SILAS

I wake up with a start, on my back in a cold, mostly dark room, awash in a strange, cool glow. My synthetic heart tremors frantically in my chest.

The desert. Those Biodroids. Razor. That weird warning message in my HUD. It all comes rushing back.

Razor must have attacked me. It's the only explanation. The real question is, how did I get from the desert to here? And where is 'here', anyway?

All I know is that it's dark. All I know is that I'm lying on a surface that's smooth and cold.

Still, I don't bother to turn and look around. I should be more concerned with my present situation, especially considering what I was up to before I lost consciousness. But at the moment, I'm more worried about the past.

I can still feel the burning scrape of the black fabric running over my hair and face. I can still see the sad, apologetic look on Gemma's face, just as the darkness descends.

It's more than just a dream. I know, because it doesn't blur and fade away with the waking mind. It lingers. Vivid and undeniable.

Even if it can't be real. Even if it doesn't make any sense. Even if I'm positively certain I've never recalled the events of that night going down that way before.

Seriously. That stuff at the gas station. It never happened.

Well, some of it happened. Gemma rode on the back pegs while I pedaled home. And we did decide to stop for snacks. I went inside the Circle K while she stayed outside with the bike. That all checks out. But the bit with the guys in lab coats, and the white van--that just isn't right.

I mean, technically, none of this is right. It's all bonkers to me. But so far, I've managed to mentally separate the chaos of current events with the memories of my former life. My past life is the real world. This post-apoc sci-fi is the fantasy, the place I've been reincarnated into. But maybe that's just dissociation on my part, and a heaping spoonful of cope.

A spoonful of copium helps the apocalypse go down.

Now I'm just rambling, mentally. I have to get it together. I have to move.

I can feel that conviction, that sense of urgency, galvanizing me, setting my body into motion.

I sit up on what appears to be an examination table, breaking free of my arm restraints before I even realize they were there in the first place. The manacles snap apart, pieces bouncing on the chrome tabletop before clattering to the floor. I activate both Salvo and Blast Protocols at the same time, swiveling as I scan the room, the yellow glow from my arm cannon lighting up the space like a giant glowstick.

The big screen to my right, the source of the eerie blue glow, is the most obvious and attention-grabbing feature in the room. It's a fifty-incher if I've ever seen one. Would make for a killer Smash Bros. session, if the latency's good.

The things I think about when I'm hopped up on adrenaline, and lives are at stake.

No Smash Bros on that screen, though. Just a girl in a hoodie talking to two guys in lab coats, standing in front of a white van.

No time to fixate on it. No time to stop and wonder. I am in an unfamiliar place. For all I know, I'm in serious danger; and so are my friends.

I continue scanning the room, trying to put the visuals on the screen out of my mind, the way it perfectly depicts the events of my dream. Audio from the dream echoes oddly in the space, originating from speakers I can't see or pinpoint by ear.

"I saw you. And I noticed, which means that things are not operating as intended. I shouldn't notice anything. To me, it should just be another night in a small town in the middle of nowhere. It has to work for us, so it can work for him.

"I mean, look at this vehicle, and look what you're wearing. This is—"

My first impression of the rest of the room is that it's some kind of corner office in a warehouse—except for the wall to my right with the screen on it. But that's just a feeling, more than anything. It's too dark to make anything out as I scan my peripheral, waiting for something to come into focus.

I hold up my arm cannon like a lantern, pointing the yellow glow into the gloom, but the darkness just seems to go on; the only thing I'm illuminating is space itself. There are no distinct shadows, no particular objects that I can identify. It's almost like this isn't even real; it's almost like this table I'm sitting on and the screen next to me are simulated manifestations, loaded into the middle of a black void.

Wait. There is something. Close enough to be illuminated by the yellow lights from my cannon, it looks like some kind of computer terminal installation. Like an office desk but bulkier and singular, one big unit. There's a small cone of light from a computer screen on the other side of it, illuminating a pale face, appearing to float in the darkness, like the head of a ghost. It looks like a kid, younger than me by a couple of years.

His face is framed by long dark hair, parted perfectly down the middle of his head, unnaturally straight. Since he's sitting on the other side of the terminal, I can only guess how long it is, but despite how straight and uniform it is, I get the feeling that he doesn't do anything to maintain it. The way that he pulls each side of his hair out of his face, hooking it behind his ear, I have to assume he's just annoyed with it. He's tired of it getting in the way, but not quite frustrated enough yet to trim it off. I don't know why that sticks out so much to me, why I'm so fixated on that aspect of his appearance.

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He's not a threat to me. At least I don't think he is. Maybe there's no way to know.

I aim my arm cannon at him before I can think of something to say, some way to begin my interrogation.

He holds up a hand in greeting. "Hey."

His voice is soft—timid, but not afraid. The uncertainty in his eyes seems more about how I might react. He's not sure how this conversation is going to go. But he doesn't see me as a physical threat.

I move to get off the table, then realize that there's another set of clamps on my legs, holding me in place. I flex one leg than the other, breaking apart the restraints. I heave over the side of the table and land on my feet, still facing the kid, still pointing my arm cannon at him.

The kid on the other side of the terminal frowns at me. "You know that those weren't intended to keep you restrained, right? They were just to keep you safe, to keep you from falling off of the table while you were in REM. I could have unlocked them for you."

"Yeah," I say. "I don't tend to sit around politely asking questions when I wake up in an unfamiliar place, strapped to a table."

