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His head hurt.
Nebula slowly sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands. With an uneasy sigh, he stretched, throwing his arms over his head and cracking his neck before dejectedly looking towards the mirror against the wall of the room. His tired amethyst eyes stared back as he reached up and ran a hand through his wild purple hair.
God, did his head hurt.
It had started, what, three days ago now? Four? Three, he certified, looking at the calendar, which told him it was a Wednesday.
It had started as random, out-of-the-blue headaches. Then phantom pain for wounds that weren’t there. A strange craving for alcohol, despite him never having been huge on drinking. And, most significant of all, repressed memories resurfacing.
They were memories all of violent, disconcerting things he’d forgotten; blood and gore and death, insanity brought upon by things not quite of this world or the next. Gently rubbing the heel of his hand against his temple, Nebula stood, stumbling from his room to the kitchen of his apartment.
Of course, the memories were familiar enough for him to know their source; his time working at Lobotomy Corporation about six years ago. He knew, vaguely, that he had once been a Manager there; however, he remembered almost nothing from that time. He’d never questioned it. It had never been important before.
Why now?
Trying to blink sleep and aching from his eyes, Nebula reached for a mug that read SPACE WOULD BE BETTER THAN THIS in large block letters, hardly aware of what he was doing as he fumbled around for his kettle.
Why is this all coming back now?
That was one of the only things he couldn’t figure out; that, and one other thing that was driving him crazy. A set of names that had resurfaced with the memories. Three of them, names that he’d almost forgotten.
The first one, Lobotomy Corporation, was self-explanatory. The job itself was memorable. It was strange to Nebula that he couldn’t recall much as he set water to boil on the stove, reaching for a container of coffee. It was decaf; he didn’t like caffeinated drinks. Too jittery, he acknowledged briefly as the thought surfaced, then faded again into the mix of other memories.
The second name was Angela, that cold, disconnected robot. Nebula despised her, but she was the android that had been his right-hand-man (woman?) during his time at the corporation. The AI Sentinel of the company, she had called herself. Aggravating as she was, she had been greatly helpful, and was definitely a reliable resource. Even now, Nebula could picture her soft, empty smile, her pale white and periwinkle hair. She had definitely been beautiful; Nebula remembered that, too. He had always found her pleasing to look at, though not in an attractive way. She was just, quite simply pretty, pretty in the way a work of art was pretty. A shame she had to have such an awful personality.
Nebula chuckled a little to himself as he poured hot water into his mug, moving a little so the steam didn’t get in his face as he finally set the kettle back down. Angela was certainly one thing from the job that he hadn’t forgotten, if only because she irritated him so damn much.
Then there was the third and final name. He frowned a little, looking at his warped, tired reflection as it faded into darkness the more he stirred his coffee. This was the name that was confusing him so much; the one he didn’t understand.
Lucid Yong-sun.
The only one of the three names he didn’t recognize, it stood out to him as familiar in a way that was just out of reach. The last name he knew. He also knew of Sam Yong-sun, a well-respected Korean man likely in his fifties by now, working for one of the major Wings; he couldn’t remember which one in that moment. He also didn’t really care as he opened his fridge, grateful for the blast of cool air while he reached for his creamer.
Yong-sun was one of those names you didn’t fuck with, and he knew that. There were certain people you just didn’t start shit with, especially when it came to people working for the Wings. However, the name Lucid, despite how distinct it was, wasn’t familiar to him at all. Perhaps Sam had a son, he thought. Or daughter. Lucid’s a pretty neutral name.
It wasn’t like Nebula was involved much with the news and drama surrounding the major names working at the corporations. He was pretty sure Sam had kids, but he wasn’t exactly involved in the man’s personal life. He almost laughed before he finally, gratefully took a sip from his coffee, before moving to put the creamer back.
Still, even if Sam Yong-sun, wherever he was, did have a kid, and their name did happen to be Lucid, that only raised more questions. There was no reason for Nebula to just suddenly know their name. There was also no reason for Nebula to care as much as he did, and yet whenever Lucid’s name surfaced, the ache grew worse. There was an insatiable need to know more, one that had no right to exist, and it was infuriating.
Whatever brief peace his coffee had brought him was quickly drowned out by the growing headache, making him unsteadily lower himself into an armchair, eyes closed a moment. I need to take some ibuprofen or something.
Whatever was going on, it had something to do with where he’d once worked; that much was for sure. The lack of a logical explanation for why now of all times he was being called back (albeit indirectly) was beyond him, but he decided not to think about that too hard. Nebula forced himself to open his eyes again, tapping the side of his watch to wake it up; the device flickered before the holographic screen appeared above it. For some strange reason, the familiarity of the screen eased his headache a bit in spite of the fact that it should’ve been the opposite . Then again, nothing made sense at that moment.
With no better idea for a starting point, Nebula opened a web browser, listlessly typing lobotomy corporation into the search bar. Quickly the company came up, presenting him with their official website. He almost scoffed; this wouldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, and was about to click off when a partially-cut off banner at the bottom of the page caught his attention.
NOW HIRING! read in big red letters. Nebula paused.
He remembered the hiring process somewhat. Applications would go in; Angela would go over them; after selecting people she found suitable to be Agents, the names and files would go to the Manager -- at the time, Nebula -- and he would then select who he felt was worthy of working under him. He had accepted almost every application he’d ever received.
He knew suddenly and with a strange certainty that Angela hadn’t liked that. He blinked slowly, finding himself scrolling down to read the announcement pinned on the website’s homepage.
LOBOTOMY CORPORATION is NOW HIRING people from ALL ACROSS THE BACKSTREETS! Whether you’re a Fixer or an average citizen, you too now have a chance at working at one of the WINGS OF THE WORLD! CLICK HERE TO APPLY TODAY, AND HELP US FACE THE FEAR AND BUILD THE FUTURE.
Nebula almost gagged. He hadn’t remembered the slogans always being that cheesy. In fact, he hadn’t remembered there ever being slogans at all. The situation he was in -- the announcement, the memories, the company as a whole -- it gave him an awful, suffocating feeling of dread. Still, he had no better lead.
The pain was coming back. His head pounded, eyes threatening to close.
Against his better judgement, Nebula reached forward, clicking the link to the application form.
What the hell else do I have to lose?