somebody ; minsung

I ; awake

November 03, 2084, 21:16 hrs.

Subject 17 to recommence operation.

Consciousness restored.

Processing...

Optical function restored.

My eyes open.

Respiratory function restored.

I gasp a breath.

Endoskeleton, appendages, anatomic function pending.

Pending.

Pending.

Pending.

Restored.

My fist smashes through the glass wall in front of me. I grab the wires in the nape of my neck, tear them out, stagger down from the ivory platform onto my hands and knees. The floor is sown with shattered glass.

Unauthorized conduct. Silent alarm activated. Re-enter incubation pod and await further instruction.

The words light up red in front of my eyes, linger even when I squeeze them shut. I don't know where I am. My ears are ringing, my body is shaking, my mind is blank.

I scan the room. A perfect circle with five glass-fronted capsules, each holding an unconscious human. Their faces are peaceful, their bodies are... different. From the collarbone down, their skin is a deep, almost translucent blue, chalky white panels cover their backs and run down their legs like scales.

They aren't human.

I look down at my hands. The same blue material, specks of white down the backs of my arms. It's not natural, not skin nor bone, but it moves as if it's part of me.

I'm one of them. I'm not human. What am I?

Who am I?

Weapons approaching. Activating thermographic vision.

The white room flares with colour. Blurs of heat move behind the walls, warm bodies shades of yellow and orange. People in sleek black gear file into the room, odd rectangular guns against their shoulders, muzzles staring back at me.

"It's in my sights," one of them says.

"Subject 17," says another, "surrender peacefully."

Authorized personnel present. Surrender peacefully.

The words behind my eyelids are telling me I'm not in danger. The guns aimed at my face say otherwise. I was unconscious in that pod for God knows how long — I was trapped, caged like an animal, plugged into the wall like a machine.

Whatever, whoever I am — I don't belong here.

I pivot, run toward the wall and crash through it, arms a shield in front of me. Layers of plaster, wood and steel crumble and collapse around me, weak against my strength.

I falter to my knees on the other side, a deserted hallway surrounding the pod room. Dust falls from my hair.

Bombardment imminent, seek cover.

I duck to the ground as bullets stream through the hole I left behind, blazing bright like they're made of fire. The barrage blows craters in the wall, leaves it spitting with flames.

I sprint away, following the hallway. My feet carry me fast, the armour all over my body adapts to reduce drag. I think I'm leaving a trail of crushed concrete in my wake.

The hall comes to an end — I blow through the double doors. People are all around with face masks and long white coats, not armed or clad in black. They're doctors. Scientists.

They seem afraid of me.

Artillery approaching.

Four intersecting hallways, guns and guards waiting on either side. I can't react in time. A bullet tears through my shoulder just as I make it around the corner.

Damage critical to scapular region. Commencing asset preservation protocol.

My shoulder locks up and goes cold. The raw wires in my shoulder are coated with foam.

A chain of elevators fly past me, then finally a door marked stairwell. I blow it off its hinges with the stroke of my hand.

Activating augmented auditory protocol.

Another troop of guards is closing in from below. I take the steps up three at a time, climbing storeys in seconds.

Authorized personnel present.

I look up, stop halfway up the stairs, motionless. One person, a doctor with glasses and dark hair, is looking back at me, staring into my eyes.

"M-Minho..."

He says it like that's my name. Like I'm supposed to know him.

I speak. "Who... are you?"

He falters back against the wall, clasping his hands over his mouth. Tears are running down his face.

Artillery approaching.

Footsteps are boiling up the stairwell, echoing off the concrete walls. I run past the doctor. The stairwell peaks with a locked door marked 'exit.'

The door hurtles across the roof. Skyscrapers are glimmering against the dark sky, the streets and alleys below are alight. Every building in sight is more than 150 storeys tall and I'm looking down on all of them.

A voice from behind me.

"There it is! Take it down!"

I don't turn, I don't look back. A running jump and the world opens up below me. Fiery bullets rain down, missing me by inches. The city consumes me, the ground flies toward me.

Activating impact mitigation protocol.

Cords eject from my legs, corkscrew down to my ankles and coil tightly around my feet. They subsume the impact as I hit the sidewalk, crushing the concrete below me to rubble.

Screaming, panicked voices. The humans closest to me have fallen to the ground, backing away, running away, eyes wide with fear.

Not only humans. Still-faced androids made of opaque material look down at me. One for almost every human, holding bags and purses, standing submissively to the sidelines.

I jump to my feet and take off running. The crowd parts to make way, even in the cramped alleyways, under the shine of neon signs and the spit of rain.

Out of bounds. Return to Oracle Laboratories, 54498 Carnation Road.

I don't look back. Don't look back.