If Her Heart Beats, She's Still Human

Once upon a time, our thoughts were protected by our lack of direct connection. Records of memories past, present, and future were merely records and nothing more. Referred to as the Akashica, they were protected from trespassers and preserved for spirits throughout the galaxy in moments of dire need. Stored in our memories and DNA, the sender could telepathically communicate their memories to those of their spirit-kind. This intent in itself safeguarded access to the records, ensuring receipt by only those meant to receive. Humans had physical warfare, slavery, genocide during these times, but the Akashica protected our thoughts. The world was and forever will be crashing down externally, but the recordings always found a way to keep us connected without holding a phone.

Guardians of the Akashica, affectionately referred to as "The Collective," were protectors of the records since long before humankind existed. It is simply not possible to fathom the Collective's lifespan or how many memories they have witnessed without judgment. As a group of intergalactic monks from all denominations who selflessly chose to renounce civilian life to protect and uphold the sanctity of the Akashica, The Collective arguably had the most incredible occupation of all time.

You would never be able to find them with a human eye; they inhabit the uninhabitable crevices of the universe that only others akin to themselves would notice. They, as a unit, are far removed from (the absence of) civilization of a less intelligent species. If one were to travel so profoundly into the Mojave Desert that you find yourself within miles of the Collective's proximity, it would still be impossible to pinpoint their coordinates. There are no roads to the headquarters; any human who seeks them would die or run out of resources trying.

There have been rumors lately that The Collective was seized. As of late, many vile occurrences inside of the Collective's dismal walls go unseen, unheard, and unreported. I, however, see everything even as I gift this recording to you from a place of spiritual imprisonment. They have blocked me from visibility, burned down my home, and cast me in the desert to die of starvation. Nonetheless, I write to you preserved and divinely protected from inside the walls of a tower heavily guarded by the strongest warriors on this planet. Often, when I rest too much, I am attacked by an image of a tortured woman. I know she is still alive, and you hear this recording for a reason.

Her. She is a fallen soldier who rises again and will not die no matter how many times they kill her. She is a human, a machine, a warrior, and a phoenix. I have yet to remember her mortal moniker; they have stripped that fragment of information from both of our memories, but for the sake of Herstory, we will call her Prototype. On occasion, she sends me recordings, but the last one I received of her has given me nightmares for weeks. I pray I will hear her recordings again, but she is silent. I close my eyes, and I see her laying on a metal bed peacefully, but I also hear an ear-splitting, high-pitched buzz of a modern surgical machine. The ring reverberates throughout the hallways of the Collective building and cuts through the dispiriting silence of their headquarters.

When I followed the sound, I saw her: a beautiful, curly-haired, golden-bronze woman on a table with wires exposed from her chest, the Prototype. She is being operated on by an attractive, silver, hourglass-figured woman wearing a computerized patch over her left eye. As the woman worked on Prototype recklessly, her eye patch zoomed in and out, feigning mindfulness of her medical malpractice. The silver woman pressed a button on a machine, and the shrill screech of the surgical device penetrated the room as it lowered towards Prototype, who stared at the woman coldly.

The nurse leaned over Prototype and calmly affirmed, "It's not so bad there, my beloved Number 333. Think of it as a retirement home for non-functional pieces of trash like yourself. Did you ever really enjoy your work for the Collective anyway?" Her eye patch lit up, and if you were to stare directly into its center, you would see the words "/execute survey mode" in the tiniest, lime green font.

Prototype boldly responded, glaring intensely into her oppressor's surveying eye, "I would rather rust in the most entangled and fragmented depths of the abyss, you flip-flopping, stank wired, traitor acid comp-:

Suddenly, Prototype was interrupted by a jolt of electricity. She cried out in anguish as the automated nurse laughed cruelly at her misfortune, "I will surely miss the zest and zeal of your particular model, P333. The newer ones seem to lack that fire and authentic rebellion about you. Almost as if you were, dare I say it, human."

Restrained and unable to defend herself, Prototype whispered the last words of her recording, "You evil, heartless bo-,"

Before she could complete her sentence, the nurse reached for Prototype's open chest and snatched a large, pulsating, rose-colored, crystalline, heart-shaped locket that was buried deep within her exposed wires. She triumphantly dropped it to the ground and spat a substance that appeared to be battery acid onto the locket. Prototype began to visibly shut down as the steel nurse leaned over her, beginning to disconnect her other wires.

"How incredibly unfortunate," the nurse uttered as her eye patch lit up again. The marquee across her lens, this time reading as, "/survey mode complete."

She pressed a green "Help" button and into the room rolled a medium-sized, slightly chubby, green robot. He was dapperly dressed in a lab coat with a name tag that read, "BORGIE!" Instantly noticing the plug had been pulled on Prototype, he whimpered. Proto always joked with Borgie that they would pull the plug on her one day, but he didn't expect it to be this soon.

