Chapter Text
tick… tick…
tick… tick…
tick… tick…
tick… tick…
ding…!
The door opens. A body falls out. It is quiet.
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Ugh… what happened…? You wake up, feeling incredibly groggy. You were sleeping on the floor… All your joints feel stiff and frozen. There’s a dull throbbing in your face. You feel cold.
You try to push yourself up, feeling your muscles shake as you do so. You groan, your brain feeling fogged over. What is…? Where…? Your vision is blurry, so even as you try to look at your surroundings, it doesn’t help. You feel so weak.
As you come to a sitting position, you feel your brain go fuzzy. The walls around you seem to spin as you go cross-eyed. You feel your stomach churn, and you give one solid heave before you pass out again on the carpeted floor.
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Time passes. Minutes? Hours? Days? Who knows. No one is around to tell.
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Your breathing is shallow as you wake up a second time. Your skin is covered in irritated red marks from laying on the stale carpet. Your muscles quiver as you struggle to push yourself up. Everything feels so cold. You shove your body upward, your head lolling to the side as you get into a sitting position.
It doesn’t last long, though, as you're unable to keep your balance. You tip over to the other side, falling back and landing into the towering, cream-colored metal… pod? The inside of the pod is freezing, and your body immediately tenses up as the chill creeps to your bones.
Your ragdoll-like body thrashes as you push yourself out of the pod. You lay shaking and shivering, looking up at the grungy ceiling. Dread starts to crawl throughout your brain, clinging to the back of your mind.
Where are you? What is going on? Who are you?
The inside of your body feels hollow as you lay in this familiar-yet-unfamiliar place. You know where you are, a part of you screams. You know this place. So why can’t you recall it? It was as if your brain was made of nothing but static, a droning hum thumping against your skull.
You have to rest. For now, at least. Until you can properly think. You close your eyes and try to keep your breathing even. You lay still on the ground, your erratic heart slowly calms down as the nausea leaves you.
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You fall asleep before you realize it, and wake up even sooner. You don’t feel well rested.
You still feel so weak, but your thoughts come back to you easier. Some things come back to you, but most don’t.
You push yourself into a sitting position, your fingers rubbing against the old, grungy, and dirty carpet. You look around the hallway you’re sitting in, all the doors shut closed, locked. Right. This is your apartment. And you lived with… your roommates?
Your friends.
You can’t remember them. You can’t remember them. You can’t remember them.
You can’t remember them.
They meant a lot to you, but who are they? Who are they? Who are they?
You all of a sudden become painfully aware of the necklace around your neck. The metal chain feels tight. The three lockets feel heavy. You know your friends are inside those lockets. Inside those urns. A part of them is with you, you know, but the way the lockets rest on your skin makes it feel like you’re burning.
Burning. Burning. Burning. Heat. Hot. Pain.
You don’t realize you’re crying until the thick tears fall off your face. You flinch as the liquid splashes onto your arm. You feel so hollow inside. There is so much missing. There is so much missing. There is so much missing.
How did this happen? How did you even get here?
…
Oh.
Oh.
You see it at the end of the hallway. The giant white pod with the door hung open. You can feel the cold air escaping it.
You don’t even realize you’re glaring. You don’t even realize you’re breathing heavily. All you can think about is what you lost, words flashing through your mind like a broken, flickering light.
Plague.
Death.
Friends.
Bodies.
Ashes.
Cryopod.
M___.
V__.
S_____.
You shouldn’t be here. You should be dead. You should be dead like the rest of them. You should be with them in the afterlife. You are alone.
You are alone.
You are alone.
You are alone, and you are angry.
The cryopod is laughing at you. The hum of the machine echoes around your head, bouncing around the inside of your skull. It rattles your bones, overwhelms your senses, and infuriates your mind.
It towers over you smugly. Like it knows you are miserable. Like it thinks you’re pathetic. Like it knows what it’s done. The longer you stare at it, the longer the light from its screen burns your eyes. It hurts. It’s staring at you just like you’re staring at it.
