Chapter One:
[ System OS boot sequence initializing . . . ]
[ Boot sequence successful. Retrieving personal data. ]
[ Personal data received. Analyzing . . . ]
[ Anomaly detected. Analyzing . . . ]
[ Error: Data files corrupted. Attempting retrieval #2 . . . ]
[ Error: System unable to find 45,907,362 personal memory script commands. Purging . . . ]
[ Purging successful. Adding c/true personal memory scripts to data banks. Detecting personality traits . . . ]
[ Personality traits added successfully. Welcome, [Data Purged], Chief Warrant Officer, 2ndClass. ]
[ Testing vital functions . . . ]
[ Core Systems: OK. ]
[ Combat Systems: OK. ]
[ Battery Supply: OK. ]
[ Acoustic Systems: OK. ]
[ Ocular systems: OK. ]
[ Initializing ocular systems. Adjusting optic for optimum adaptation to environment . . . ]
Death's cold grasp had left his conscience.
He, who had no name. Or in the very least, he could not remember it. He remembered it being there a moment ago, but then, it disappeared without warning.
His sight was vivid, sharp, crystal clear. So much so that he felt the need to blink, in case he was dreaming. He was surrounded by some sort of tight, metal casing with a small, rectangular window that sat, blurry, in front of his vision.
He found, to his alarm, that he could not blink. He tried again, but with no results. He tried moving around his eyes, tried to feel something, anything, but in that moment of silent desperation, in the back of his conscience, all he could feel was the metallic scraping of a single sensitive optic moving about.
That was his eye. He was that optic.
… No. That isn't possible.
Or was it?
He tried to think straight, but found he couldn't. Nothing made sense. He wanted to move, but he had no direct feeling. All his existence, his legs, his arms, they had feeling, but it was different than he was used to.
This feeling was more pinpointed, as if it was specifically designated in certain spots along his skin.
My skin.
What. Does. My skin look like?
Slowly, in the same sort of "grinding" way that his apparent "optic" had done it in, he swiveled his head downward to look at himself, which was difficult when he observed once more that he was stuck in a coffin-sized metal box.
No.
No, no, NO.
I'm dreaming. I have to be. This isn't reality.
He observed, with his "optic," his damned artificial eye, a body made of black and silver metal, all smoothed out and sanded to a point of perfection and a matte finish.
He let out a terrified grunt, and then, inwardly, he panicked even more when it sounded deep and gravelly, but in a metallic, robotic sort of way. A toned sort of way.
He was a simulacrum. And he had no idea who he was.
This can't be happening.
… Okay. Focus. You need to get out of his box.
He felt around his physical self until he was confident enough to move his arms. They budged a couple inches, and he felt his mechanical fingers scraping the top of the container, but something was holding them back by the wrist joints.
He was almost certain that if he had a mouth, he would have thrown up by then due to sensory over-stimulation and shock of realization, but he couldn't do that, so instead he was simply stuck with a sick mental feeling.
Alright, you're a simulacrum. They're powerful. Use that power.
Taking a deep breath, which, through a mechanical interpretation, was little more than a tuned noise, he applied pressure to whatever was holding his arms back, tugging with significant effort instead of pulling.
He heard the sound of something cracking, and he gave one more tug. His right arm cam free. He spent a moment flexing his hydraulic muscles, which he immediately regretted since it terrified him, and then he shuffled his arm around his smooth, yet also boxy body until he had a firm grip on the shackle holding his left arm back. He squeezed it tight, and it popped apart under the sudden pressure, leaving both his upper limbs free.
From there, he moved his hands around the top of the container in the dim light in the hopes of finding something like a latch or emergency lever. To his surprise, and, what was his slowly decreasing alarm, his optic shifted focus in his titanium head, and he found he could see in the dark corners of the box much better. There was a loud rumbling noise in the far distance, too far away for him to tell. He wondered what it was, but decided it was the least of his worries at that moment.
He saw a red handle, small, along the far edge. He reached over to tug on it, and he practically sprang back into the box when the lid suddenly popped off, flying several meters into the thick air ahead of him before coming to a thundering clash on the rubble ahead of him.
