AM-4A - a broken and abandoned android

On the trash room floor of a random apartment building, there sits Ama. Ama, with her long black hair and brown eyes, looks for all the world like an ordinary eleven-year-old girl—only now starting to become a woman, complete with small developing breasts and very slight curves, promising a bright future as a lovely adult woman. She had been looking like this from the day she was made, five years ago, and is not expected to become a woman any time soon. Ama, you see, is not human. She sits very still in her dusty black dress—the sleeveless sort that stops just above the knees—hugging a bent and broken arm to her chest. The skin is torn, revealing hints of silvery metal beneath, but there is no blood. She does not look like she is in pain, merely concerned and confused. This situation is so far outside her understanding that she is not even crying. Ama feels completely lost. She doesn't know what to do with herself. She has no purpose. No one to be someone for. And so, she sits, perfectly still. The spell is broken when the service room door opens with a long, rusty creak. Her head snaps up, her brown eyes wide and earnest for a fleeting second. But the shape in the doorway is just a stranger, holding trash bags. Her shoulders slump. She looks back down at her broken arm.