"That's what's important, isn't it. He was wrong and you were right, and while you were arguing about it the little girl died."
Five years old, and she was installed.
Five years old and she was sold like cattle for a hefty price, sold by desperate parents who would do anything to get that last fix.
Five years old, and she died.
In those brief flashes of consciousness before the numbers blanked out her brain once again, she remembered. Cold electrodes sticking to her back, placed there by faceless technicians that did nothing to soothe her screams. Her beautiful long blonde hair, chopped off to make room for more wires under her scalp. Then came the horrible jolt, the living fire of electricity that raced through her arms, her legs, her back, until she was begging, pleading. She'd do anything, she'd never make Mummy or Daddy mad ever again, she'd sit stock-still and shut her mouth like a good little girl, if only they'd shut off the machines, she's been a bad little girl, she knows, but please, it's not too late, please shut them off, please make it stop, she'll never disobey ever again.
Then came the blessed relief of the numbers, the one-two-three-four, in a rhythm so soothing, she quickly forgot all her pain. Her rigid muscles relaxed, and she let out a sigh of divine ecstasy. And there she stayed, a computer with no soul, a withered husk of a little girl that grew and stretched side-by-side with her control.
And there she might have remained, if it were not for the Doctor. He unshackled her, freed her from the numbers and for the first time she could think; words and sentences and feelings. Though she knew for certain she faced her inevitable death, this time it was different. This time, she died on her own terms. This time, she died defiant. This time, she died very much…alive.