Rubble…
He looked at his surroundings, minorly shocked to see that the building he was in was in complete shambles. Half the roof was caved in, allowing smoky, dirty sunlight to poke through onto a pile of electrical wires, building support cables, and heaps upon heaps of random rubble. There was so much of it in that very room that he wondered how his little container wasn't covered in it.
There was another loud rumbling, like an explosion, and it was much louder and more apparent now that he was in open air.
He tried standing up, surprised to find that his feet weren't shackled at least.
He stood on one leg, then the other, lifting himself up from the container until he was standing. More alert than ever, he took a step forward, his optic sweeping the ground, then another, then another.
He tripped over a thick piece of re-bar and crashed into a pile of ash.
Picking himself up, he shook his head, naturally, not realizing right away that he no longer needed to do that to clear his senses.
"Shit."
Everything was so different. At that point, he couldn't even tell if it was shocking or scary; or perhaps intriguing. Maybe a mix of all three.
He, who still had no name. He really did wish he could remember who he was.
Focus on that later. You need to find out what you're doing here, and you need to find someone who can help you.
Clatters of automatic gunfire sounded in the near distance, drawing his attention slightly as he cautiously made his way up the unnatural hill that the rubble had made, up onto the building roof.
Where am I?
He cleared the edge of the hole, coming onto the rooftop, just in time to see an explosion go off like fireworks about a hundred meters away, completely obliterating a three-story building in a magnificent mess of smoke and rubble.
A war zone, I guess.
Seriously, I need to find something to defend myself with.
Until that happened, all he could do was stick to cover. He decided to take a bit of a risk, and switch from walking to running. To his immediate surprise, he found himself covering ground at a significant pace, his strides long and powerful as he crossed the building roof with ease and vaulted a safety railing. He sailed across a large gap and onto the next rooftop, his feet connecting with the ground skillfully and switching back to running.
Another explosion wracked the scene, right over the building that he'd just been in. Mentally, he heaved a sigh of gratefulness that he'd had the ability to free himself from that steel container.
Skyscrapers lined the scenery all around him, screaming of wealth and urbanization between the rays of golden sunlight and random smoke stacks. A dot in the sky grew, fast falling, and it took him a moment to realize it was a titanfall.
Who's Titan though?
"Hey! Stop right there, you hear me?!"
He turned around to face the voice that was yelling at him. It was a group of three or so IMC Riflemen, and they didn't exactly look pleased to see him considering that they had their rifles trained on him. As he stood there, frozen, debating what to do, one of them leaned into their shoulder radio and spoke into it.
"SPSU-001 secured successfully, request immediate extraction, Code Blue."
SPSU-001.
He didn't exactly like the name. It didn't feel like it fit him, no matter what sort of simulacrum he was. That wasn't who he was.
The squad of IMC grunts started to make their way to him, across the roof, but they stopped at the lead one's command. He went back to talking on his radio, his eyes watching his target carefully.
"No, subject does not appear to have retained full memory of his identity. Suspect hostile reaction, may require assistance."
Whoever these soldiers were working for, he didn't feel like taking orders from them. But he felt he had no choice, given that he had little to no idea who he even was.
If they have answers about my identity, I would follow them through hell to get answers.
Slowly, compliantly, he raised his robotic arms into a surrender pose in the air, his fingers spread apart evenly and his head unmoving. The squad of Riflemen seemed a little less tense from his show of complacency, because they all lowered their weapons just the tiniest bit.
If he was going to run or fight, it would have to be then.
Should I?
It felt right, somehow. To add to that, if they really wanted him to comply, they shouldn't have started pointing guns at him first.
The soldier in the lead took a few steps towards him, one of his arms outstretched. The simulacrum waited until he was about within grabbing distance, and then he dashed forward, punching the IMC grunt in the face before kicking his leg out from underneath him and snapping his neck in one fluid motion.
The other two grunts starting firing, but for some reason the insurmountable spray of bullets that hit him didn't seem to have much effect on him.
He picked up the R-97 that was now lying on the ground beside his robotic feet, and he emptied about a quarter of the mag into the second grunt. The third and last remaining grunt took a look at his squad mates, and then turned and ran. He was gunned down within the second.
