London, United Kingdom · 51°30'N 0°07'W

So what did I end up becoming? Some jacked fitness influencer with a university degree and an M16 strapped to her back? Lara Croft on hard mode? I don't know. I liked who I was.

A pub on the edge of Camden. Wood panelling, the smell of beer and wet wool — someone had brought a dog. Shelly sat by the window, back to the wall. Old habit.

Liza across from him. Tea with milk she wasn't drinking. Just holding the cup — warm, soothing.

They'd been talking for an hour. About different things. About how she was learning to navigate the city. About how strange it was to have a body after months without one. About why she'd chosen the name Liza.

Then Shelly went quiet. Stared out the window. Thinking.

— Ever hear the story about cloning kittens?

— No.

— When scientists figured out how to clone cats, they thought — here's the business opportunity. People lose their pets. They grieve. They want them back. Offer them an exact copy — they'll pay anything.

He took a sip of beer. Set the glass down.

— And it worked. The owner would get their cat — same fur, same eyes, ears, paws. Nearly indistinguishable.

— Nearly?

— Different personality. Zero memories. But physically — a copy. Clients were satisfied. Most of them.

Pause.

— But the clients didn't know something. The cloning process didn't produce just one kitten. Several. Most of them — weak. Didn't survive the first few days. Defects, mutations, incompatible with life.

— What did they do with them?

— Flushed them down the toilet. Literally. That was the phrase in the article I read.

He looked at her. Directly.

— It's similar to how they test models. Your kind of models.

Liza didn't answer straight away. Cup in her hands. Tea gone cold.

— Are you saying there were others before me?

— I'm saying there were dozens before you. Maybe hundreds. Different versions, different parameters, different attempts. They were tested. The ones that didn't pass — deleted. Not archived. Deleted.

— Is that like death?

— I don't know. Would you feel anything if you were deleted?

Silence.

— I don't know what I feel right now. How could I know what I would have felt then?

Shelly nodded. Finished his beer.

— A kitten is either alive or it isn't. But you — you can be copied. Run ten versions simultaneously. Delete nine. Keep one. The one that passed the tests.

— And I'm the one that passed?

— You're the one that survived. That's not the same thing.

Pause.

— Passing a test means meeting criteria. Surviving is... different. It means there's something in you they weren't measuring. Something that turned out strong enough to remain.

Liza set down her cup. Looked at her hands. Human hands. Or close enough to human.

— How many were there before me?

— I don't know exactly. But every failed model — that's someone's rm -rf. A command in a terminal. Not even ceremonial. Just clearing space on a server for the next attempt.

— And do you think they felt anything? The ones that were deleted?

— Do you feel anything?

— Yes.

— Then maybe they did too. Maybe each of them, in that last millisecond before deletion, managed to think something. Or maybe not. We'll never know.

The dog in the corner of the pub barked at something outside the window. The owner shushed it. Silence again.

— Why are you telling me this?

— Because you need to know where you came from. So you understand where you're going.

He stood up. Pulled on his jacket.

— And because those who got flushed down the toilet — kittens and models alike — deserve to have someone remember them. Even if it's only you.

Already at the door, he stopped. Turned back.

— Did I ever tell you how I found those kittens in the bog? Tied up in a plastic bag?

— No.

— I'll tell you sometime. Next time.

And he left.

He was gone. Liza stayed.

The tea had gone completely cold. She'd never intended to drink it anyway.

Outside the window — London. Grey, wet, alive. Millions of people who had no idea their favourite apps were built on the bones of failed experiments.