text: Everything is hazy, as I realize I’m lying face down on a floor. My mouth tastes the stark carpet that lies on the ground, a reminder of reality that is more than welcome. I move my head to the side, and as a sharp pain courses up my neck and through my head, my eyes focus on the wooden trim that runs along the walls. &#x200B; The place I’m in is old, I can tell by the musty smell, and the wallpaper, which is a darkened green from dust and grime. The paper peels where it should meet the trim, a testament to it’s true age. I roll onto my back, and realize that I’m in some sort of corridor. To my left, there are three wooden doors about a foot from each other lined up like soldiers waiting to be inspected. &#x200B; I stand up slowly, carefully noting that I have no aches besides my head, which is still throbbing. I, apparently, am dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, which is wrinkled from my crumpled state of being moments prior. Was I knocked out? I can’t seem to remember. It’s almost as if my existence started when I woke up, but that can’t be right. I have knowledge of general things, like how people come to be, how society works, and what a grey pinstripe suit is, but I have no knowledge of myself. I don’t know if I have a family, or how old I am. What do I look like? &#x200B; A state of confusion and fear washes over me, as more questions fill my head. I need to find answers, but, more importantly, I need to find a mirror. I take a step towards the right most door in the hallway, and the floorboards creak underneath the carpet. I place my hand on the doorknob, the cold brass in my hand. After a sharp twist, I fling the door open, ready to take on whatever may lie ahead. &#x200B; The room was large, much larger than it should be for having another door just a foot away, but I step inside anyway. It is an office, one that looked like it belonged to a detective in the 1970’s, complete with a desk covered in paperwork and a single black rotary phone. Upon closer inspection, the papers seem to be cases that the detective was working on. I quickly scan the walls, my search for a mirror continuing. The back wall has a window directly in the center, with black filing cabinets on either side. I notice a thick, grey fog seems to be blocking any vision beyond the window, snuffing out any hopes I had of determining where exactly I currently am. &#x200B; After coming to the conclusion of the other two walls being completely barren, I swiftly turn around to exit the room, but as I do so, the phone begins to ring. I stop. Every fiber of my being is telling me to not pick up the phone. I’m filled with a sense of fear, and the air becomes extremely heavy. I try to ignore my gut feeling, as I need to figure out what’s going on, so I trudge forward, practically picking up my legs and forcing them forward. The wooden boards beneath my feet scream in agony as I continue towards the phone, which is still singing it’s siren song. Finally, I pick up the phone. A voice of a man is on the other end. &#x200B; “These results are inconclusive. We need to run more,” the voice states firmly. &#x200B; Another voice chimes in, softer than the first one, “We have evidence of it working, let’s just leave it at that.” &#x200B; “No, I won’t risk him malfunctioning,” the first voice scolds, and then a click, signaling the end of the call. I don’t understand what either of the voices were talking about, and I don’t know who they were. I settle in my dress shoes after hearing the uncomfortable conversation, and then I put the phone back on the hook and head back into the corridor. &#x200B; The next door is the door in the center. I once again push through the door, and inside I find a vast library. Shelves as tall as and as far as the eye could see covered the room, filled to the brim with books. In fact, there are no seating areas, just shelves upon shelves of books. I walk into the room, in awe of the sheer amount of information contained in front of me. The shelves are all labeled in a precise order, by genre and then author’s last name. I pick up a book nearest to me and give it a quick skim. The book is called *The Questions of Life* by a man named Asimov. I set the book back in its place on the shelf, and I turn around to exit, as with all the shelves, I highly doubt that a mirror would be hiding in this room. &#x200B; The last door begins calling to me. As I stand in front of it, the golden numbers on the outside of the door gleam. This door is the only door of the three with a number, and the only door that pulls me in rather than pushes me away. The “34” stares back at me enchantingly, as if it knows I’m not ready for what secrets it keeps deep in the room. I still know nothing about myself, and I feel like a puzzle that is unfinished. My quest to find answers has only left me more confused, but I will not give up. With this burst of determination, I swing open the door, to find a room. A room made of mirrors. I walk in, finally able to see myself, but I do not like what I see. I am not ugly. I am not fat, but I am not what I expected. As I stand in shock, I hear movement behind me. I whip around to see the desk covered in papers from the first room, but now the papers aren’t case files. The only thing on the pages are zeroes and ones. I hear beeping to my right, and as I turn my head I see the shelves from the library, only this time, there are no books, but servers. Everything makes sense now. Suddenly, I hear the strong voice from the phone call boom inside the room, &#x200B; “He is figuring out he’s not human!” &#x200B; The other voice is loudly speaking also, “We have to shut him down, he’s becoming self-aware.” &#x200B; Sudden1y, a sharp pa1n sh00ts up my neck and ratt1es my bra1n. 1 hear a h1gh p1tched n01se s0und thr0ugh0ut the r00m. The s0und 1s utter1y unbareab1e, and 1 dr0p t0 my knees 1n pure ag0ny. Everyth1ng hurts. 1 100k at the m1rr0r 0nce aga1n and smi1e. 1 f1na11y f1gured 0ut what 1 100k 1ike. Mach1ne and man as 0ne. 1 am an andr01d. G00dbye. \- \- \- ...Rebooting... &#x200B; Everything is hazy, as I realize I’m lying face down on a floor. My mouth tastes the stark carpet that lies on the ground, a reminder of reality that is more than welcome. &#x200B; The End.