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Another surge of panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I count it back down.
One, you’re alive.
Two, current smarting pain in the knees and elbows aside, you’re not hurt.
Three, there might be no one here to explain what the fuck is going on, but there’s no one here trying to make the situation worse, either.
Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Eight, wiggle your toes, scrunch your fingers.
Nine, take a deep breath.
Ten, get on your feet, soldier.
I push myself upright. It takes more concentration than it does strength, my legs still wobbly and unsteady, not wanting to hold my weight. But I get there, blink through the head rush, and have a proper look at my surroundings.
It’s a typical Mercenia military base structure. I know exactly where I am within the complex, just from the layout of the room, the lack of windows on the walls. Not surprising that I’d be in a military base, but it’s quiet. Too quiet. Normally, there would be voices, footsteps. The general sound of people moving about around the place. All I can hear is the low hum of the cryostasis pods. Twenty of them, I count in a glance, and all of them still locked down, their occupant frozen, besides me.
All women, I note, as I glance at the faces, hoping to maybe recognise one of them. Most of them, I don’t, and I don’t think they’re military, either. They’re too… delicate looking. Military tier women are bred for their height, their strength. Most of these women look like fragile little dolls next to me.
A feeling gnaws at my gut, but I ignore it, checking round the last few pods. In the second from the end of the back row, I finally find a face I recognise, although I don’t know why she’s familiar. I can only see her face through the viewing screen, and her eyes are closed, but the sight of her prompts another flash of memory - that same face wearing glasses and a disdainful expression, white blond hair pinned up in a severe style.
Scientist. The sense that she’s a more recent acquaintance. Not much else.
It suggests my memories aren’t completely gone, though, just shrouded. Hidden by whatever cocktail of drugs was pumped through my system to prep me for cryostasis. It does always leave you feeling out of sorts, waking up after a deep freeze, and that’s with all the correct protocols being followed and the support team around you to bring you back to the world. This, whatever this is, isn’t the way things should be done.
I contemplate waking one of the other women. I know how to do it properly, or at least how to initiate the defrost properly. I’m not a doctor or a scientist, couldn’t course correct if something went wrong. But things are unlikely to go wrong. I could bring one of the others round, ask her what the hell is going on.
The flash of that monstrous face returns to my mind. Fangs and baleful eyes. This time with claws raised towards me. Fear makes adrenaline surge inside me, sharpening my senses, my thoughts along with them.
Tempting as it is to wake one of them, I’m in no position to look after myself right now. I need to assess the situation, I need…
Clothes, I realise, looking down at the panties and vest top I’m wearing. Clothes and a decent pair of shoes. A gun, if I can find one, though it’s not the most important thing. As far as I can tell, there’s no one else here, no one I need to defend myself against.
Still, I’d feel a lot better with a weapon in my hand right now.
Clothes first.
There are no lockers in the room with the cryostasis pods, so I head out into the corridor, checking in all directions for any sign of anyone. The doors along the corridor are all open, like someone’s done an emergency override. Just another thing to add to the laundry list of stuff that’s not right. I put it out of mind for now and head to the shower rooms. There, I find several of the lockers already opened and emptied, but my own is still locked behind my code, an old-fashioned combination lock keeping everyone else out. My fingers remember the code more so than my mind, and I spin through the dials until the lock pops open.
I pull on a set of fatigues - olive green t-shirt, camo trousers and jacket, my name embroidered on the breast pocket. Sturdy boots complete the outfit, making me feel more human, more myself, than I’ve felt since waking up. It’s easier to believe I could take on whatever threats and challenges await me when I’ve got a decent pair of boots on.
Still, a gun would be nice.
Rummaging around in a kit bag stuffed at the bottom, I find a knife that’s more multi-tool than an actual weapon, but it’s better than nothing. I slip it in my deepest pocket for safekeeping, then return to the kit bag. A couple of flares, a standard first aid kit and other basics - all worth taking. Plus, the bag might come in handy for lugging round any more supplies I come across, so I grab the lot, swinging it up over my shoulder.
As I head back towards the corridor, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Pallid skin, sunken features - typical of someone just woken from cryo. My hair gives me a start, though, almost long enough to fall in my eyes at the front. The bland, sandy brown colour of it has lifted to an almost blonde colour in places, as if I’ve spent some time in the sun.
I run my fingers through it, spiking it up before flattening it back down. Distantly, I remember that I’ve been on my current mission for several months, time enough for my hair to grow out. But there’s a whole military installation here, wherever here is. Am I supposed to believe there’s no access to a razor?
I push my hair back so it’s out of my eyes, then continue to the corridor, scanning everything around me as I go, looking for any hint, any clue of what happened here. Or just anything that might trigger my patchy memories to come back through.
It’s impossible to tell how long it’s been since someone else walked these corridors. On the one hand, there are signs that things have been used, moved. Chairs askew and doors ajar. But if everyone here had to leave in a hurry, that wouldn’t be surprising. The place has the look of the sims we used to run during our training as kids - the setting a district recently abandoned by its inhabitants thanks to an insurgent invasion. Those scenarios sometimes went as far as a steaming bowl of broth left on the table to depict just how recently the residents had fled. There’s nothing quite so immediate here, but there’s still a hairs on the back of the neck raising wrongness about it.
I just wish I knew why.
None of the rooms on the corridor give me anything, so I continue up the stairs.