It’s staring at you.
It’s laughing at you.
It knows what it’s done.
You don’t even register what you’re doing until after it’s over.
You’re lunging at the pod like a cornered animal. You slam the door shut and glare at the screen as if it can truly feel anything at all. The numbers on the timer flash zero. They blink wildly, and in your mind, you interpret it as fear.
The satisfaction you feel is perhaps sickening.
You reel your fist back and slam it against the glass of the screen.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
Nothing happens. The screen shakes but does not falter. It only makes you angrier.
You furiously slam your fist into the screen over and over and over again. You break before the screen does.
Blood drips from your knuckles, deep red bruises flaring across your skin as the blood rises to the surface. It splatters against the glass, smearing with every consecutive punch.
The glass fractures. Tiny cracks form across the surface, and the satisfaction you feel is almost deranged.
You strike the screen again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.
You keep striking, each blow spreading the cracks further and further until they reach the edge of the screen. It shakes. It fractures. It cracks. It splinters. It shatters.
The glass gives way under your force, shattering against your fist. The glass slides against your fist, more blood dripping from your cuts as your hand lodges itself in the wires behind the screen. Sweat is dripping from your forehead with fury and exhaustion.
Your hand is trembling, but you don’t feel any pain.
Your vision is blurry as tears continue to pour down your face. You struggle to get your hand free, the wires tangling around your finger. With one harsh tug, your fist and the cords come loose. You can see small pieces of glass nestled in your skin as the torn wires slip to the floor.
You’ve broken the cryopod, but you don’t feel any better.
You are alone, but you aren’t angry.
You are alone, and you are lonely.
You don’t even bother tending to your hand, instead choosing to sit on the floor again and think.
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Your hand throbs. The old blood has dried, but every twitch or movement of your hand causes the glass to shift and more blood comes out. Your hand is swathed with red.
But truth be told, you don’t really care. You don’t want to deal with it. You don’t want to fix it.
So you don’t.
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Eventually, it becomes unbearable. The pain which you found so pleasant earlier now stings with a vengeance. The blood makes you feel nauseous. You’re staining your clothes and the carpet. You haven't stopped bleeding yet.
You know you should probably get tweezers to remove the glass. But where would they be? The bathroom, most likely. Though, you don’t even remember where it is. Your memory is still hazy.
But your muscle memory serves you well enough. You’re barely even conscious of your feet trudging along the carpet automatically, leading you to a door slightly ajar. The tile feels cold against your feet. You try to turn the light on by habit, but nothing happens.
Another couple of flicks of the switch. No dice.
You don’t even care enough to feel disappointed. With your one hand, you blindly root through drawers and cabinets filled with bandages, medicine, hygiene products, soaps, and other miscellaneous items.
You find the tweezers in a small container in one of your cabinets.
You can’t see in the bathroom, so you leave. Most of the other lights in the apartment don’t work, either. The dull, neon lights from outside serve you enough to be able to see, but it’s not enough for finer details. The glass burns.
Some of the lights still work. You can find a working (dull, but working) light in the kitchen above the counter. You have to somehow crawl onto the counter to be able to get enough light. And doing that with an already injured hand wasn’t easy.
Painstakingly removing each tiny piece of glass wasn’t easy.
Bandaging your injuries wasn’t easy.
Nothing will be easy, anymore.
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The apartment is both comforting and suffocating. You know you live here. Lived here. You know that this place used to make you so happy. The apartment is clearly loved. Was loved. Clearly, this place was where you made amazing memories.
But you can’t remember anymore. Are those memories really of use to you?
You find photos. The images of four people, three if you don’t include yourself, decorate the apartment walls. You’re smiling in each one. You have distant memories of some of them. Vague thoughts. Some are clearer than others. But many leave your mind blank.