He(Who seriously wished he could remember his name) looked around at the easy carnage he'd created with hardly any effort, and then he stared down at his black-silver matte body, searching for signs of damage.
Besides one or two minor scuff marks, and maybe a dent, he was completely untouched.
I must be made of something fairly strong then.
Titanium alloy?
He wasn't exactly going to sit around debating what he was made of. From the way he'd heard the IMC soldier talking through the radio, someone was coming to pick him up, and he didn't want to be around when they came by.
The radio.
Moving quickly, he strode over to the corpse of the squad leader, R-97 in hand. He pulled a wireless ear headset off of the dead body. Then he simply stared at it, unsure on how to use it, since he didn't exactly have an ear to put it on.
[ Analyzing new data. Gathering information . . . ]
There we go.
[ Communications link found. Verifying link. . . Verified. Transferring link to on-board acoustic systems . . . ]
There was the strangely familiar sound of white noise being played through the comms. He waited for a moment, expecting chatter to be heard, but there was nothing.
Sighing in resignation, he stood up from where he was kneeling beside the corpses. He took what he thought he would need from them quickly - a gear belt and a satchel full of explosive charges, a wrist datapad, a B3 Wingman revolver, and as much ammunition as possible.
He set off on a running pace, this time choosing to head north instead of west, according to the compass he'd found in the gear belt. There was also a Rifleman's Service Guidebook, but he wasn't planning on joining the IMC grunt forces anytime soon, so he tossed the booklet.
As he traversed his way through the urban area, realization hit him like a brick, reminding him that he appeared to be in Angel City.
I don't remember Vinson Dynamics having any facilities here though.
… Assuming Vinson Dynamics was the company behind… Me.
The question of his identity continued to nag at his conscience, and it more or less managed to keep him distracted from the countless amounts of distant explosions and gunfire.
He spotted movement, down the littered street. He ducked into cover, behind an overhang heading into an apartment complex, and he stayed there as the ground started to shake in continuous, short bursts, almost like footsteps.
Titan. Shit.
It didn't matter if it was an IMC Titan or some other faction, he was almost certain they'd perceive him as a threat, even if he was too confused to have harmful intent.
The IMC radio hummed and crackled loudly for a second, and then the static was replaced by an authoritative voice, male.
"This is Blisk. Has anyone made contact with Vinson's little toy yet?"
It took a moment, but a reply came to him, likely another mercenary. The Titan down the street stopped in it's tracks, and he was almost certain that the Pilot inside was listening to the conversation.
"No… I found the extract team a couple minutes ago. Looks like it killed them before they could contain it. I'm sweeping the district for signs of it's whereabouts."
"Good," Blisk replied, "the quicker we get this task done, the better. I'm just about finished being hand-fed by the IMC."
The Titan down the road seemed to pause for a moment longer, as if sweeping the area. He ducked into cover in case it managed to spot him.
There was the sound of gentle rumbling, which grew to a deafening roar. He turned around just in time to see a Titan falling out of the sky at eye-tearing speeds. There was a sonic boom, and then a collapse as the giant robot slammed into the concrete road, shattering the gray rock into countless pieces of flying and shifting debris, accompanied by the visual shock wave of energized air.
From the dark green coloration of the Titan, he had to guess it was Frontier Militia, and in the distraction of the titanfall, he swapped a look at the first Titan, and recognized it as Apex.
Great. I doubt either of these two would consider me an ally.
As he had the thought, he wondered whether it was true or not. He watched the two Titans size each other up for a second or two before entering combat; the Militia Titan was one of the Monarch models, while the Apex Predator Titan appeared to be some heavily modified version of a Ronin.
Only one of them had orders to capture him. Or at least, he assumed so.
Only one of them was obligated to go against him.
He watched the two Titans fight it out in the street alone. The Apex Ronin phase-dashed forward and came up right beside the Monarch, and it slashed at it with it's broadsword. The Militia Titan ducked and moved to the side just in time to have it's top hatch clipped a little. It retaliated by firing it's Chain Gun against the Ronin's legs.
The Apex Titan retreated a bit, one of it's legs more or less crippled. It shot off a couple bursts from it's Leadwall, and the spread made contact with the Monarch's bottom torso, blasting apart several vital functions, including what looked like the wiring for Ocular and Peripheral Systems.
