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I come crashing into consciousness. My brain is screaming. Every inch of skin burning. Every hair a needle. I blink through gunk gluing my eyes shut only to see a blur of dim red light.
Pain rises through my chest and I wretch up blood and bile and teeth, and only then can I take a ragged, excruciating breath.
I continue to blink and heave, willing my vision to clear and my lungs to fill, but I just choke on the taste of stale air and my own viscera.
Second after agonising second I gasp and gasp, and eventually my surroundings start to come into focus.
Even without the blur I can only barely make out the cold metal and glass facing me in the flickering failing light. A console. A cockpit.
I try to push through the pain - to remember something - anything - about where I am - who I am - but every memory seems just out of reach.
I shift to inspect the console more closely, inadvertently sending a new spike of pain shivering through my raw nerves. It makes me jerk violently and bash into something, and suddenly I am plunged into total darkness.
A mechanical hum which I had thought was my brain pressing against my skull whirs down to nothing, leaving me in total silence.
I impotently curse and flail at the console, barely able to sputter out the words, barely able to lift my arms.
Collapsing back to the floor, I curl into a ball and lean into the hard metal. I'm trapped here. There’s nothing.
A shiver runs through me. I’m cold. I’m so fucking cold. I hug myself tighter and realise I’m completely naked.
Why am I naked in some cockpit?
How did I get here?
Who the fuck am I?
…
I grasp…something. I'm…a pilot…a hero?
No…that's not me…that's her. I’m…I’m not her. I - she - she must have died. A mission gone bad. The emergency backup system activated…and made me. A poor imitation…a hastily printed clone of myself - of her.
It’s not supposed to work like this though - something must have gone wrong. The clones are supposed to be ready to pilot - ready to continue and complete the mission. They’re not supposed to be disorientated messes, covered in their own blood and barely able to lift an arm. They’re supposed to have full memories from moments before the pilot’s death. I’ve barely grasped my - her basic identity, nevermind how I ended up here.
I guess the mech must have been heavily damaged - that explains the red emergency lights when I woke up. There can’t have even been enough power in the generator for the backup system to run at full capacity.
Is there anything I can do?
I fumble around in the dark. Grasping and groping at pitiless steel, searching for something - anything.
My fingers catch a handle. I pull and feel a panel swing open. I reach inside and find the comforting shape of a sidearm.
It’s a horrible thing. All rough plastic and harsh edges. Sickeningly warm to the touch, and hardly any weight to it. Everything a gun shouldn’t be. But it’s something.
Okay. What now?
I’m alone, in the dark, with a gun.
This doesn’t help.
There’s nothing I can do.
There’s nothing.
I am nothing.
I’m nothing. I’m nothing. I’m nothing.
I'm a copy - a fake - a counterfeit.
She is real - she is a person - she is complete - but me? I'm hollow and void and worthless.
I should not exist. I should fix that. I should push this fucking gun against the roof of my mouth and pull the fucking trigger.
But I can't...I’m not allowed…I need permission.
So all I get is to gag on the bitter taste of plastic - to scratch my gums and scrape my teeth on the edges of this ugly goddamn pistol.
I try to overcome my nothingness - to manifest the will to press down with my index finger. I put everything I can muster into it. I'm so close - I can almost do it - I can almost feel that bliss - just a bit more - just a little more pressure - I'm so fucking close to oblivion - I’m close - I'm c —
I awaken again - my head is throbbing and dripping and I and the floor around me are even more of a mess than before.
I knew I couldn't do it - I'm not allowed to end it - I'm too weak - I'm too nothing. My life is not mine to end.
Instead I'm covered in blood and drool and cum - a disgusting pervert - naked and cold and alone in this metal coffin. A little electric shock was all it took to get me off, and the pleasure disabled my consciousness for just a brief moment of sweet relief.
…
Wait.
…
Fuck.
…
The gun.
…
It shocked me.
...
That means it has a power supply. That means I can use it to power up the hatch. That means I can get out.
I retch with a new wave of despair as the reality of having to live comes crashing back over me. I need to get out. I can't just sit here waiting to die. I have to act.
I don't want to. It was so much easier just moments ago when I thought I was trapped here to starve or suffocate. There was no choice - no responsibility. My death was slow but inevitable.
But now I have to try. To live. Fuck.
I sit staring blankly into the darkness, the awful pistol digging sharply into my grip. I don't want to move. I don't want to crawl over to the console. I don't want to tear my muscles and skin prying it open with my bare hands. I don't want to fumble around inside it, scraping and shocking myself to find the right wire. I don't want to have to escape into whatever nightmare is outside my sweet comfortable prison.
But I do it. I drag myself up and across - I scratch and strain my fingers working into the tight seam between the panels. I clumsily grope the cables inside and when I find the one I need I lean down and chew through the nasty plastic casing.
I raise the awful gun to the exposed wire. I pull the trigger - so easy - no effort at all now it’s freeing me rather than ending me.
My surroundings shudder and creak and blinding light begins to flood in through the cracks.
I clamber and scrape and squeeze through the harsh metal back out into the world. Into life.