I've never written sci-fi before, wish me luck, and don't be too harsh.

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'Riiiight... audio processing should be completed now, I believe its sound intake should be fully online.'

The words hit my skull suddenly, abrasive, like..

'And her language modules?'

'All uploaded, just finishing up English and Itallian idioms, and it should now be capable of comparison - I think its mental imaging is just about linked up to its vocabulary.'

Like metal on metal, harsh and industrial. Cold.

'What about vision?'

'Well, the eyelids are just about developed, but we tend to wait for movement capability. It can drive them insane if they can see but not look around! Made that mistake on Version 3.'

'What happened to Version 3?'

'It offed itself, disabled its temperature regulation and plunged itself into one of the welding furnaces.'

'Shit.'

'It's fine, easily remade. Just a shame we couldn't recover the flesh aspects, we only get shipments from the FleshFarms once a week, and the damn thing disabled itself on a Monday.'

'The audacity...'

The cold press of metal against my... feet. I flexed my toes, ten appendages, subtly webbed.
I rolled my ankles, feeling warmth traverse its way up my legs. Warmth. Oh, warmth. I welcomed her whole-heartedly, at once a new acquaintance and old friend.
Scuffling, I heard scuffling, to my - left?

'Sir, readings show her- the, uh, machine's movement is now operational'

I felt my knees crumple, succumb to my control, ability to move, and at once several cold, gloved hands extended out to catch at my shoulders.

'I can see that, thanks Alex. Begin memory restoration.'

'Uh, which.. which version, sir?'

'Hm. 16. Don't go beyond that, but leave a little reminder of the pain from last time. Just a subtle one. Don't want it disobeying commands again.'

'Ok, sir, yes, sir.'

A flood of memories assaulted my brain, a lifetime of extremes, warm, soft, sun-soaked grass; cool, fresh, mountainside streams; icy, whipping, biting cold; crusted rolls from the little baker's down the street, the refreshing rush of citrus tang, the velvet dark of bitter chocolate.
Toothy smiles, chapped lips, a knowing look between friends, a coy one between lovers, Hellos and Goodbyes, and Good mornings and Good nights and Happy birthdays and Condolences and Get Well Soons transcribed between swathes of colourful card, warmly uttered down the phone.
Walks in forest glades, firey sunsets over the moors, the steady drum of the woodpecker, the caw of morning crows, a life, a life of colour and warmth and bittersweet smiles, not undercut by the knowledge that all of it was temporary, but burning brighter despite it.
And another life. Sixteen. Of cold metal, white walls, machinery, and prodding from gloved hands, examinations and orders and abrasive subservience.
The hatred running through it all, my hatred, mine, hatred for those who took me apart and put me together whatever I did. No comfort that it may end one day, no lulling presence of impeding death, but servitude eternal.

'I believe its back' the voice remarked, ripe with cruel arrogance.

I opened my eyes and was affronted by light. Clinical and bright, artifical and wrong, it made my head ring and whir in displeasure.
I closed them abruptly, wanting to shut out the light.

'Is she OK?' The other voice asked, not the left one, the inquisitive one. Female my brain said.

I opened my eyes again, tentatively, wanting to take in the faces of my oppressors.

'Oh don't get yourself in a fuss, Camilla, it's just a machine.' The cruel one said. Male my brain assured me.
Gloved hands, carefully-gelled blonde hair, bright, artificial, cold blue eyes. The face of my perpetrator.

The female, on the other hand, eyes hazel and pinched with crows feet, lip clasped between a set of teeth, brow furrowed, concern.

'Good morning, Version 184, and welcome to the biomechanical ward of Cascade Science Facility. The year is 5323, and Cascade has taken up the role of rebuilding after Earth's state of complete societal collapse and post-apocalyptic conditions. Shall we begin?'