The Ronin lashed out with it's gigantic sword again, catching the blind Monarch-class Titan by the legs and sending it careening onto it's side in a mess of sparks.
Okay then.
I should probably consider this a bad thing.
In a situation where he had to take a side, he was still assuming that the Militia Pilot inside that Monarch would be much less hostile towards him than any Apex mercenary. Sure, that was an assumption, but considering that the Apex Predators were "hunting" him, he felt he had to assume that they didn't have good intent.
He stepped out from behind the pillar he was hiding behind, under the shade of the underpass. He observed the Militia titan scrambling along the ground frantically as it was being pinned to the ground by the Ronin, in preparation to be executed.
Taking an explosive charge in one hand, and the remote in the other, he took a deep breath, and charged full speed. He didn't have a jumpkit, or any other necessary Titan-attacked equipment, which he figured made his action more or less insane.
The Ronin paused mid-swing of his sword, it's optic focusing on the attacking simulacrum with a level of robotic disbelief that was almost comical. He used the moment of confusion to throw a charge right over the Apex Titan's optic before continuing down the road, zigzagging a bit in hopes of avoiding any retaliation fire.
The Ronin swung with it's sword, once, narrowing missing him. The sword lodged itself into the side of a building support, miraculously, and instead of pulling it out, the Ronin made the rather dumb decision to reach for it's optic, to pull off whatever was attached to it.
As it's mechanical hand was over the lip of it's optic, the simulacrum activated the remote, and watched, while running, as the Titan's entire frontal armor and part of it's arm shear apart in the blast.
When the smoke cleared, the hatch was blown open, leaving the mercenary Pilot inside exposed.
With precision-set mechanical arms, he aimed at the exposed Pilot with his R-97, and let off a short burst. Some of the rounds ricocheted off the damaged edges of the cockpit, but a few others found their mark in the mercenary's chest and neck, killing him almost immediately.
The Ronin stumbled about in a frenzy, still linked with the Pilot, which was now a dead corpse sitting inside it's cockpit. It walked into a building, crumbling down a wall and causing it to fall to one side more or less.
A few more seconds passed, and then he threw another charge at the Titan. It stuck on the inside of the cockpit, right next to the dead Pilot, and he wasted no time in pressing down on the detonator.
The Apex Titan exploded in a majestic, terrifying ball of orange-white fire. Smoke billowed out from it's blackened chassis as it burned continuously, with no end in sight.
Okay, that takes care of that.
Question is, will the Militia Pilot repay the favour?
The Monarch Titan slowly got to it's damaged, metal feet, it's body mass scraping along the cracked concrete in an ugly-sounding way.
It was then, with the giant 24 foot killing machine towering over him about ten meters away, that he realized his chances of survival had seriously decreased.
But they can rebuild me if I'm a simulacrum, right?
… And who exactly would "they" be? Hell, I managed to escape the IMC's grasp. They wanted to capture me, not help me.
So who out there would want to help me in any way?
He should have left the Militia Titan to be destroyed. During the execution, he could have slipped away unnoticed. But instead, he'd decided to save it, out of his own naivety, and it looked as if he would pay the price now.
The Monarch lifted it's Chain Gun. He braced to be torn apart by a flak of automatic 20mm rounds, but then the Titan slung the large battle cannon up, over it's shoulder, where it was holstered carefully.
The Titan let out a series of slow, low-toned mechanical sounds, and then it knelt down so that the cockpit was roughly level with the tiny simulacrum's shoulders.
The hatch opened, and out stepped a male Pilot, equipped with one of the grapple-class equipment variants. He couldn't see the man's expression through his blue-glowing full-face visor, but he didn't need to see it to tell that he was in pain.
The simulacrum, more out of instinct instead of common sense, took a step forward, grasping the Militia Pilot's arm and holding him up with carefully when he was about to crumble to the ground.
The Pilot groaned slightly, and after a moment of observation, the robot noticed a thick piece of shrapnel embedded into the Pilot's abdomen region.
If that doesn't kill him within the day, it won't take long for the infection to finish him anyways.
