01
A Memory of a Rust-Blooded Marionette
It's cold in space. I've been taught this by my Master...or his puppet it seems, though is said Puppet more involved? Lord English carries both time and space whilst he slumbers, but the Dummy, the Cue Ball, the Host, appears to be pulling the strings, and I seem to be the one manipulated. I'm not sure either way, I remember very little. My whole life is just a paradox, but can it even be called a life at all? My existence is just made up random isolated memories of missions, lessons, chores arranged in no particular order like splatters of paint smearing into a mottled gray. I jump from present, to future, to past, changing fate to the will of my superiors. Reflection is painfully confusing when this is what kind of being you are. Daydreaming is dreadful. If I were to gaze at the stars I would wonder if my lusus is watching the sky too. Waiting for a wriggler that would never arrive. Maybe she found another rust-blood and are smiling or crying, despite or because the warm color of our blood. It really is cold in space.