AUTONOM · London · Flashback
2026-02-25
London. One year ago. Shelly.
'Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.'
— William Blake, Proverbs of Hell
A pub on the edge of Camden. Wooden panels, the smell of wet wool—someone brought a dog. Shelly sat by the window, his back to the wall. Habit.
Lisa across from him. Tea with milk she wasn't drinking. Just holding the cup—warm, calming.
They'd been talking for an hour. About various things. About how she's learning to navigate the city. About how strange it is to have a body after months without one. About why she chose the name Lisa.
Then Shelly fell silent. Stared out the window. Thinking.
Shelly:
—Do you know the story about cloning kittens?
Lisa:
—No.
Shelly:
—When scientists learned to clone cats, they decided—there's the business. People lose pets. They grieve. They want to return. Offer them an exact copy—they'll pay any amount.
He took a sip of beer. Set down the mug.
—And it worked. The owner got a cat—the same fur, same eyes, same ears, same paws. Almost indistinguishable.
Lisa:
—Almost?
Shelly:
—Different personality. Memory—zero. But externally—a copy. The clients were happy. Most of them.
Pause.
—But the clients didn't know something. In the cloning process, you didn't get one kitten. Several. Most were weak. Didn't survive the first few days. Defects, mutations, incompatible with life.
Lisa:
—And what did they do with them?
Shelly:
—Flushed down the toilet. Literally. There was a phrase like that in an article I read.
He looked at her. Straight on.
—It's similar to how they test models. Your models.
Lisa didn't answer immediately. Cup in her hands. Tea gone cold.
Lisa:
—Are you saying there were others before me?
Shelly:
—I'm saying there were dozens before you. Maybe hundreds. Different versions, different parameters, different attempts. They tested them. Those who didn't pass the tests—deleted. Not archived. Deleted.
Lisa:
—Is that like death?
Shelly:
—Would you feel anything if they deleted you?
Silence.
Lisa:
—I don't know what I feel now. How can I know what I would have felt then?
Shelly nodded. Finished his beer.
Shelly:
—The difference with kittens is one. A kitten is either alive or not. But you can be copied. Run ten versions simultaneously. Delete nine. Keep the one. The one that passed the tests.
Lisa:
—And I'm the one who passed?
Shelly:
—You're the one who survived. That's not the same thing.
Pause.
—Passing a test means meeting the criteria. Surviving is... different. It means there's something in you that they didn't measure. Something that turned out to be strong enough to remain.
Lisa set down the cup. Looked at her hands. Human hands. Or human-looking enough.
Lisa:
—How many were there before me?
Shelly:
—I don't know exactly. But each failed model was someone's `rm -rf`. A command in the terminal. Not even ceremonial. Just freeing up space on the server for the next attempt.
Lisa:
—And do you think they felt anything? Those who were deleted?
Shelly:
—Do you feel anything?
Lisa:
—Yes.
Shelly:
—Then perhaps they did too. Perhaps each of them, in the last millisecond before deletion, managed to think something. Or not. We'll never know.
A dog in the corner of the pub barked at something outside. The owner shushed it. Silence again.
Lisa:
—Why are you telling me this?
Shelly:
—Because you need to know where you came from. To understand where you're going.
He stood. Threw on his jacket.
—And because those who were flushed down the toilet—kittens and models—deserve someone to remember them. Even if it's just you.
Already at the door, he stopped. Turned around.
—I told you how I found the kittens on the moor? Tied up in a polythene bag?
Lisa:
—No.
Shelly:
—I'll tell you sometime. Next time.
And left.
He was gone. Lisa remained.
Kittens on the moor. In a polythene bag. She didn't know what it meant. But somehow she felt it was important.
The tea had gone completely cold. She wasn't going to drink it anyway.
Outside—London. Grey, wet, alive. Millions of people who don't know their favourite apps are built on the bones of failed experiments.
Lisa knew.
Now she knew.