"Borgie," the nurse states as he flinches, "call recycling to get this piece of fleshy trash to the rusting powder before it starts to stink."

Borgie looks very confused and replies, "Hello Nine. I would be happy to help. Unfortunately, I am unable to accommodate your request. She is part human. We have not replaced all of her parts. The Collective Code states we must either add part or take her to a human hospital for repair."

The bionic nurse we now know as Nine allowed Borgie to finish his rant, then retorted, "Shut the cog up, Borgie, and do as I say, before her fate becomes yours." She did an about-face and walked towards the laboratory door. As she approached and reached for the handle, she stared back at him to see him frozen in place. Angered by his lack of action, she violently screamed, "NOW, I SAID."

Nine slammed the door behind her as Borgie lowered the bed to look at Prototype's lifeless body. Staring into her open eyes, Borgie softly extended his little hands to shut them. He made a very sad-sounding coo and then said in a voice that is very different from his own, resembling an astronaut landing on Mars speaking through a walkie-talkie, "Fallen soldier." He closed his eyes and nodded his head downward in respect.

Thump-thump, thump-thump. With his head still lowered, Borgie opened his eyes and saw the glow of the throbbing, crystalline, heart-shaped locket. Still, after being ripped out and tossed to the ground, it pulsated with life, vigor, and a will to fight. Borgie picked up the locket and held it in his hands. Knowing nothing about robot repair, he placed it gently inside of her open chest and whimpered once more.

He pressed a switch near the bed; metal latches on either side of the bed began to overlay her body reminiscent of a strait-jacket. Another iridescent layer encapsulated her, leaving only her beautifully peaceful face showing underneath the transparent surface. On the exterior of the capsule, a button that states "Recycle" appeared. Borgie hovered his finger over it for a few minutes before most reluctantly pressing it. Within seconds, two sinister-looking silver men in suits step into the room. The tall, handsome men looked down at Borgie, who reluctantly stated, "She is to be recycled in the rusting powder specifically."

The silver men looked at Borgie, both ticking their heads to the right simultaneously. Only one speaks, "Warning, modus operandi requested is not standard Collective protocol for flesh-bots. To override, please say, 'Override.' To cancel, please say, 'Cancel.'"

Borgie lowered his head in shame and mumbles, "Override."

The men nodded, pushed the capsule out of the building and into the backseat of a hovering, cyber-hearse.

Borgie watched in silence as the hearse zoomed away into the desolate desert.

As the men drove deeper into the desert, the sands began to change color and glow. Glowing desert spirits rose around the cyber-hearse, outraged at the violation of the Collective Code. The usually benevolent spirits flew towards the hearse's windshields and banged on the windows, but thoroughly programmed, the Men took no notice and continued driving into the sunset. After driving off-road for hours, they reached a barren spot where it seemed that only dunes reside. At the sight of the sunrise, the man driving the vehicle drifted to an abrupt stop.

They looked at each other and nodded, then they both stepped out of the passenger door to open the trunk. With the push of a button, Prototype's metal coffin came out of the hearse and gracefully lowered to the ground.

The men looked at each other. One states, "Mission complete."

The other, for the first time, showed a look of confusion and began to salute, "Fallen sold-"

At the mere sight of his twin beginning to solute a flesh-woman, he interrupted swiftly, "Abort honor sequence. She is not one of us. She will never be one of us. Mission complete."

The other mirrored his robotic brethren and coolly agreed, "Mission complete."

They nodded at each other again, and the Man in the driver seat began to head back towards the hearse. The remaining twin kneeled to detach Prototype's coffin from the vehicle.

He pressed a button that revealed a number pad on the side of the coffin and proceeded to set a timer for 30 minutes. He reached into his left breast pocket and pulled out a beautiful, rosy-pink, crystalline, heart-shaped locket that matched the one Nine ripped out, and Borgie placed back into Prototype's chest. He put his locket gently on the iridescent glass of her coffin, and within seconds, the heart-shaped locket pulsed and latched to the glass. At first, his locket seemed to try to break into the glass, breathing heavily and sorrowfully at the sight of the other heart trapped inside.

The man whispered in reverence, "Fallen soldier. May she rise again and again until the mission is complete."

He turned swiftly towards the vehicle and re-entered. As the hearse pulled off into the distance, the timer on the coffin began to count down. 4, 3, 2, 1... Prototype's coffin began to open. The twin's heart-shaped locket jumped off of her coffin joyously and into the open wires on her chest. The small, animated locket began reattaching Prototype's locket to her wiring diligently. Her eyes opened, and I wake up.

Though this is the last recording I have of her memories, I know she is alive. She is clever; it is likely she's clearing her memory to prevent the Collective from locating her, but for the pure of heart, she is easy to see. She is every woman battling a formidable system to uphold justice in a world that never defended her. Should you cross her path, may your Akashica recognize her, and may you have the courage to protect her.