Aoi did not like sleeping. Granted, he needed far less sleep than had he not been cyberized—which was a pointless observation because he would be having this problem if that were the case. However, those times that he did forget and nod off were generally not worth the confusion; anything REM did his cyberbrain could do better.
It was one of the rare moments that he would actually willingly try to sleep, this night. There was nonetheless a point where he just couldn't go on without a quick dip into sleep, and this was it; it wasn't visible from the outside by any means, of course, because his skin just wasn't capable of expressing that, but he would feel the growing fogginess and eventually, reluctantly, be forced to give in. It was better to do so at a time of his choosing rather than simply collapsing somewhere, something that he didn't need experience to tell him.
So that night, he lay very still on a spread of blankets he'd arrayed on the floor. A sheet was pulled over him, tucked under his chin, not because he particularly needed it but because he could remember it from childhood and it felt right. This was somewhat problematic in that it probably wasn't his own childhood he was remembering anyways, but he took it as a matter of course.
When he lay there, trying to get to sleep, he would always wait a while to see if he would drift off naturally before turning himself off manually. Like he was some sort of android or something, that needed to be shut off. Flip a light switch and turn me off. He would lie there for a while and stare at the ceiling blankly, trying not to think too hard about the turmoil behind his eyes. Then he's close said eyes and see if that would help. Every once and a while he'd begin to drift off, when he'd be jolted back awake by the mild hallucinations of stage one sleep.
After what sometime exceeded an hour, he would give up. Turn off his brain and go out like a candle. Shoot me up, doc. Not that there was any benefit in going to sleep naturally; he wouldn't suffer if he didn't, and he hadn't so far. It was just the dignity of it. The memories said to try, and so he did. Not that it had ever worked. Just a little bit of nostalgia dumped into his brain that reminded him of sleeping pills. But of course it wasn't the same as sleeping pills, so it didn't really apply, was just a stupid superstition. He would have liked to experience "drifting off" again, though.
It was the dreams that made it hard. It was bad enough by day, trying to wade his way through the confusion. There were some things specific to being awake, like the little jolts of recognition he'd get seeing people and places that he'd never been to and never met. Although then again it could just be that he'd been there and met them and it was his memory of having not met them that was interfering. Probably it was both.
In his dreams, however, it was worse. In his dreams he lived the lives of other people. He would dream of all the people whose minds he'd touched, of the little bits and pieces of their lives, and wake up with no idea who or where he was. It was that which he didn't like.
He had refused Section Nine by saying that he worked alone. While this was true, there was also a deeper reason, and this had to do with the dreams. How could he work alongside someone whose memories were in his head? Oh, yeah, remember that one time you were screwing you wife in the closet? I sure do. What? Why, I relive it every other day! And you know that dog you ran over but never told anyone about? Well, I can understand where you're coming from on that.
It wasn't always just the bad, of course. Sometimes he dreamed about how it was like for the Major to fly through the air in her military cyborg body, or he dreamed of kids and love and family, which could be sad because he'd never have that, because he was dying, but it was nice because at least he knew about it. And it wasn't as if Serano and his cronies weren't interesting on the inside. It was the waking up which bothered him.
When he woke up after a night of being in someone else's life, it was usually to lie prone for several hours, eyes open and blank, hands holding the edge of the sheet just like a child might, attention turned inward. Awake, but still dreaming; trying to sort things out in his head. Who was he? He'd look at his hat. Aoi. Of course, right?
He could remember some of the stuff he'd done himself; he could tell the difference between some things. He knew, for instance, that it had been himself who had kidnapped Serano that first time. He knew because it was him who wore the coat. That was what the coat signified for him: anonymity, but also self. He knew that the hot, heavy blue was his. Only his memories held that. Aoi, in the blue coat. Ironic.
Eventually he would get up again, reassured somewhat, and walk away from his makeshift bed. Not that he ever truly stopped dreaming; he may not hallucinate in the trademark fashion of dreams, but he never quite woke up, either. It took him a long time to wake up, to stop thinking about other people's lives. By the time he was almost himself, it was generally about the time that he had to go to sleep again anyways, and then he'd wander around in a haze for a while once more, thinking about the lives he'd touched.
Like being part of a swarm of fish, a whirling bait ball almost solid in its density of life, all identical and packed together, lost in the swarm, without individuality. Except of course that a fish in a situation like that wouldn't want any individuality, because that usually meant being eaten, but that was beside the point.
Predictably, it got worse, not better, as his brain deteriorated. He wondered with a detached sense of concern if he would even notice when he stopped being able to pick out his memories; when he'd stop being Aoi of the Blue Coat in his head. When he'd forget his name. It wasn't really a pressing concern, because there wasn't anything he could do about it, and anyway he'd probably end up on life support at some point in there. He was probably already worse than he was a while ago and hadn't noticed, and really his only worry was that eventually he'd be unable to function.
He blinked slowly. And it wasn't as if his real name was Aoi, either. It was kind of odd to name a kid after a color, so he doubted that it was real. He didn't know if he had any family, so he couldn't ask anyone, and besides even if he did they might be someone else's family and not his.
It was reaching the hour mark now, since he had laid down, and he blinked again in faint disappointment. He was not going to fall asleep this way, he knew. Hell, he might as well give up.
With a force of will he relaxed his prosthetic muscles, and reached in his scarred, thickening brain for the proverbial lightswitch.
In the dark of the library's basement, a slowly dying teenage boy lay asleep, a frown on his delicately false face while he gradually went insane.