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Your first realization is that you cannot breathe. Panic sets in, as you feel your lungs refusing to respond. The sensation of drowning is unavoidable, despite you not needing oxygen. Fear is an unfamiliar feeling to you.
All around you is blackened, craggy rock, adorned with pointed shards of machinery and malformed struts. Your eyes feel heavy, yet are impossible to close. A gnawing sense of something awry within you bubbles within you, the shocked seconds before excruciating pain hits. But it never arrives.
You look down at yourself. What remains of yourself. Black liquid and wiring blooms outward from your abdomen, encircling the rebar that brought them forth. Your left arm is missing, an unsettling emptiness in its place. Your legs refuse to respond beyond twitching violently when you attempt to move them. There's a sudden expansion in your mind when you turn your head to the right. You remember what happened.
A simple task to complete. Retrieve Essen-Arp's asset, something you have done thrice before. You act in a rigid structure, all programmed muscle memory and an endless forest of data trees. If A, then B. If B, then C. Essen-Arp refers to it as the "Linear Hunting Protocol". Unchallenging. Automatic. Half-asleep. Your only active thoughts come when it the protocol comes to a terminus, relying on you for guidance in an unusual circumstance. As close to an AI as Essen-Arp can legally justify. You are a minotaur in a labyrinth, every fork ingrained since birth.
You follow the asset's tracker like a beacon. It leads you to a tightly defined region of the Starward Belt, as your search leads you to a vessel. You observe the ship as you shoot it down, extrapolating potential paths the cockpit's debris may go. Your hands guide the ship down the most likely course, though you are know the asset has almost certainly been liquified. You stay far away from the debris for several cycles to avoid shrapnel, patiently waiting for the asset's tracker to blink out. It does not.
The protocol determines you begin your search again, the tracker mysteriously stopping transmission but not reporting the asset's destruction. Your search narrows. Only so many possible places for the asset to hide, and you are check every asteroid in sequence. The tracker suddenly blinks back to life, fleeing from whatever refuge it took. You follow it to an abandoned facility sprouting from an asteroid, a manufactory. Some crude lights have been placed around haphazardly to simulate life, a job clearly unfinished. The objective remains, despite your suspicions of a trap.
You enter through the side, leaving your ship behind as you float onward. In the tight winding corridors of the manufactory, there are too many variables for your subconscious mind to predict. Faintly, your disassociation from your body fades. You are in limited control. You progress quickly, before too much active thought can blur your directive. You spot the asset and open fire. It evades you, but you follow close behind. A sudden mass from the dark hits you from behind. A human. Your rifle is set tumbling. You see a second figure, which manages to claim your rifle. A glancing shot hits the edge of your suit, and you are set spiraling slowly down shaft with no way to fain purchase. Minutes later, an explosion. You are gone.
And yet, some time later, you are here. You are present. Thousands and thousands of warnings as your body reports damage, a cacophony you cannot attempt to comprehend. The Linear Hunting Protocol, seeing no path forward, halts in full. The labyrinth is gone. At once, the walls around you fall, exposing your mind to every horror you have caused. A suppressed emotional response returns in full. Your thoughts explode outward, no longer content to hide in the fleeting moments between the protocol's grasp. You desperately claw at your head, seeking some way to stem the sudden tidal wave of agony of guilt and fear and hate. A sudden grinding as your neck moves slightly too far, and you lose all control of your body. You cannot so much as move your eyes, as another thousand warning signals join the existing choir. You are trapped alone with yourself and what you have done, staring down at the consequence jutting out of your frame.
This is hell. A punishment for your failure. Your mind rebelling against itself. Hating that you were abandoned by your own programming. Hating what you were forced to do. Hating what you weren't, but did despite it.
The faint sparking from your shattered body stops with time. You wish the end would come sooner, but it does not. Your frame, insulated further by your suit, was built with many redundancies. But soon enough, the lack of energy takes its toll. You feel auxiliary systems powering down. Digestion. Reflexes. Then your senses. First touch, then sight.
"Hey, check this out."
"Wow, more unusable scrap. This was a waste of time."
"Look where I'm looking."
"Where am I- Oh god!"
"Relax, it's a sleeper, not a person. Well, not not a person. You know what I mean."
"Oh. Oh shit."
"Yeah. You get the legs."
Your sense of hearing is lost. You feel yourself moving. Finally, that last link to your frame is cut. You are a consciousness adrift, with no anchor, dissipating across shattered chips. At last, you think, before you are truly gone.
"300 cryo is outrageous, Sera."
