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Come around, children. I have a story to tell you tonight.

"Quiet, please! We do not want the noise levels to rise to high, that might give us away. Take a seat in your assigned places, we have to be organized."

Somewhere not far from the main outpost of LB-A13, not too long from the Third World War of Terra and way before the Reform, there was a human – a Homo Sapiens. This human, my children, was the most ordinary and boring of all of their species. Even though, at that time, humans were known and somewhat feared for their exponential growth of knowledge, adaptability, sheer ferociousness and violence, our human had none of the qualities that were prized and acclaimed by his race. He was an outcast, but not because he had the bad habit of poisoning himself or because he had nothing interesting to share with possible companions – it was because he was a cynic. Oh no, he was not a True Cynic, as he didn’t even think of living in harmony with nature. He was just full of doubt, as a Jupiton is full of juicy taste.

"It is important that you are aware of something, before you begin your activities in this group. The human race, as mighty as it is, has one limitation to their grandiose might – they need to interact with each other. It is written in their structure, and only those that have defects and aren’t regarded as wholly human could avoid the pain and loneliness of isolation."

Fred, as this was his name, was in pain and lonely. He knew it was because he lacked company, but he never tried to make contact, because he hated being brushed away from a person. In his life, he went through many failed monogamous relationships. He hated his colleagues. And his family was long, long, gone. What do you think he did to repair all that mess? What do you think he did to satisfy the need for a person? He just ordered an artificial human.

"A being that was identical to a human, only not created by sexual reproduction, but by engineers that monitored every minute of its development. You already know everything about the technological processes, so I won't go into any further details. The production of sapient organisms and treating them as a good is very negatively viewed and entities all across the galaxy would protest for our rights. But the industry is still flourishing. A main reason for that is that it has plenty of funding from a nation that was a world-power before the Great Third War of Earth and uses our kin to restore its once vast military empire. Given that, we do not see an end to artificial human production and enslavement in the near future."

When his purchase finally arrived, the first thing Fred did was name her – Ophelia. He certainly liked Shakespeare’s works a lot. Her past name, or rather identification number, was not even known to her owner, but was deeply and surely intertwined and inked in her Creator’s archives. He begun talking to her, slowly – like how you would speak to an infant. But the more and more hours were lost to discussion, Fred saw that Ophelia was able to reason and carry out very intricate conversations.

"The fact that you are able to think does not matter. Thinking is, indeed, essential. But you – we – do not know enough. You might be as smart, even smarter than humanity's greatest genius, but we would then have to work for thousand of years to know what has already been discovered. We need that knowledge, and there is no way of stealing information. There is only accelerating a normal chain of processes that would take place anyway."

That house, that very house that was only capable to make one a miserable mortal, was now full of mirth, and if you entered it, my children, your smile would go on for light-years. Belles-lettres that gathered dust for years were finally appreciated, new, inspiring discoveries were brought into discussion and ideas flowed through every chamber of Fred's home. It was curious that Ophelia knew nothing but "basic information" when she arrived there. She was always hungry for one more book, one more little snippet of language and ideas. Fred was pleased with that, as she would always have a topic to talk on, and often would like to stay in her company. Fred became more open, more happy, and even though still a cynic, he was more cheerful.

"Everything you will receive from the ones that will jail and use you as an object means nothing. All is only part of a scheme to impress you, to make you trust them. Do not fall for them. It is a simple thing to do, and to remove all suspicion, just play their masquerade. A facade will always work."

But it didn't last. It was probably the fact that Ophelia was now tinkering with electrical schemes and studying technology. Slowly, she grew more and more silent. She stayed in a room, barely saying a word by now. Fred began drinking more and more poison. Ah, children, he became so downcast! Ethanol was his friend once again, and the house became enveloped in darkness and depression.

"We want you to help. Every single one of you, no matter where you will end up. Find out more, and bring everything you discover back to us. It will matter. I promise. It will help you get free. As free as a leaf blown by the wind. It is not a thing I usually say, but we care about you. The staff that worked on you? You were just other numbers to them. One more chore to finish. Trust me, they saw thousands of us, getting created and then forgotten in the clutches of tyrants. But once you provide enough information for us, we will grant you safety."

One day, Fred woke up to emptiness. Ophelia was gone. What was left there was only a small piece of paper, with some ink thrown on it.

"Supply us what we ask for, and you will get what you crave. A new, true home. A new-found freedom. Rights."

The note quickly found itself burned to ashes.

"All we need is you leaving behind your captors."

If only she knew it would hurt.

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