The kid nods to himself. "I see. I...didn't anticipate that."

"You... You thought people liked being strapped to tables?"

"Hmmmm," he says, noncommittally. Like he doesn't quite get it.

"While I'm at it, you could probably stand to do something with the decor."

"Ah," he says, glancing around the place before directing his gaze back to me. "This place, it might seem strange to you, but it is perfectly familiar to me. It is...cozy. Of course, now that I analyze it objectively, I can see that...yes, people are averse to the darkness. As for myself, I'm used to living in these conditions. I've preferred to leave things like this, even though the facility's systems have been restored back to full power."

I glance around at the shroud of darkness surrounding us. "You've lived like this? For how long?"

He scrunches his brows, biting his lip as he concentrates. "Seven years, two-hundred and twenty-six days, and sixteen hours."

I…I'm not even sure I can believe that.

Can you?

"You seem skeptical. It's because you don't remember, Rev."

…Rev?

"Your memory unit has been manipulated," he goes on. "Not everything you see when you look into the past is real, and many years of your conscious existence have been removed entirely, or at least locked away."

That, we already knew.

He smiles thinly, but there's something off about the expression, it's almost like a wince. "I wish you did remember, Silas. It's been a long time since I've spoken with anyone. Our meeting here like this... I wish it could have been a little bit different. I've always considered you to be the best friend I ever had."

Well, this is awkward. What am I supposed to say to something like that?

Wait. Rewind.

I lower my arm cannon, though I'm still holding the charge. "This is the underground complex, then?"

"The one you and the others were housed in for all those years, yes. In stasis."

"But not you?"

"No. Not me. For the most part. I decided against the long sleep, so I could watch over things from here. That is, until the facility's systems started to fail, losing most of it's power. I was forced to go into hibernation, so to speak."

"Until the raid, I'm guessing."

"It was the hack, actually. The activation of a payload in the system. Probably the same payload responsible for the loss of power."

"I'm not following."

He squints and cocks his head at me, wondering how much I know about what happened. Or maybe he's annoyed at my lack of understanding.

"It is impossible to hack the defense systems remotely."

"But it happened."

"Because of the payload. It was in the system. Waiting. Leaving a back door open so someone could sneak in."

"Like jailbreaking a 3DS?" For some reason, that's what comes to mind. When I hacked my Nintendo 3DS, I had to move a file I got off Github onto the system memory, using an SD card. Then I activated the program by clicking on a link using the 3DS web browser.

"Jailbreak," the kid says, tasting the word on his tongue. "The use of programming exploits to override system restrictions and parameters. Yes, I do believe the illustration suffices."

"I thought so. Where are my friends?"

"Safe," the kid says.

One word. Doesn't elaborate.

I ease one step forward, my arm cannon still cocked downward at an angle. "Can I see them?"

"In due time."

Not a big fan of that answer. It smacks too much of someone who thinks they know better than I do.

I'm not exactly big on authority figures. Don't get me wrong, I've always had all the respect in the world for my parents. I always took their instructions and advice to heart. But teachers, principals, even cops—to the extent that I can get away with it, I will always go against authority.

You could say it's something that's wrong with me, and maybe it is. I just don't like the idea that I might have to live my life according to somebody else's preferences and biases. People come up with all kinds of reasons to try and get other people to do what they want. And those reasons don't always make sense. My beliefs aren't the same as other people's beliefs. My values aren't the same as their values. There's a certain degree to which I would prefer if people didn't try to enforce their perspective of the world on me.

But more than that, some people just like to be in control of the situation, and that's the vibe I'm getting right here. This guy, this kid—it sounds like he's been here a while. He's used to operating on his own, moving at his own pace, doing his own thing. He's not used to other people being in the mix.

Does he have a legitimate reason for keeping me away from my friends? Is he trying to set a precedent of who tells who what to do? I mean, he does kind of have the power in this situation; this is his house, not mine.

I take another step toward him, holding my arm at the same angle, not quite pointed at him, but not lowered either, ready to raise and fire if I have to.

Turquoise lights flash on the kid's body, two bars of light to be precise, one on each arm, running down from shoulder to bicep. They flare like muscles being flexed, though his expression stays the same.

Suddenly, my Blast Protocol shuts off. The arm cannon's glow dims, and then the cannon begins to retract, turning back into my metal arm.

I glance at my arm, confused. Then take another step toward him, only for my legs to give out from under me.

I drop to my knees, frustrated and bewildered.

The kid stands, stepping away from the computer screen. He's only about a head taller than when he was sitting in the chair. He steps around the computer terminal, locks of his waist-long hair catching on the edge of the desk and flowing smoothly over the top of it. The glow from his arms light up his face, the upward angle of the illumination giving him a vaguely menacing appearance despite his neutral expression.

He moves toward me. With a start, I realize I can't do anything at all. I can't even move my arms, locked at my sides. Error messages blink and flash in my heads-up display. I have no strength, no mobility, no Protocols. I'm completely helpless.

He comes to a stop in front of me. He bends down, crouching a little, until we're face to face. His eyes flit around, up to down, left to right, examining me thoroughly, looking; who knows what for.

"This version of you," he says, finally. "He really doesn't recognize me."

A moment of silence follows that, as if to honor the dead.

But then, for the first time, a smile. "That's all right. You're in there somewhere. I'm going to get you out."