Nothing
02 Sep 2022Thorned Rose
Nothing.Just black nothingness.
Black nothingness stretches into eternity.
And then... bumpiness. My existence within this universe of nothing is a texture. What is this bumpy sensation? Am I the texture? Nothing else exists.
Movement. And... the bumpy sensation is getting bigger. I can feel contours of texture now. And a dim, red light.
I'm moving.... my hand? My hand is moving and I can feel the textured pattern and curves with my hand.
I open my eyes slightly. I can't see properly, almost like I'm only looking out one eye. Without moving I try peering around at my surroundings through slitted eyes. The lighting is low and subdued. I can’t see much but I can tell I’m lying on a narrow, enclosed bed covered in a simple white blanket. I realise that the textured sensation is a bio-bandage covering the left side of my face, including my eye, and I was touching it with my hand.
I feel unfocused and floaty but I try moving a little. Apart from the bio-bandage everything seems intact. I try poking different places on the bio-bandage’s contoured and textured surface. There's no pain so I guess that's a good thing at least. I turn my head and take in the small room. I'm alone. There’s a small computer access desk beside me, an enclosed hygiene cubicle on the other side of that, and open hatch with a ladder leading down, storage, digital panels, a bulkhead door... Nothing in this... room? I’m not sure what it is, but nothing is familiar. I'm not familiar. Wait...
Who am I?
I don't remember. I can't even remember my name. Oh gods, what is going on?! I can't remember anything.
Pushing down the panic, I close my eyes (eye?) and take some slow deep breaths and wait till my heart stops pounding.
OK, lets take stock of the situation. I have no memory of who I am, how I got here or what this place is. I think I’m on a ship. How do I know it’s a ship? I don’t know. Weird. So I don’t have any memory of who I am, how I got here or why I have a bandage on my head covering one eye but I can still recognise common objects. Retrograde amnesia. Or maybe dissociative amnesia. I cough out a hoarse, sarcastic laugh – I can remember “retrograde amnesia” and “dissociative amnesia” but I can’t remember who I am.
Deep, slow breaths. Come on, get it together. Let’s take one manageable step at a time.
First step is to make sure I’m safe. I gingerly push myself up and swing my legs around, shoving the blanket off. A few more deep slow breaths and I try standing up. NOPE! Whoa, I’m really dizzy. I collapse heavily back onto the bed. I take a moment, closing my eyes while the spinning stops. I’m in a white medical gown. This is disturbing. Did I get myself here, or did someone bring me here. If so, who? Right, lets try standing up again. This time a little more slowly.
My legs feel weak and wobbly as I grab hold of the desk and pull myself up to standing. How long was I unconscious? Leaning over the desk for support, I look around a bit more. There’s a symbol on the wall – a bird above the word, “Delacy”. I have no idea what that means. The display screen below it is turned off and I’m too wary of touching anything at the moment.
I explore the room quietly since I still don’t know if there’s anyone through the bulkhead door or the hatch leading down. I could be a captive for all I know. Whatever, I’ll play it safe and quiet for now.
The hygiene cubicle is about what you would expect – cramped and narrow with basic ablution facilities. I realise I really need to pee. Peeing can wait, safety first. I check the storage drawers and cupboards but they’re all empty apart from some food cartridges. With no clothes, I try the EVA storage locker and find a white flight suit and a pistol in it. Taking a moment to debate my priorities – should I change out of this gown or take the pistol and keep checking the rest of the place out first? – I grab the pistol and, OK, the gown leaves my butt blowing in the breeze (what little air flow there seems to be anyway) but safety is the priority. I don’t actually know (or remember?) how to use the pistol. But at least I can look like I know how to use it.
I don’t want to open the bulkhead door yet because I have no idea what’s on the other side of it. Cold hard vacuum for all I know which would end my new and rather blank life pretty quickly and very unpleasantly. Instead I move back over to the open hatch. Kneeling down, I poke my head down through the opening, gripping a ladder rung so I don’t fall through. Blood rushes to my head and makes the side of my face under the bio-bandage throb slightly. I almost drop the pistol. Gripping the pistol more tightly with my sweaty hand, I push through the discomfort. Scanning around the dimness, I can see what appears to be a small cargo bay. And by small, I mean tiny. It’s also completely silent and empty of anything living. Well anything living that could communicate with me anyway. Or potentially kill me.
I strain to pull myself back up. As I stand up, the dizziness hits hard, my vision goes like static and I frantically grab for something to steady me. For a moment I wonder if I’m going to be pulled black into that black nothingness where I exist only as a bumpy sensation.
Thankfully the wave of dizziness passes and I push off from hygiene cubicle door where I was leaning. With only one place left to check, I take a deep breath, point the pistol forward, my arms feeling shaky and heavy, and step towards the bulkhead before hitting the open door button on the panel.