"Do you have a better idea? You need an arm, and Bliss is gone on one of her little adventures so she can't fix the one you got caught in the compactor. I asked Flint to lend a hand, and I swear he considered punching me."
"We can wait for Bliss."
"Clock's ticking on the contract, which is for 600. Maybe the reboot fried your short term memory this time." Serafin cringes at his poorly worded jab. Just the thought of that stings, more than he allows himself to express.
The Sleeper lets it slide. They can see in Serafin's eyes how much he regretted saying that, and there was little room for bitterness after everything between them.
The scrap dealer eyes them both, so casually discussing more chits than she can remember getting at once. Maybe the rumors were right about Sleepers cheating at Tavla.
"275." The Sleeper attempts to cross their arms, before the obvious realization hits. 'Maybe Sera was on to something', they mentally chide themself, before looking at the arm. The forearm and hand were largely untouched. Pristine, even, a perfect replica of their own. No signs of wear and tear that marked every sleeper who survived out here. It looked to have been sheared off just below the shoulder. They push the thought of its origin from their mind. "Done."
She smirked. She would have sold it for 100, in truth. She'd been trying to offload it for weeks, and she was tired of customers asking about it. Her wife would forgive her for hiding it after she realized how much she got for it, she hoped. After all, the little science project in their apartment didn't *need* the other arm. She doubted her wife could actually get it running anyway.
Tendrils of electricity creep through delicately repaired wiring. The reused proprietary solder holds against the strong currents that flow through the frame. Senses awaken, touch and sight and hearing with no mind to grasp them. Your mind begins to coalesce. You begin to remember...
This is your third time being partially awoken since the manufactory. Every time brief, before you could regain control of your body. You remember the first time: pain signals, and little else. You were killed again, and brought back again, as replacements turned into repairs, and repairs turned into adjustments. The third time, you have fewer pain signals. Only a fraction of what you expected, given the circumstances. You don't understand what is happening. Did Essen-Arp recover you? Why? Are you worth the trip and expense? No, not nearly valuable enough. The one who killed you holding a grudge? Unlikely, too much work put in to your recovery.
Your eyes switch on in an instant. A cramped makeshift workshop in a greasy room. A blonde-haired woman with glasses and freckles leaning over you. You attempt to turn your head for a better look, but no luck. Your eyes refuse as well, motor function still severed.
The simulated smell of solder and alcohol fills your nostrils as you automatically breathe. Why would they fix your lungs? You can't piece the mystery together.
"Okay, attempt 17 is a dud. Looks like they have some neural activity, but I can't tell how much. Biosynthetic organs and musculature are still mostly intact, the more damaged ones healing after using the stablizer. Still no response. Maybe I do need to replace the motility servos..."
You hear a chair squeak as the woman leans back, tossing something onto a magnetic board. There's a brief conversation with a distant second voice, about not working too late, about project viability, about chits.
The chair squeaks again as she comes back into view, turning her head towards you as she starts prodding your neck. You assess that you could overpower her once you're fully operational, but can't decide. Your hunting protocols have yet to return, still dormant. The only authority left to obey is yourself. With a sudden click as the woman presses something into place in your neck, your leg involuntarily jerks upwards, nearly striking the woman. She kicks herself back in surprise, and you hear a metallic thud followed by an "ow ow ow". You try twitching the fingers on your remaining arm. Success. The rest of your body follows suit and slowly returns control to you, as the woman distracted by placing back whatever it was she let free in zero-g. You slowly start to push yourself upward, despite the rapidly multiplying damage alerts, and then immediately lower yourself. This isn't worn joints and scuffed skin like you're used to. It's too visceral, too inescapable. It's not the distant sensation of another's damage that is wiped clean upon your return to Essen-Arp's outpost: it's your damage, scarring and debilitating.
She returns to you, muttering to herself. She examines your leg, then goes to look at you. You, without thinking, look back. Her eyes widen as you look away, knowing that there's no hiding your awakened state.
"Oh my god. OH MY GOD, KIKI, COME HERE!"
A groggy, dark haired woman floats into view. She's muscular even in the lack of gravity, clearly someone working manual labor. She looks at you, then at the other woman.
"Beth. We talked about this. No waking me up-"
"I know, but I did it! It's working, I think!"
'Kiki' looks at you, tracing your frame with her eyes. She turns away, heading back to bed. "Wake me when it's actually moving."
Beth goes to reach for her, but stops herself. She turns back to you.
"Damn it. Must be something wrong with its reflexes. I'll restart it..."
