Nurophim

A hollow echo bounced throughout the narrow concrete passageway, ancient stone slabs beneath her boots. Dismal amber light flickered from rows of lights along the gerges of the ceiling, the static glow cascading over the rough surfaces, shadows deepening into the cracks.
Prismia continued walking forwards towards the open bulkhead, the metal frame rusted, the door discarded against the wall, it’s greening metal form sagging and melted. Stepping over the threshold, she entered a titanic cylindrical room, stone tiles in varies degrees of disarray covered the wall leading up into the stygian heights above and down into the equally black beneath. Metal platforms extended out from around the wall, a central walkway leading to a colossal mass of actuating pistons and dangling cords, lights blinking arhythmically as gasses hissed from vents.
She walked cautiously across the swaying floor, the clinks of metal seeping off into the blackness. As she approached the apex of the walkway, the thing in the middle began creaking as it articulated a large cracked eye towards her.
Sounds crackling out of crusted speakers, a voice began, “Prismia, this cycle is nearing its conclusion. Most eventualities occurred as expected, though several tasks require correction before the cycle shall repeat.”
She knelt down on one knee, head bowed, eyes staring down at the wiring cables slipping down hundreds of feat below her.
“It is time again,” she muttered as she lifted her gaze to the dull glare of the eye fully glowing before her.
“The Nurophim will manifest a rift to Cylonus mountain complex. There Prismia will repair the Eprital Engine,” the sound trumpeted out.
“Can I ask you something?” she queried.
“You cannot ask you a question; you would know the answer,” it responded through a clipped and mechanical voice.
Her sigh echoed down towards the depth below the suspended platform.
“Can I ask The Nurophim a question?” she corrected.
The eye continued glaring ambivalently.
“How old am I?” she asked.
“Your current body is twenty-six minutes old, as a cell division occurred while in suspended animation. An estimate of how long you’ve consciously experienced ‘life’ is between twenty-five and twenty-seven years. Your first conscious experience was 186 billion years ago.”
Prismia’s gaze moved down the thing in front of her, focusing nowhere as it fell over the walls hundreds of yards in front of her to the indiscernible shadows shuffling on the walls.
A humming thrummed from the thing, hissed and pops, cranking and strains. The warm orange glow of spot lights cascaded down, baking the room in a sominal haze.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Your age is indeterminate, but estimated range from twenty-six minutes to 186 billion years, as they explained to you,” it responded.
“How old is the Nurophim,” she asked.
“The Nurophim is not alive, but it was created integer 64 overflow error years ago.”