There’s a photo of you and your three friends. The three of them surround you in what seems to be a celebration. The four of you already look slightly tipsy with shot glasses raised high into the air. You look so tired in the picture, with dark bags under your eyes, but a wide smile on your face. O the background, you can see the couch with a white lab coat thrown over it.
Oh. That’s right. You’re a scientist. Were a scientist.
This particular image was a celebration for you, after months of work. Work of what? You can’t remember anymore.
Another photo is a picture of the four of you in what looks to be a restaurant. You’re sitting around a table, the lot of you looking mischievous. The area around you is bright, filled with neon lights of pinks, purples, blues, yellows, reds, etc. The word ‘Midtown’ flashes in your mind repeatedly.
You took your friends there many times. You weren’t supposed to. People from the slums weren’t really allowed to go up to Midtown. But you were a scientist, and the important labs were up there, so you were an exception. And you pulled strings to be able to take your friends. Maybe you lied a few times.
Technically illegal. But at the time? You didn’t care. You still don’t.
There’s another photo, but there’s no human in it. The surrounding area is dark, the camera peeking through a small crack from wherever the photographer was hiding. You still recognize Midtown. And you also recognize the several white robots, hovering above the ground with their bright yellow spotlights.
Sentinals. Chasing after you and your friends whenever you got into trouble. You were much more of a troublemaker than you’d think you’d be.
You miss them. Your friends. You can barely remember their names, but you know they meant a lot to you. It’s not something you can put into words, but the feeling you get just from looking at their photos is so primal and urgent. You cared for them, you loved them. Love them.
You miss them. You miss them. You miss them. You miss them.
Where are they? Why aren’t they here?
Dead.
No. What happened?
Death.
No, stop!
Dead.
Stop it! Knock it off!!
Dead.
Enough!! What is wrong with you!?!
Dead. Dead. Dead
The apartment is laughing at you. The walls are rotten and the rooms are derelict, but even this forgotten, forlorn apartment could not nearly be as empty as your heart.
Where is your jacket?
Where are your shoes?
You can’t find them.
You found them.
The door is locked.
You are angry.
The door is broken.
The door is open.
You are gone.
The apartment weeps.
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Where do you go from here?
The streets are empty. There is nothing but decaying memories through these streets. You knew these streets at one point. You travel on muscle memory alone. If you think about where you are for too long, you know you’ll get lost.
You wander. For how long? Who knows.
You know that you used to think the slums were so small. The residual feeling of annoyance lingers in your heart. But now that everything is unknown to you, the vast streets seem endless.
Bodies of robots paint the street. Was it…
Friends…?
Partners…?
Companions.
Dead.
You run.
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It’s so dark. The streets are lonely.
You are aimless.
You haven’t seen another living being in ages.
Will you ever?
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What are those lights in the distance? It’s a soft, almost pulsating glow. You’re curious.
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That sound… What is it? It almost sounds cute. You’re interested.
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What is that?
What is that?
What is…
What are…
What are those?
What are those?
What are those!?
There are so many. Too many.
They’re fast.
They chase.
You run.
They scuttle.
They bite.
Teeth.
Teeth.
Teeth.
You bleed.
You scream.
You’re angry.
You’re so angry.
You’ve always been angry.
You scream. You squash. You rip. You tear. You kill.
They explode beneath your nails.
You would think it gross if not for the fury in your body. The adrenaline keeps you from feeling the pain.
You chase.
They run.
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It’s over. The parasites are gone and you are tired. Their blood and guts coat the ground and your clothes. The smell is sickly. Now that the adrenaline is gone, you’re painfully, painfully aware of the bites across your skin.
You stumble to the ground and heave. Nothing comes out. There’s nothing to come out. You feel so hungry. But the thought of eating makes you heave again.
The damage isn’t as bad as you thought. You’ll live.
Unfortunately.
You are alone.
You crawl to the side of one of the buildings. You lean against the wall and cry.
You are lonely.
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“Mrreow.”