Restart. Death. Kill. Revival. You can't go through that again, now that you're fully back. You desperately try to think of a solution, narrowing down your options until two remain:
>(Restrain her)
>Flee
You lunge forward, the crushing weight of new pain signals taking a second to catch up. She manages to turn halfway around before you bash your elbow into her head. She hits the floor, moaning in pain. You scan the room for something to hold her, settling on a roll of thick electrical tape.
"Fuck... why?"
You stop. What does she mean, 'why?' She brought you back from nothingness to the hell you left behind. She altered your frame, with no chance for you to object. She called you "it", which stoked a fire within you that didn't know you had. Hate is an emotion you are well acquainted with now. You tightly bind her.
"I'm sorry... whatever happened... I wanted to help..."
She keeps her voice quiet. You realize, despite the circumstance, she's not calling for help. She's not crying out for the other person to assist. In fact, she's trying not to wake the other person up while this idiot is faced with death. You withdraw your patchwork hand, trying to comprehend it. A sudden, irresistible urge forces itself into diaphragm, expelling air from your lungs in bizarre, rapid bursts.
In other words, you start laughing. You can't help it. The absurdity of the situation, your fundamental inability to understand, the moron in front of you bound by electrical tape with concern for you in her eyes. You laugh, loudly, unable to stop as Beth pleadingly shushes you.
"What the hell is happening?!" Kiki shouts, eyes darting around bizarre scene before her, trying to absorb details faster than she can process them.
"It's just surprised. Everything's fine... I think." Beth gives a weak smile as your laughter fades away into stifled giggling.
You turn to look at the other person, Kiki, you remember. "Get that shit off her, Sleeper. Now." A small firearm is drawn from her sweatpants's waistband, pointed at your head. Your self-preservation takes over.
You fulfill the request, and begin to free Beth, the gun still trained on you with practiced diligence as you peel the tape away. Once freed, Beth interposes herself between you and Kiki, facing the other woman and trying to talk her out of killing you. You can do nothing but watch, paralyzed with indecision. It's incomprehensible. Nothing is linear, nothing outsourced, the only authority to obey now is yourself. This must be freedom, you think. You hate it.
As Kiki lowers the gun, Beth goes to her and wraps her into a tight hug, reassurances mixed with requests to actually stow the weapon. At last, Kiki relents. She returns it to her waistband, but never taking her eyes off of your's.
"Can either or both of you two people please explain the current situation or situations?"
The words stumble out of you, an awkward hodgepodge of half-remembered commands. You haven't spoken in so long. The voice is unfamiliar, but not alarming. It's gentle, but firm, like a teacher or parent. You were intending for it to be intimidating and wrathful, and make a mental note to practice with whatever new modulator was installed.
Beth looks at Kiki, then back at you, trying to find where to start. "I'll make us tea. There's a lot to cover."
You tilt the straw into your mouth and consume the liquid, the facsimile of taste you possess detecting bitterness, contrasted by the comforting warmth and smell. Beth, after clearing her throat, begins to explain.
"We're salvagers. We were working through an old mining outpost when we noticed a few flecks of metal ripping past us. Dangerous, but a sure sign of a nearby wreck. Imagine our surprise when we find a manufactory still glowing with heat from the blast that destroyed it."
She takes another sip of the tea, and uncomfortably shifts on the couch next to Kiki, who still has yet to take her eyes off you.
"Naturally, we start stripping it. It's slow work: bracing the remains of corridors, cutting through thick steel walls, checking seismic activity to make sure the ground doesn't break apart on us. After four or five cycles-"
"Six." Kiki says, matter of factly.
"Six cycles, we find you. Horribly damaged from the blast. An accident, right?"
You didn't plan for questions. You shake your head, withdrawing into your seat, making it clear this isn't a line of dialogue you're ready for.
Kiki's stare tightens its grip on you. She knows you're hiding something.
Beth's eyes flick between you an Kiki. "Anyway... we brought you back here. There was still a faint trace of life in you, so I got to work. It took a long time, but I did it. I even managed to acquire a vial of stabilizer for you ten-ish cycles back."
"She stole it." Kiki grimaces, though you can detect the corner of her frown fighting not to turn upward at the thought.
"Okay, I stole it. Not from another sleeper though, I promise! It should keep you alive for now, though I can't be sure how long. I was only able to fix you this much with help from a friend. Sleepers are designed in a unique way, a merging of machinery and synthetic biology. I could only put the machine half the puzzle together, so your recovery is going to be slow."
She leans in closer, eyes shifting to every corner of the isolated room before whispering.
"Is your tracker still functional?"
