Chapter 2 - The Man in the Mirror, the Amnesiac's New Clothes

You look at the metal ribbing on the pants and clothing. The metal looks like it supposed to hook into something else. Without it, you're walking around in a full body condom. The thought makes you laugh, and the laughter sounds hollow. But, as you rub the material over your fingertips, you see how it slides and realize it probably won't give you much traction.  You set down the shirt and hood. The pants might at least tuck things out of the way. 

You sit down on the cold seat of the toilet to give it a try. By the time you've gotten one foot all the way in, you're sure this isn't going to work. Just trying to put your weight on the covered foot, you start slipping and the insides feel wet, and gross. You growl and lean back on the toilet to pull your covered leg out. You roll up the clothing and set it on the sink counter. It's useful, probably, but not right now. There may be something elsewhere that can put it to proper use, or maybe you just need to clean the slime off you. But without cleaning it off, the clothing is just going to get you to slip up and break your neck.

You set the clothes aside mentally, now. Your reflection has to be addressed. What are you, as much as who are you, is a concern to you. You close your eyes and take a few steps forward, a hand on the counter as you turn. You spread your palms out and with your thumbs on the lip of the counter brace yourself.

You've been terribly injured. You've been asleep for who knows how long. Brain damage incurring injuries probably took their toll on whatever looks you had to begin with; and while the glances you've had of your own anatomy have been reassuring, at the very least, you still might have a face only a Troll would love.

You open your eyes. Metal doors stand closed in front of you. A thin black line down the middle; Lift Doors. 

The silver eyed gaze that meets you is as cold as the steel that reflects it. Fair, but sun touched, skin forms around strong cheek bones and a firm jaw. Lush, dark auburn hair tied back in a braid falls over a black and red pauldron of matching body armor. Tubes connect from a chest panel toward something mounted below the chin. On either side are two other black armored individuals. Their helmets are on, and the tubes connect to black, almost skeletal helmets, that hide their faces. Unlike the reflection in the middle, they lack the pauldron, but carry the same red accents. Under the reflections arm is a similar helmet, but it carries a bold red stripe down the center and it's eyepiece is a silver, rather than a black, reflective material.

There is a tone, then a mechanical voice. "Flight Deck." and the doors open, and the reflection parts. 

In its place, is you. 

Your hair is a short, tangled mess of frizz and pale red. Your face is pale, sickly and sunken, from the cold, your injuries, or maybe the lens of reality. Your eyes though. The silver eyes shine no less bright.  

That was you? You were in a uniform. Military, of some kind. It was armor, with tubes to the helmet; vacuum sealed armor. Vacuum sealed armor, military, and on the 'Flight deck'. You were a pilot.

"I am a pilot." Your voice suddenly corrects your thoughts, as you clench your fists. 

You run your hand down your chest, and count the injures. Judging by where the patches are thickest, you count at least five wounds, probably bullet wounds, in your chest, three more in your abdomen. You look down and see two more in your right thigh, and one in your lower left. You look back up at your face and realize that the same scar material stretches from under your right eye and down, covering that whole quarter of your face.

Someone put twelve rounds into you, and you didn't die? What kind of armor where you wearing? What kind of Health Plan do you have? Apparently it's great.
Even, if the out care clearly leaves something to be desired. Still. Someone wanted you dead, really dead. Would they come back if they found out you were alive? Were they looking for you now? Did they even know? Did you kill them already? Did... Did those other two.

You try to focus on the two armored figures in your memory, but as you start to draw faces in your mind-

"Yjihf. Izfihwyj Sywkih Sifiqfis. Yefabojaf Waw-hidawdomi. Ivihkiwqu Bhafaqijd Ow Ittiqf." 

Again the damn gibberish echoes in your head. What the hell did it even mean?

"What are you even saying!?" You roar to the ceiling.

"Translation requested." A voice chimes from the pod room. You turn on your heels as you, "Compiling data."  You walk back toward your pod, and get a better look at it.

While the other three pods are made of the same dark metals of the room, your pod is lighter. Almost made of plastics and polymers, except for what has to be metal. It also looks like it is set in a stand, rather than part of the ship itself. The stand looks like had housed a pod like the others, but it had been torn up to make room for yours.

That means that this ship wasn't wherever you were originally frozen. It wasn't where you were taken for treatment.

Were you stolen?

You hear another soft chime and see the panel that had prompted your visual cues. As you reach out to it, there's a metal clack and something slips out from the panel slightly. It's white, and narrower than the palm of your hand. 

"Translation complete. Verified Accuracy Level: Green. Message states the following: Alert. External danger detected. Autopilot non-responsive. Emergency protocol in effect. End Translation. The message then repeats." The voice speaks plainly. It's tone is matter of fact, but it's speaking in your voice.

The white device sits half-recessed in the screen, with arms reach. The door out of the pod room in sight, and the bundle of membrane clothes under your arm.

What to do you do? Talk to the White Device? Leave it? Leave the room? 