I realize I've been holding out hope. Hope that I might not be alone, hope that my memories might not be lost. Maybe they'll come back if time goes by, if I just search hard enough.

My mind is an ocean — sprawling and secretive, too vast to do anything but reach. The void behind my eyelids, just a date and time hovering at the top right corner.

It's moot, trying to find things that aren't there. Things that have been stolen.

I don't know who my parents are or what my childhood house looked like. I don't know if I have friends who miss me, a job that I've been shirking or a pet I need to feed. I can't even picture my own face. I'm nobody.

At least I know my name is Minho. Unless that scientist was a wacko, in which case, I'm back to square one.

I look down at my hands, the little tangle of wires I've been twiddling. I found a tracker masquerading as a molar. It was easy to destroy it, to crush it between my fingers like a snail shell. This body is built like a weapon. I'm starting to wonder if that was the intention.

After I escaped the lab, I ran as far as I could, till the streets were empty and I'd crossed a river the colour of shit. Now I'm in a junkyard of crushed and stacked cars, waiting for someone to get me running again. I can still see Oracle Laboratories — it's one of the tallest skyscrapers in sight, though the whole city is tall enough to riddle the sky, to erase the horizon entirely.

If I could tear Oracle Labs down piece by piece, I would. I hope I at least did some damage in my escape. Broke something important or put a hitch in their plans. I can't even imagine what their objective is. They must have incredible technology to create something like me.

I flick the tracker over my shoulder and raise my hands, palms outward. As I sweep them apart, a holographic computer screen appears in front of me, a search bar and a blinking cursor.

Oh. I didn't expect it to actually work. I don't even know where the projector is. I start typing, hesitantly, afraid of what I might find. I have a gut feeling that things like this rarely turn out well.

First I search Oracle Labs. According to their website, they're a government-funded technological experimentation facility. They develop advanced computing systems and artificial intelligence for androids.

I fall down a rabbit hole of obscure articles written on the lab. The purchase of illegal materials, undisclosed annual expenditures, animal experimentation. But nothing about experiments on humans. There isn't even a piece on my escape from the facility — not one post or blog or tweet that I can find.

I search my name, pairing it with 'missing,' 'accident,' 'death,' anything that might clue me in on my past. Next I try 'Oracle,' 'experiment,' 'robot,' though I can't imagine that kind of information is readily found. I'm right, and it isn't.

The monitor disappears and I fall back on the roof of a dented Pontiac, looking up at the sky. The sun will rise soon and dull the city lights. I know I can't just wait around for my memories to come back; I have to find clothes, I have to find someone to fix the gash in my shoulder. I have to flee before Oracle Labs can find me.

I can't help but feel like I'll be leaving something behind.