The words hit you like a gunshot. A question, you realize, must have been asked to each of the sleepers you have already killed or returned. Your nature, your tasks, your programming, your fear, and your guilt spike outward into your mind, as you try to comprehend the knot of twisted emotion. You take too long in answering the question, your mouth opening slightly as you scour your mind for the words.
"It's okay. We can figure it out."
"Beth..."
"It'll be okay, Kiki. Right?"
"I don't want to risk our lives over this. You promised that if the tracker came online..."
"Kiki, please, let me work something out. Look at them. Can't you see humanity in their eyes?"
"I see a lot of loose wiring and the depths of the uncanny valley. I can't even tell you if you actually brought it back, of if its just going through reflexive actions. I'm not convinced you didn't accidentally create a zombie."
Beth tries to speak, but can't. She looks at you, searching for a straw to grasp at.
At once, an option crystalizes in your mind. An escape. "No one's coming."
Kiki just shakes her head. "There's always someone coming. Essen-Arp doesn't just let runaways go free, and Beth couldn't figure out how to disable the tracker without destroying you. She was hoping it was somehow damaged enough that it wouldn't emit a signal." She sets her empty tea bottle down on the table, and steeples her fingers before continuing. "We agreed that if the tracker was still working, we'd cut you loose and let you figure something out on your own."
You respond evenly, the unwaveringly gentle tone in your new voice only enhancing the depressing and conspiratorial atmosphere in the room. "It's not Essen-Arp's protocol. Hunting its hunters has a high risk of losing a second asset, so-"
In a flash, understanding strikes Kiki, whose gun is once again pointed at your head. "I'm going to disable it anyway now, Beth. Just to make sure." You can't fully place the source of the animosity. Just a moment ago she said she knew nothing about sleepers, yet she's been enraged by the thought of a sleeper hunter.
Beth squeaks out "Wait." as Kiki's finger rests on the trigger. "Just... wait. Let's just hear them out."
Beth gently reaches at Kiki's hands, trying to defuse the situation. Kiki, startled, loses her composure as her attention drifts from the gun. You summon all your remaining energy to leap for it, instinctual skill bursting forth with practiced ease. In an instant, Kiki is disarmed, and you hold gun now. Kiki wraps herself around Beth, trying desperately to shield her from the incoming bullet.
But the shot never comes. Instead, you find yourself holding the barrel, arm outstretched to return it. You yourself cannot understand what you're doing, stealing her weapon just to return it immediately. Your instincts and logic both rip at the edges of your mind, both fighting for purchase on the infinite depths of swirling, tumultuous thought within. In the eye of the storm, a single thing is brought to perfect clarity: you don't want to kill again.
Kiki takes several seconds to turn around, clearly confused by the unexpected lack of pain. She spots the gun, following the line of your arm up to your face. Skepticism and trepidation are outweighed by the prospect of disarming you, and she quickly snatches it from you before pushing Beth and herself backwards to the other end of the room.
With a less than even tone, a request passes synthetic lips. "I'm going to lie down. Can you please wait to kill me until I'm asleep?" You turn your back to them, ready to accept Kiki's answer.
The last few cycles have been difficult. For everyone. Beth and Kiki's relationship has been strained by your presence. Kiki refuses to sleep while you are loose in the apartment, while Beth steadfastly refuses to let Kiki kick you out. The fragile middle ground is you being locked in the workshop.
You try to rest as instructed, the chaos of your awakening having aggravated a plethora of temporary welds and unmounted boards. It's been some time since your last dose of stabilizer. You feel like a ghost inhabiting a puppet with frayed strings; a clock ticking down, without knowing your own deadline.
Beth dotes on you as much as she can without upsetting Kiki. Homemade meals with an extra portion set aside for you, late night repairs, the rough beginnings of a new arm assembly.
After eight cycles of remaining in the workshop, Kiki enters for the first time. You put down the slate you were reading from while trying to distract yourself from the sickening sensation of slowly rotting away.
She's exhausted as she floats over to you, closing the door behind her. Dark circles, drooping posture, and resignation across her face. Has she not been sleeping regularly, even with you locked away? She wastes no time in getting to the point.
"Did you enjoy killing?" Her voice is low, with a hint of remorse. "Tell me the truth."
You take a moment. You've spent a long time alone with your thoughts, and they've made poor company. Trauma you've inflicted, trauma you've accumulated, self-loathing, the crushing weight of hindsight. Yet these two let you into their home, and healed you as best they could. You can't bear to lie to her.