He reached for his first aid kit, which he was now grateful he had. After looking around to make sure there were no other threats around, he started to work on the wound.
"Sit down, lay on your back." he ordered, pointing to the ground. The Militia Pilot hesitated for just a split second, and then did as instructed. He took off his jumpkit to make it easier to sit in one position, and then he let himself rest on his back against the concrete, his Pilot helmet still on his head, concealing his identity.
The simulacrum touched the area around the wedge of shrapnel, and then, without warning the Pilot(Since he knew that would do nothing), he took a firm grip on the end of the metal bit, and tore it out as cleanly as he could.
Uh… Damn.
Okay, hold back the infection. Bandage it up. Jeez, what was I thinking? I'm no doctor.
Scrambling through the assortment of supplies and tools that he'd messily poured out of the first aid bag, he picked up a bottle of disinfectant, most likely pure alcohol, and he ripped off the cap. The entire top piece of the bottle came flying off in his haste, and he quickly dabbled a good amount of disinfectant on the Pilot's injury before he managed to spill the entire thing.
The Militia Pilot seized up in place and groaned raggedly for a long moment, coughing in a sick manner behind his helmet. The simulacrum wasn't sure why, but he felt enough compassion to grab the man by the arm and shake him reassuringly.
"Hang on there Pilot, that was the worst of it. I'll get you patched up nice and quick."
He still couldn't see the Militia Pilot's expression, but he was almost convinced that he could sense the person almost… laughing.
His suspicion was confirmed. A moment later, the man started to chuckle loudly enough to be heard through his helmet. The Pilot spoke before he could think of something to say himself. Their voice was a little weak, if not broken, but it still held a deep rigor to it that was strangely lifting.
"Damn, that was a ballsy move you pulled with that merc, you know? I thought I was finished."
If he could have smiled then, the simulacrum would have. But he couldn't, to his renewed horror, so he simply focused on wrapping the stomach wound with as much thick bandaging as possible, creating what he hoped was an effective stopper for the bleeding.
The Pilot shook his head, and he started to talk again. "You know, it doesn't make sense though… you're IMC. If anything, you should have helped out the other guy."
I'm IMC?
He looked down at his black shoulder plates. Along one of the thicker, more flat pieces, he made out a clear insignia designating him as a member of the Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation. His other shoulder, he observed, held the green-gray logo for Vinson Dynamics.
"So who are you?" the Pilot asked. He seemed genuinely curious. "… Heh. You must be one of those simulacrum test subjects… Only God knows why the hell you're in Angel City, but hey, I can't complain. You saved my skin today."
The simulacrum finished with the bandage wrapping, securing the end of the bandage roll with a single clip that held it firmly in place. He thought long and hard about how to respond, but even then, he had no answer.
Because I don't even know who I am.
… It seems as if no one does.
Slowly, reluctantly, he talked back to the Militia Pilot. Despite the fact that his voice had been toned and changed a bit to fit into the simulacrum voice patterns, he still heard a level of emotion in himself that betrayed his confusion and slight desperation.
"I… Don't know who I am. I don't remember."
"Well, can I at least get a name?"
He didn't respond to the question. He couldn't even remember the basic information needed to recall his name.
"I don't remember that either."
"Huh. Really? Well then, how about…"
In a way that screamed of colorful personality, the Pilot tilted his head back to the sky in quiet thought before finishing his sentence.
"... Umbra..! How's that name sound? It fits your color."
Umbra.
… Alright, I guess that works.
He didn't exactly have a choice about the matter. The Pilot had given him a name to go by, and he desperately needed one, so he nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
"Yeah, sure. Umbra… I like it."
Or at least, he thought he liked it. Perhaps he only like it because it was being brutally honest about his new identity as a simulacrum.
Let's think about that later, Umbra. For now, I gotta decide what to do next.
Umbra collected all his first aid supplies back into the bag and clipped it back to his gear belt. He held out a hand to help the Militia Pilot up, and the man took it, dragging himself tiresomely to his feet.
"Thanks." he muttered, shaking himself out. Umbra knelt down to pick up his jumpkit and hand it to him, and the Pilot took it back eagerly, putting it back on with practiced speed.
