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He looked like everyone else. He supposed he had always looked like everyone else. They all had the same strong nose and warm brown eyes, sometimes one would have a scar or tattoo to differentiate them but for the most part they were interchangeable. And people treated them that way, like they were all one being, devoid of all life and soul. He thinks he used to have a name, not the string of numbers and letters that he's referred to now, but a proper name.
His armor used to be orange, a warm bright orange that stood out against the stark white of his clean uniform. They had made him scrub it off. He had spent hours sitting there with his chest plate in his lap and a piece of rough paper, scrubbing until his hands had blisters and continued until those blisters popped. He sat there until all he had was plain white armor.
He went on looking like everyone else.