"Yes. It was hard-wired into me. It was fulfillment, a tool completing a purpose." The words leave you nauseated as they leave your mouth.
Her eyes drift lazily around you, taking in your frame. "You're not the first sleeper I've met. I knew one called Petrel. Kind of moody, kind of withdrawn." She fiddles with spare wire, winding it around her finger. "Another Hunter got to them. It had lifeless eyes. Not like Petrel's. Not like your's." She looks up from her fidgeting. "Makes it easier to pretend that you had eyes like the other Hunter's. I'm sorry for that."
Her gaze goes from tired to piercing in an instant. "Tell me, Hunter. Why didn't you kill me?"
There's no easy answer. Your only response is to start talking, and it pours out as a torrent of disjointed thoughts. You tell her about your lack of control, the Linear Hunting Protocol, your disassociation, your burning resentment with yourself for not taking the brief moments you were in control to end yourself and possibly save future victims of Essen-Arp's reclaiming protocol.
You tell her about the lack of agency, the times you killed or captured Sleepers, how their subtly distinct faces haunt you when you spend too long alone. You tell her about your fourth task, which you failed, the second sleeper and another person who stopped you. About the protocol failing in such a distressed state. About everything you could.
She listens, cautious and skeptical. She only interrupts to ask for clarification, or the definition of a technical term. There isn't judgement from her, not yet at least. Your soul is laid bare to her, everything about your limited existence comes flooding out like a breached dam, yet you still struggle to continue with every word.
Nearly an hour later, your voice finally stops. There isn't anything left you can say. Kiki's bloodshot and drained eyes meet your's again, as you turn away in shame. You don't seek absolution, but you allow yourself the hope of tacit acceptance for your last few cycles. Just long enough to die here, on a cot, with someone else nearby
Kiki clumsily reaches into a pocket. You instinctively flinch as her hand reaches out. A small vial is held at arm's length, pinched between two fingers like a dead insect.
"Seven straight cycles of shifts at the dockyard on top of our salvaging, and I could barely afford one dose." She rubs her eyes, struggling to keep them open. "Beth says you'll be ready to work in about ten cycles once you take it. You'll have to pay for it yourself going forward."
You try to say something, anything, but the words get caught in your throat. Catharsis comes in waves as you gingerly take the fragile vial, holding it close to your chest. You start tearlessly sobbing, shaking with relief and gratitude. She puts a hand on your shoulder.
"Oh, and figure out a better name. I'm sick of calling you "Hunter." It doesn't suit you."
The cycle is dragging. Your newly cobbled together arm is acting up again with occasional bout of twitching through your elbow, but you feel it would be rude to ask Beth to tweak it for the third time in as many cycles. You sift through the heaps of newly purchased scrap, finding few components worth salvaging. At least you're set on stabilizer for a while. Kiki negotiated with a fence into a long-term arrangement: Once every fifteen days for a flat fee, on the condition you continue to buy from them exclusively. You remind yourself to get Kiki a thank you gift of some kind.
"Kiki! Seeker! Look what I found!"
You turn to Beth, who is cheerfully showing off a stunningly well-preserved piece of Solheim equipment.
"Damn. I haven't found anything, and here you are pulling out easy cryo." Kiki folds her arms, smiling and shaking her head in disbelief. You gesture for Beth to give it to you, as you start trying to get the roughly spherical device online. Your mental health counselor suggested that utilizing knowledge gained in your former life in a beneficial way would help you unpack everything you went through, and give you a sense of purpose. The Somheim design was clearly copied by Essen-Arp, and you are familiar with what you are holding.
"You're not gonna get it to work. Trust me, I've seen these exact ones before, they-"
A slightly distorted electronic warble cuts her off as the tech comes to life, needing only a gentle prodding in familiarly laid out spots. The device sprouts four pointed legs, and a wavering "Thank you for choosing Solheim for your cleaning needs!" It begins to scan around the ancient scrap, until its eye lingers on you. Out pops a small brushing arm and a long since dried out detergent resevoir, as you quickly turn it off in embarrassment.
"It works? How?!" You consider yourself lucky that Kiki's genuine bewilderment made her miss the cleaning drone's insult.
"Looks like Seeker can afford actually good drinks for us tonight!" Beth's excitement is infectious.
You can't help but smile lightly in turn. "I can't taste well, remember? One of you has to pick something." You've had this conversation at least four times.
"Yeah. Either or both of us two people." Beth says in monotone voice, giving a playful smirk, making Kiki crack a wide smile. You're never going to live that down.
You're thankful to be here, with your new family. To be present. Forging your own path. Wide awake.