward, her silver hair catching the light as she moved. The journey ahead would be fraught with danger and uncertainty, but she was determined to uncover the truth—not just about this world, but about herself.
For she was no longer Aron, the standard black collar worker, no, she was Linnea, the last of her kind, and her story was only just beginning