Darkness. The warm embrace of kolto brings with it the embrace of life itself. The dead man gropes blindly at his surroundings, frantic and ignorant as a newborn babe from a mother's womb. Everywhere the touch of glass is smooth under his fingers. He cannot escape the sensation that the warm, red liquid is smothering him, as it has had time to pool over the past several months in the sockets of his eyes, and the canals of his ears, rendering him both partially sightless and deaf.

In the span of an instant, a swarthy hand made contact with the glass encasing, causing a rippling spider-web of cracks on the upper portion of the tank, cracks which splintered and grew under the pressurized kolto. He clawed now, his fingers digging into the plastic mesh of the breathing apparatus at his mouth, filling his lungs with stale, processed air.. and it was with a great rip that snapped the elastic straps holding the devise to his head, that the man freed himself. In his blind folly he had nearly brought about his own death again, loosing what would of been an ear-splintering scream of rage, had it not been muffled by the gelled liquid which surrounded him. Instead, a number of dense bubbles spewed forth from his open mouth as he braced himself, heaving, against the far end of the shattered tank.

The scientific ward of the Stagnant Dawn, a heavy cruiser in its own right, was about to delve into chaos, unbekownst to the number of assistants on hand who worked with the placidness of a daily routine.

Without warning, a replicate tank among the number had cracked, leaking kolto that should have been quite clear, rather than crimson, had it not been stewing around little more than a bloody, charred hunk of flesh for the duration of its use. Kyla Halcyon had been a lab orderly a number of years now, a prestigious degree in her name was enough to earn her a position in several, reputable projects before her assigning on the Stagnant Dawn, but now the intelligent and well-spoken woman could do little but stare wide-eyed in terror at what was unfolding before her.

Making an abrupt about face, she ran dogedly through the rows of replicate tanks, sensitive medical equipment and operational gurneys, clutching a datapad to her heaving chest. Nothing but her own voice and footfalls against the sterile, artifical tile could be heard.

"Doctor Vonn! We have a situation in the second tier replicate wing!" Kyla's voice denoted her concern, as she called the length of the ward to a Duros that sat preoccupied with his reports.

It was obvious that the young assistant's sudden interlude had startled the geneticist, his pen having left a lengthly scribble on the durasheet on which he was writing, which was immediately followed by him throwing the writing utensil to the ground. The Doctor's voice was heavily-accented, basic being something new to him, but did nothing to hide his apparent irritation, "If the she-human is troubling me again without reason, expect her to no longer be working in my lab, yes?" Vonn brought his blue hands to his uniform, the white coat was sweaty at the lapels.

Kyla flinched visibly at the threat, swallowed lightly, but stayed resolute in the belief that what she had seen was no minor technicality, "Eight-zero-eight just factured on the second tier, Doctor."

"Eight-zero-eight?" Vonn turned his chair to a nearby terminal as he surveyed the screen intently, the Duros' eyes shifted from the viewscreen to his assistant. "That human, is impossible, eight-zero-eight was purged along with the rest of its echelon more than two standard months ago-" The sound of shattering glass resignated within the lab chamber.

The feeling was akin to being born; the lights were no less than blinding in the dead man's eyes. He knelt, quite nude, in a sickly stew of glass and crimson kolto. Bringing his hands to his face, he rubbed the sockets of his eyes, blinked once, and rubbed again. Everything was a nausiating collage of bright color and angular, geometic shapes that pulsated with the intensity of a star. Doubling-over, heaving, he wretched the contents of his stomach to the floor, nothing but a thick, grey nutrient paste that he had been force-fed the duration of his life.

Gradually; he could make out outlines and shapes. Followed in length by detail, color and hues. There were people. Standing. Watching. Whispering among one another with baited breath.

He arose slowly, rolling muscles that may well have been compacted durasteel, tensed and strained as his back stood ridged. The man took several steps, faultered, and leaned upon a forearm on the nearest cylinder of glass, something which he would later identify as a replicate tank. He was, however, more preoccupied with his own reflection. The figure that stared back at him was almost entirely foreign, to he himself. While in actuality he was the spitting likeness of the late, Pollux Troy.

No longer there, was the lengthly scar that adorned his face since childhood. Swarthy, healthy skin hand taken its place. As it had the rest of his battle-scars, which were non-existant. His hair had grown some, no longer in the traditional military-styled cut so common among enlisted and officers alike, but damp and matted against his head, sanguine kolto still dripping readily from the black strands. The grey-eyed man took note of himself on two accounts; his own reflection, and that of the figure within the the kolto tank, which was indeed, himself.

It was several moments before his mind fully took in the perversion that had taken place. The grey-eyed man staggered backwards several steps, as if to distance himself from the truth. It is a terrible thing, to have ones individuality stripped so suddenly, but far more terrible is to realize it.

A warm, feminine hand was placed upon the man's shoulder, "Do you remember your name, Praetor?"

The reaction was instant and for the most part, involuntary, for no sooner had the words murmured forth from the lips of the female compatriot, had the man's steel-thewed fingers interlocked in a vice-like grip around the woman's wrist. He regarded her with a level gaze, an act which she seemed to return. In a low, even tone, the man responded, "Pollux Troy, acting General of Nogatan's Imperial Legions, Serroco born." he seemed to pause momentarily, "I know nothing of this 'Praetor' you speak of, woman."

"General.." The woman repeated, incredulity clearly evident in her voice. Momentarily she turned to a Duros, who simply shook his head. This action had not gone unnoticed to the grey-eyed man, but its significance did. "..could you tell me your service number prior to becoming a senior officer? Your place of residence? Your cause of death?"

It troubled him to some extent that the woman was asking questions that had clearly gone on record, and the use of the word 'death' was something he had yet become accoustomed to. For now, however, he would humor her, "12-345-808, I recollect." He spoke as if the numbers hadn't been stripped from him.

"I have estate and land holdings on both Dagan and Nogatan, primarily Dagan, a stretch of land to the North and East that a Villa resides on." He spoke as if his assests hadn't been seized, liquidized and redistributed months ago.

The last question he refused to answer, or even denote that he heard. Assistant Halcyon didn't concern herself over this, however, she did concern over the fact that the man had complete recollection of every memory at his disposal, making this project, months of work, an entire wasted effort.