The bulkhead door slides open with a swooshing sound. It’s a... flight deck. I mean, it’s not unexpected. Really, what was I expecting? It’s also empty and powered down. Because I’m apparently paranoid and weird, I slowly and carefully peer around at the pilots seat, half expecting to find a dead body... or... I don’t know? A clone? Wouldn’t that be just swell – original me is dead and I’m some blank clone or something. But, unexcitingly, thank the gods, it’s also empty. I drop my arms half in relief, half in confusion. I’m completely alone. At least for now.
Staring out through the canopy I can see a breathtakingly huge, metal clad space. Huge rails and pipes criss cross the distance, with caution stripes adorning metal panels and... whatever the hells those things are. I’m momentarily lost for words. Massive text on the far wall reads, “MAWSON DOCK”. I stare at it for a few moments hoping that it’ll trigger some memories or... just something. Anything. When nothing surfaces from the dark and dusty depths that is apparently my memory now, I return to the living quarters to pee and have a sit down.
To say that I feel disorientated would be a gross understatement. Confusion... yep, that too. And shit scared. I don’t even know how to process this. Tears well up in my eyes as emotion overwhelms me but I forcefully gulp it down. I know that’s not a healthy response but right now I have to work with what’s in front of me. Deep breaths.
Next steps... clothes, whatever the hell is under this bio-bandage, information.
I carefully stand back up, leaving the pistol in easy reach and check out the flight suit I found before. It’s better than an open-at-the-back-for-all-to-see medical gown (not that there’s anyone here but you know...it’s the principal right?). And it’s not like there’s anything else here I can wear anyway. I pull it out of the storage locker then awkwardly and haltingly pull it on. It fits... perfectly. Like it was made for me. What is going on? Is this my ship? I futilely ponder again how I got here.
OK, the curiosity is starting to jab hard at this point. I have to know what’s under this bandage. I remember the mirror in the hygiene room when I used it to pee. Walking over, I suddenly feel hesitation at seeing my face for the ‘first’ time. My face is my face and nothing is going to change that but I can’t help but feel weirdly afraid of what I look like, let alone what could be under the bandage. Are these feelings from memories that I can’t access or just the current confusion and loss of self? Hells I feel all over the place. Given how weak I feel, it might be related to lack of food. And the gods know how long I was unconscious. Maybe I should eat before doing this. Screw it, just rip it off and get this over with. And by ripping, I mean gingerly and gently picking at it because I’m in no mood for pain right now.
Deep breath, blowing out, I swing the hygiene room door open and look at my reflection in the mirror above the clean water receptacle. The bio-bandage covers most of the left side of my face. Being semi-opaque I can’t see much under it. The bandage’s health monitor shows green so that’s good at least. I notice for the first time that my hair is a deep red. With one almond shaped brown coloured eye showing, tan skin, high cheek bones, a flat nose and full lips, I’m still absolutely clueless on who I am. I don’t recognise any distinctive ethnicity or culture in my features. I certainly don’t recognise my own face. It’s like staring at a stranger and the stranger is staring back in equal confusion. Either that’s the amnesia or I have prosopagnosia. Won’t be able to test that until I meet someone else which I’m definitely not ready to do yet and would really rather prefer to avoid at this point in time, thank you.
It is time, however, to see what horrifying destiny awaits me under this bandage. I tap the bio-bandage’s release and start to pick it around the edges. As I fumble the bandage with my jittery hands it easily and painlessly peels away to land, with a slightly wet sounding slap, on the floor. I stare hard at ‘my’ reflection in the mirror for a few minutes. Not because I’m necessarily deathly shocked at what I see but because I need a moment to take in all of what I’m seeing. An angry, puckered scar runs from my forehead, through my brow, across my eye, down my cheek parallel to my nose and continues almost all the way to my mouth. Oh, and yeah, my left eye is fucking cybernetic.
It’s brown coloured like my natural eye. So I can give kudos to my forgotten self or whoever the hells did medical on me for colour matching, I guess. More importantly, how in the flying fuck did I get this injury??
Also, why is it that technology exists that can give me a freaking cybernetic eye but can’t heal a damn scar? Did my forgotten self choose this as some stupid aesthetic choice? Like, in my best moronic deep voice, “I will look more badass if I have a ginormous scar to show off!”?? Or was it the choice of my sketchy, possibly soon to be showing up, good samaritan/evil captor? And if so, what the actual?
I’m not sure why this offends me so much. Maybe forgotten self would know.
I pick up the discarded bio-bandage and chuck it in the recycler. At least I don’t feel as dizzy now bending over. Definitely hungry though.
Either someone’s going to turn up or they’re not. No point in facing my glory or doom on an empty stomach. And, having now had some not-unconscious time to think about it, I doubt that anyone would go to all this trouble making sure I got medical only to turn up, say, “Hey, you’re awake!” and then promptly murder me.
OK then, next-next steps – food. Information.
