He silently followed the man on their way back to the apartment wing. It was so called because of the levels of pods that were accessed from the ceiling dome in the middle of the curved room that brought down each unit as they were needed, the mechanical arm only accessing one at a time. The hallway to the apartment wing was a long, white one, and only turned once to the left. He fiddled with his shirt a little, the button at the topmost of his collar. His name was on a plastic tag as well as his shirt:


His unit number was his official, documented name. He was simply pegged 'Christian' by his programmer because of his programmer's son's name. It was simple to remember that way, easy to think back to home when he started to miss life on the mainland. Today, Christian's schedule was cut in half. For the morning and early afternoon he focused on guarding the main entrances of the facility, as there were two: One that was used as a general entrance and exit, and one that was used only in emergencies. He slid between each main entryway with intent, his pale, icy blue eyes scanning every possible surface in front of him. He was rarely spoken to by the actual humans that roamed the halls for each of their respective duties, unless he was stopped specifically and given curt commands or asked quick questions regarding the security measures. It was hard to keep up the guise of emotionless, inhuman machine, but never making eye contact with anyone that passed by helped the matter.

After his guard duty he went into testing. A variety of physically-taxing classes from running until he nearly collapsed in exhaustion, lifting gradually greater weights, withstanding pain that others were sure he couldn't feel but simply measure in units. They rarely listened to his pleas to stop the tests early. And these were broken by ones that tested him mentally. He couldn't understand the math, the numbers. He could read novels in mere hours. He could paint and draw photo-realistically. He could understand sciences but it was hard to get through the especially intricate studies. He remembered history very well, however, and enjoyed that. But they always berated him the moment he answered a question wrong.

Entering the apartment wing, Christian broke away from the man and went to the center of the room as the mechanical arm reached around to the second level to the left and pulled a pod from the wall and deposited it on one of the stands. He stepped up, looking at his reflection before the clear pod front slid open and back. Brown hair. It was wild, somewhat long. Usually he let himself pull it back, but he was sure whoever created him had formed him after someone in their life. It was easier to do that, working from photos, memories. He didn't mind looking like someone that was real. He could at least imagine how his life---or whatever his creators called it---would be if he had a real, beating heart. Actual gray matter in his skull. Real blood running through him.

With a resigned sigh, Christian stepped into his pod and let the cover slide over him. It was only a few inches away from his face, but it didn't feel constricting. Perhaps frustratingly closed-off, so silent that he could hear his inner-workings, but he didn't mind being rather alone. The mechanical arm pulled the pod off the floor, returning it to its original place, and Christian closed his eyes. Though he didn't fall into a sleep state yet. He looked at the refection of his eyes. If he stared hard enough, he could see the small, blue-tinted plates that made up his irises. The lenses that were his pupils. He closed his eyes.