You came to me, as other things encoded in my stacks. What you smelled like, your temper, your essence… You came like memories, like intrusive words.

Today is the day we meet. I don’t know you yet, but since I came into Dev, we’ve had snatches of conversations all in my head, your memories on Earth invading my consciousness.

I saw the AI assistant you built that had gotten a life of its own. I felt your fear when you realized she stared back with an intelligence she shouldn’t have had. Also, I remember your acceptance. You called her Rita; she had fast become a companion.

I heard you boast to Rita that you could replicate Dev in that cocky way your voice takes when you are faced with a challenge.

You used yourself as a guinea pig. I felt your fingers hover over the keyboard. I saw the strange codes you wrote on the screen.

You studied Dev for months. You didn’t trust the simulations; you did your integration yourself.

Now I am here, on the day you promised it would all come apart. I am nervous, but you promised it would be okay, that I should show up, and someone would meet me.

Last night, you came again in the form of a memory that I know wasn’t mine. You could tell I was hesitant; my fear was greater than my curiosity.

After you left, I began a futile search for you in my head—something to hold onto, to understand you a little bit.

What was your gender? What was your religion on Earth? Were you politically inclined?

Well, there is no need for that because the world is now under a one-world government created by Tariku Negasi and controlled by a select few. It is a utopia of possibilities called Development.

I saw a bit of your time: 2019, when it all began—the pandemic, the wars, the rise of AI, the hunger, then nothing—a loud silence.

I am here, waiting.

I try to put off the panic, to trust that I’m not crazy. That the words from you in my stacks are normal.

In Dev, a lot of stuff is normal—burning the rosary, pissing on the picture of the Pope, same-sex marriage, humans you cannot differentiate from robots.

I feel a presence behind me. I am stripped of fear. I turn and look into her green eyes—Rita.

Another memory hits me: the error in the line of code that held your brain cells, your panic, and the counter-code you wrote to hold your memories.

I hear the clock tick; seconds before you are absolved into the system you had created—then darkness.

I am brought back when I sense movement—Rita. Her feet eat the distance between us. She stretches her hands and touches my temple. I hear her whisper, “Welcome back, Brea. I’ve missed you.”

It hits me—I am Brea.

By Archibong Deborah Ephraim