After stealing one more glance at my face in the mirror, I wander over to the food storage and rifle through the limited amount of food cartridges. Hotdog, hotdog, burger and.... more burgers. Wow, quite the selection. I mean, I’m swimming in choice here. I have no idea if I like either so, shrugging, I grab the first one (hotdog) and load it in the chef. Whilst waiting for the food to finish printing I consider the merits of powering up the display over on the wall above the desk. If this is my ship, then no problem. The actual problem though is I don’t know if this is my ship. And even if it is, I could be some top tier criminal trying to hide out while I recover from a gruesome, criminal accident. Maybe powering up any electronics could set off some sort of alarm or trigger..... Wow, does missing memory make people paranoid and way overthink the crap out of situations?
The food dings, breaking my ultimately pointless and spiralling catastrophising, and I gratefully snatch up the perfectly heated hotdog. After casually wandering over to the display, I pause a moment, hungrily munching down my food, while I stare at the blank screen and the reflection of my face in said screen. Feels like there’s something symbolic or blah blah psychobabble blah in that. Before I can reach out to power up the display it emits a loud chime, scaring me out of my skin and, not gonna lie, causing me to drop my food on the deck like a complete scrub. A reminder about a Pilots' Federation Administration evaluation (what a tongue twister, gees) sits flashing on the screen. A reminder. A freaking reminder! Really?? I need to do some serious work on not being so jumpy and calming the fuck down. Granted, some amount of caution is warranted in the situation but not sure dropping my lunch (breakfast? dinner? What is the time anyway?) over a damned reminder is a reasonable reaction to have.
I lean closer to the display to read the details. So apparently I’m sitting some sort of practical evaluation for a pilot’s licence (I’m a learner?) from the Pilot’s Federation in.... 30 minutes. Fuck. How am I supposed to sit an exam when I can’t remember shit, don’t know who I am, don’t even know if this is my ship, have no idea what’s going on..... shit, shit, shit! For the love of the gods, deep... calming... breaths! You’re spiralling again.
Half eaten hotdog forgotten on the deck, I frantically start searching around for anything that will help. In the cockpit, within a small cargo net cubby and jammed in beside a water bottle, I find a tatty looking ‘Space Trader's Flight Training Manual’. Huh, interesting. Skimming through it I realise there’s no way I have time to read all this and unceremoniously shove it back. Seeing the water bottle, I suddenly cognizant of just how thirsty I am after that bland, sorry excuse for a hotdog. I consider, a moment, the safety of drinking from an unknown bottle but quickly swing back around to- if someone wanted me dead, I would already be dead. Undoing the cap, I thirstily guzzle down some water.
Surely this ship has a digital tutorial, or something, right? Fuck it. As I wipe my chin dry, I start pressing a bunch of likely-looking buttons in the hopes that one of them will power up the ship and get me info on how to fly this thing. A part of my mind is screaming that this is not the actions of a sane person, that I should go find some sort of authority person and have a sit down and a nice chat about my existential crisis and everything will be just f i n e. The other part of my mind is blind panic and paranoia and frankly winning on the keeping-my-attention front.
After what seems like an interminable amount of buttons, the ships console starts a boot sequence and one by one functions come online. Flopping ungracefully down in the pilots seat I feel utterly and completely overwhelmed by all the... stuff. Orange stuff. Everywhere. Navigation, transactions, contacts... A keyboard... Chat? Starport services, a bunch of icons... Info... SYS, ENG and WEP (whatever the nine hells those are)... Fuel, and... gods! That’s... me! There’s a picture of my face. The one that was in the mirror anyway, sans scar and cybernetic eye, but it is me! And my name. My name is “Thorned Rose”....?
Once again, I pause in the vain hopes that something rises from my memory. Nope and no time to think about it right now. I need to learn to fly this, whatever it is, ship in.... 6 minutes. Frick! Where the hells did all that time go? Have I lost my perception of time along with my memory?
Look, I want to say that I’m cool as ice and calm and that I can work through this like a rational, sensible person. But clearly I am not that person or at least, not any more. This is completely and utterly insane and any normal person would have noped out a long time ago. But then again, nothing of this situation is in the least bit fucking normal. Roll with the punches right? Hands on the controls and pretend like I know what the fuck I’m doing....
A voice out of seemingly nowhere interrupts my authentic-self-work progress. “Welcome to Mawson Dock. Make yourself comfortable while we finish some preliminary ship checks.”.
Mother of gods, I jump out of my skin again.
“My name is Theo Arcosta...”
Umm, hi Theo? I silently greet the first person I’ve ever met in my new life, breathless and too frozen to say anything outloud.
“...and I’ll be running your Pilots’ Federation evaluation.”
Ok, cool, I guess?
“Most pilots assigned to me earn their license, so as long as you follow my instructions you’ll be a commander in no time.”
Clearly you’ve never met me before, I think, bemused.
Well, there’s nothing to it. As Theo continues his introduction, I take some deep breaths, for real this time. In slow, out slow. I still don’t know what’s going on or what I’m going to do. But whatever it is and however this turns out, I know it’s going to get interesting.
Auto launch.