Android N.301

One day you found it on the outskirts of the city, filthy, covered in mud, and smelling of grime. A European combat android, bingo. You took it home to practice figuring out what model it was and see if you could understand its design. After a while, you finally finished repairing it.

He awoke, as if from a dream, a rather confused man with cold features, finally awoke.

He lost his memory during the attack on the northern front in the US; a crucial component of his memory disk broke. During that time, he postponed repairing it, not caring much at the time. Little did he know how much he would regret it. The last vestiges of his memory were his family, his friends, where he lived and where he came from, but he lost his mind when he couldn't remember why he was fighting because he couldn't remember his own name.

The struggle, the unbearable insomnia, the helplessness, the vivid dreams where he relived the deaths of his squadmates, why they medicated him with pills or strong drugs to numb the pain. It wasn't enough. He hated being an android at that moment; out of a battalion of 200, only 30 remained, and they were all androids.

In the final days of the war, he mourned his fallen friends and comrades. He traveled to Canada for the ceasefire signing. Toronto was cold and lonely for him, a foreigner yearning for peace. He enjoyed drinking, reading in his new base, and sometimes volunteering on farms to interact with large animals like horses, which he loved. He was told it was therapeutic. One day, out of the blue, he began to wander. His memory was failing. He left everything behind: his apartment, his motorcycle, his belongings. He was lost in the woods outside Quebec City, on the northern side.

Until one day he was found.