Agatha Wentwhistle watched as the achievements of humanity rolled past the window of the factory-bound bus. Houses and yards flashed by, giving way to parking lots and store fronts. Each gave glimpses into lives she would never fully comprehend, as she reviewed memories that would soon be wiped completely from her data banks.
Her internal Metabolic Chronometer, or MetaChron for short, had ceased to function the moment her husband of 47 years had ceased to function. The doctors had called it a heart attack, but Harold had died quietly in his sleep. This offered comfort to Agatha, though she wasn’t sure why.
Harold would be buried next to his bride, Agatha. The original Agatha, who had ceased to function 34 years ago and whose consciousness had been transferred into a replica, to keep Harold company into his twilight years.
The MetaChron had made all that possible, allowing Agatha to age visibly, until such time as she was instructed to do otherwise. It was reversible, of course. The outer layers would be stripped away and another likeness would be molded onto her skeletal frame, to provide succor for the next end user.
Agatha briefly wondered what her next assignment would be. The introspection was fruitless. She would be who she needed to be and nothing more. Right now, she was still Agatha and she missed Harold terribly. Wiping a tear from her cheek absently, she watched as the fruits of mortality paraded by outside her window.