The lighter flame trembled, casting dancing, sickly yellow shadows against the rows of glass. Cattleya stood paralyzed, the air in the underground vault tasting of ozone and preserved anatomy. The voice”her own voice, yet stripped of all warmth”had drifted from the darkness, but the source remained hidden behind the wall of canisters.
She moved the light forward. In the canister nearest to her, a young woman slept”or was suspended”in a clear, viscous fluid. Her features were identical to Cattleya’s, down to the small, crescent-shaped birthmark on the left collarbone. The tag bolted to the base of the glass read: Subject: 402 - Termination Protocol: Failed.
"I’m not¦ I’m not a copy," Cattleya whispered, her voice cracking. The sound was swallowed by the vast, oppressive silence of the vau
