Sign Your Life Away

The sun hides behind a ceiling of gray clouds, pressing down with a heaviness that smothers the city in gloom. Rain streaks the hospital’s tall glass windows, each drop a cold reminder of time slipping away.
          Inside, the waiting room hums with the restless energy of too many people in too small a space. Chairs creak under anxious patients, shoes scuff against linoleum as others pace, and the air smells faintly of bleach and sweat from the crowd. In the middle of it all sits a young woman in a thin hospital gown, her orange hair pulled into two long braids that fall forward over her shoulders. Her fingers tighten and loosen around a stack of papers, creasing them with every nervous squeeze. Tears blur the green of her eyes as she stares at the forms as though they might bite.
          “Should I sign it? Should I sign my life away?” She whispers, her voice trembling as she looks from one man to the other, the two who have stayed with her through everything.
          “Look, it’s not that bad,” says Kotarou, the man on her right. He gestures toward the flickering television bolted high on the wall. The screen loops the same infomercial on repeat, the volume far too loud for comfort. A bright logo spun across the screen, jarringly cheerful against the tense room.
          A commentator’s voice boomed:
          “Tired of the plague? Almost out of time? Don’t worry about the world ending because we’ve got a deal for you!” A man in a business suit appears, grinning with rehearsed enthusiasm. “Our most advanced androids are already waiting on planet CC1-Alpha. Upload your mind into the android, step into a brand-new body, and start fresh! It’s like reincarnation!”
          The camera pans to a row of pods, each containing an android. Their skin is pale and plastic, eyes vacant and staring into space like a soulless doll. “It’s not a scam. We’re backed by the government! Join your healthy loved ones here instead of dying here on Earth! What an opportunity!” The commercial ends on a wide shot of a green destination sign: Welcome to Novaterra — the city promised as humanity’s new beginning.
          Hikari grimaces at the forced enthusiasm. The neon colors on the screen and the voice’s syrupy cadence all feels like the worst kind of sales pitch. She shoots Kotarou a weary look.
          “It sounds like they’re trying to sell me a junk car.”
          Kotarou opens his mouth to protest, but Ryousei, seated on her left side, speaks first. He tries for a comforting tone, but fear makes his voice tremble.
          “There aren’t any other options.”
          He reaches for her hand, but the warmth she expects is gone, replaced by a cold, clammy grip. Hikari meets his blue eyes, searching for certainty in them, but finds only exhaustion and hope balanced on a knife’s edge.
          “It’ll be okay,” Ryousei said softly. “We’ll all be together.”
          Hikari’s throat tightened. “I’m scared.”
          “I know,” he whispered.
          Her pen hovers over the papers for one last moment. Rain pounds harder against the glass, as if urging her forward. She lowers the tip to the page and signs her name. Hikari’s chest tightens as the papers sit heavy in her lap. Her signature is there now, black ink pressed into white paper. A confirmation that death and rebirth is imminent. There is no going back now.
         The thought of waking up inside a machine, of wearing a body that isn’t hers, makes her stomach twist. Androids don’t look fully human. No matter how advanced the skin or how carefully designed the eyes, there’s always something slightly off. Too smooth. Too precise. Uncanny.
          “Will I still be me? Or just… a copy?” She swallows hard, her gaze flicking around the waiting room. Some look doubtful, just like she is, and others are tight-jawed with resolve. A tall, broad-shouldered man across from her catches her hesitation and scoffs loud enough for half the room to hear. All eyes turn in their direction.
          “Scared of becoming an android?” His tone is mocking, his smirk sharp. “What, you think you’ll turn into a toaster?”
          Beside him, his twitchy companion chuckles, his jittering body unable to stay still. “Better a toaster than a corpse, right?”
          A few others laugh nervously, trying to mask their own fear. Hikari shrinks in her chair, angry heat rushing to her face. She wants to shout back, to tell them she isn’t weak, that this isn’t a joke. That maybe none of them really understand what they’re giving up. But the words stick in her throat.
          Ryousei squeezes her hand again, steady and grounding. He leans forward, his voice firm but gentle. “You’ll still be you, Hikari. Your mind is what makes you who you are.”
          Hikari nods faintly, though doubt still claws at her. Her eyes drift back to the flickering TV, to the bright promise of a new life waiting on CC1-Alpha. But all she can think is: What if the real me disappears?
          The click-clack of heels echoes down the sterile corridor, each step pulling the attention of the room tighter with anticipation. The door swings open. A nurse in crisp scrubs scans the crowd with weary efficiency.
          “Group Fifty-Six,” she announces. “We’re ready for you.”
