Fatal I'm afraid

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Alan," the older man says, his face grave, "but I'm afraid your injuries were not survivable. You were pronounced dead at the scene by paramedics."

"What?" you ask, certain that you must have misheard, "What do you mean dead? I'm right here."

"Yes obviously, otherwise I would be talking to myself, and while I may be a little eccentric I haven't quite crossed the line to mad scientist yet." He gave a dry chuckle at his own joke before continuing, "More precisely, only your body perished. Your mind, the essential core of your being, survived thanks to my unique genius! Your consciousness is now housed in a synthetic construct of my own design."

"Synthetic... Like a robot?" you ask now more than half convinced that you've been **** by a lunatic.

"Yes, indeed," he grins, glad that you seem to be keeping up with his delusion, "Although rather more sophisticated than that crude term implies. You're fortunate, really, I was able to obtain your physical remains for my project."

If you could, you'd shake your head, deny his mad rambling, but while he monologued you've noticed more and more oddities. Not just the total lack of sensation from your body, that could be explained by an injury, but also the fact you're not breathing. And you can't hear your own heart beat. Or the fact you haven't blinked the whole time he's been talking.

"Oh shit you're not fucking with me are you?" you groan, the awful truth of your situation dawning on you, "I really am some kind of robocop, aren't I?"

"Ah not exactly," he says, a note of apprehension creep into his voice, "Perhaps it would be better if I showed you?"

Your perspective swings wildly, and you find yourself facing a large mirror and your new reflection...