You don't know me—and chances are you never will. Nobody remembers a machine; after death we are simply lost in the vacuum of time. Such is the life of mine.

While most people are born from their mother's womb, I was born in a factory. Most humans give their children a name: something to tell who that person is. My name was 4865 Console Unit, but you can call me -865. I would prefer you call me by my human name, but I'll get to that later.

Everybody around me was a machine, even though it was hard to tell just by looking at us. We all looked human on the outside—but I suppose that's why they called us cyborgs. We were nothing more than soldiers for the empire.

Oh, how I wish to be human—to be free from fighting! To be released from sadness! How dreary is my existence!