          Chairs scrape the floor. Some leap up as though the decision was easy for them, while others grip their armrests so tightly their knuckles turn pale. One man bolts for the exit, bursting into the storm outside with a strangled cry,
          “I can’t do it!”
          “If you want to leave, now is the time,” The nurse says sternly. No one moves. They eye each other, waiting to see if anyone else will run.
          “Alright. This way please.”
          The group shuffles into a line and follows her. Hikari’s legs feel like they belong to someone else as she moves forward. Has a hallway ever felt this long? Every step echoes like a countdown.
          We’re marching to our deaths.
          At the end of the hall, the nurse swipes her badge. A hiss, then the door slides open. Harsh fluorescent light floods their eyes. The lab buzzes with frantic activity. Scientists in lab coats dart between stations, their clipped voices overlapping in a blur. It isn’t the calm, hopeful image of the future the commercial promised. It’s chaos, patched together with urgency.
          A nurse whispers to a doctor while handing over paperwork. The doctor snatches it, glances once, and tosses it onto a desk without care.
          The papers I signed don’t really matter, do they?
          As if everything she agreed to was already meaningless. She’ll be dead soon.
          Pods line the walls like tall, rounded metal coffins in a spectrum of colors.
          I wonder if the colors signify what type of android we get?
          The man that sat across from her earlier is taken to a black pod.
          Fitting for a man with a black heart.
          Everyone in the group is being lead to different colored pods methodically. It’s the only part of the process that doesn’t feel rushed. This is clearly intentional. The white pods gleam brightest, sleek and new, like they belong in a different place entirely.
          “Put her in the new model,” a scientist barks.
          “Sir, the Nova units haven’t cleared beta tests—”
          “Just do it.”
          Hikari swallows hard. New model? Beta tests?
          The nurse guides her forward, Ryousei at her side. They hold hands, clinging to each other as though it might anchor them against what’s coming.
          “See you on the other side,” Ryousei whispers.
          Hikari forces a smile. It wavers. She memorizes his face like it’s the last time she will ever see him. The curve of his cheek, the warmth in his eyes.
          Will he still look like himself as an Android? Will I even recognize him?
          Movement catches her eye. Kotarou is being led away toward a green pod.
          “Wait,” Hikari blurts, panic rising. “Why is Kotarou in a different pod? What do the colors mean?”
          A scientist doesn’t even look up. “Different models are chosen for DNA compatibility.”
          “But he’s my brother. Shouldn’t we be in the same kind of pod?”
          No answer. A shove between her shoulders sends her stumbling into her pod. Cold restraints snap around her wrists and ankles before she can resist. Wires are pressed against her temples.
          “Hey!” Hikari thrashes, but the pod door slams shut, sealing her inside. Her heavy breathing fogs up the glass as she stares at Kotarou across the room.
          Liquid begins to fill his pod, bubbling up past his knees, then his chest.
          “What is this?” Kotarou shouts, voice muffled through the glass. “Is this normal?”
          No one answers him. The staff move like clockwork around the room, ignoring his cries.
          “Help him!” Hikari’s chest constricts as she looks down. The same liquid floods into her pod, icy against her skin, climbing higher at an alarming pace.
          “Kotarou!”
          The liquid surges to her neck. Panic claws at her ribs.
          Am I supposed to hold my breath? What if there is no life on the other side, what if they’re just killing us because we’re sick?
          The fluid rises over her head before she can take a breath. Fear takes over and she gasps as the icy liquid floods her lungs.
          Her vision blurs. Darkness swallows her whole.
          If time still exists here, she can’t feel it. Has it been a minute, or a year of this crushing weight pressing down on her clouded mind?
          A steady beep cuts through the emptiness. It grows louder. Sharper.
          I’m so tired… that sound won’t let me rest.
          A robotic voice crackles in her ears: “Power at one percent. Battery backup failed. Please exit the pod.”
          Pod?
          Hikari’s eyes snap open. She blinks hard, rubbing at her eyes until her vision clears. She’s still inside the pod. She extends her arms out, expecting metal limbs or fake plastic skin. But there’s nothing new. It’s just her. Just skin.
          “Oh.” Relief and disappointment twist together. “I guess it didn’t work. I’m still me.”
          Her first thought is of Ryousei. Of Kotarou.
          Did it work for them? Am I the only one left here?
          The pod’s glass is fogged. She presses her palm against it, leaving a clear hand print. Beyond the smear, faint lights flicker.
          Maybe the power went out. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work?
          She wipes more condensation away to see her surroundings clearly.
          Her stomach lurches.
          The lab is wrecked. Pods lie open and overturned, glass shattered, restraints dangling. Tables are flipped, papers scattered across the floor.
          “What… happened?”