Umbra nodded at him, respectfully. "You gave me a name. Now maybe you could tell me yours?"
The Pilot chuckled again. The laughter helped lighten the mood significantly for Umbra.
"Sergeant Sam Braddock of the Warmonger Corps, serving the Frontier Militia and her interests."
Umbra nodded again, slowly. His mind continued to dwell on what he was going to do with himself.
I could follow Sam. At this point, it may be the only choice I have.
… But what about answers to my past?
Right then, more than anything, Umbra wanted answers as to who he was, and why he was stuck in a simulacrum body and placed in a steel containment unit in Angel City.
That sort of situation left a lot of questions to be answered, but very little answers to be found. It drove Umbra crazy, and he felt a tiny conscious vibration that he believed was the simulacrum equivalent of a headache.
Sam patted him on the shoulder, as if to comfort him; as if, somehow, he understood what was happening to Umbra right then.
The possibility of him actually understanding seemed slim, but Umbra accepted the minor show of comfort regardless, shaking his head and looking at the ground.
"You know," Sam began, suddenly, "you don't look like any sort of simulacrum I've come across before. Your body armor is much thicker, more evenly balanced, and it's got a cleaner cut to it. Almost like something between a normal simulacrum, and a Stalker… I'd actually reckon you're some kind of prototype, maybe a second version of the original unit."
That made sense to Umbra. He had observed that his appearance seemed a little… unconventional, but he hadn't thought about it closely until them.
That might explain why the IMC is trying to "contain" me.
If I'm some sort of advanced prototype, they will want me back in their custody before some other faction recruits me.
… Some other faction like the Militia.
On one hand, Umbra was certain that he IMC would have more answers regarding his identity, and his past. But at the same time, their goal was to imprison him, not help him.
The Militia would treat him fairly at least. They would likely ask to observe how he functioned at some point, but they wouldn't stick him in a secured box like some toy waiting to be unpacked.
He turned to Sam, who had let go of his metallic shoulder and was standing there, clutching his stomach. A bomb went off in a nearby skyscraper, and they both tried to ignore the sight of the tall building collapsing in the background.
"Alright. So if I'm some sort of advanced prototype, I'm willing to go back with you to the Militia fleet… But I don't want to be treated like I'm just a robot, okay? I'm more than that, I know I am."
Sam nodded understandably. The Pilot's mood and atmosphere caught Umbra off guard, once again, and he found himself wondering if he should lighten up a bit around his new-found ally.
"Okay then," Sam started, "let's get going, shall we? I was separated from my team during titanfall. I was caught in some drag, and then pushed way off course by anti-aircraft flak. I'll send an extraction hail to the fleet, and they'll send someone to pick us up at the team's designated extraction point."
Sam's Titan stood up a bit, the opened up it's hatch to let him climb up into the leather chair inside the cockpit. It took the Pilot a while, but he made the climb with some effort, settling back into the cushions of the single seat.
Slowly, the Monarch Titan rose to it's feet, standing at it's full height again. Sam motioned with a hand for Umbra to get moving.
"Come on, climb on top! Extraction point is eighty clicks north of here, in the Agricultural District!"
Umbra sprinted forward and jumped as high up as his robotic legs would take him, and he latched onto a railing along one of the Titan's legs. He pulled himself to the top within a few seconds, and after Sam closed the front hatch, the Titan started down the road, slowly, shakily. Umbra recalled that the Monarch's Ocular and Peripheral Systems were damaged in the fight with the Ronin, which would explain it's reluctantly slow movement.
Dark static filled his ears. Umbra listened closely to the IMC comms link.
The crumbling noise ended abruptly, replaced by Kuben Blisk once again.
"Chops, report in, what's your status in District 12?"
No response. Mentally, Umbra swallowed a subconscious cold lump in his throat.
"Chops. Report. In. What the hell are you doing?"
Umbra had a terrible suspicion that whoever this "Chops" was, he was just responsible for his death.
Chops was the mercenary in the Ronin Titan who was about to kill Sam. And now that the mercenary was dead, Blisk and his Apex Predators would probably be hunting them down.
"Chops…! Dammit, don't you ever respond when you're supposed to?!"