Consciousness returns slowly, like rising through thick oil.
'Zade' does not wake. 'Zade' reforms.
The process is painless now. It wasn't always.
In the corner of a cold cell, shadows gather, pooling, thickening, rising. A shape coalesces. It stands upright but possesses nothing resembling a body, no true form. It is absence given form. A void with a silhouette and roughly humanoid but wrong. Too tall. The edges shift and ripple like smoke trapped underwater.
The walls are white. Blindingly, aggressively white. Sterile white. The kind of white that hides stains poorly.
An observation window stretches across one wall. Reinforced glass. Thick enough to withstand explosions.
Behind it, figures in hazmat suits hold clipboards. One adjusts a camera lens.
'Zade' turns what might be a head toward the window. No eyes. No face. Just a smooth, curved surface of solid darkness.
The intercom clicks on.
"Subject 058, designated 'Zade.' Reconstitution complete. Duration: four hours, thirty-seven minutes. No mass loss detected. Beginning cognitive assessment."
A pause. The scratching of pens behind the glass.
"Subject, please confirm conscious state."
The void does not breathe. It cannot. But it speaks.
A voice that vibrates from everywhere and nowhere, a sound that bypasses ears entirely and resonates in the teeth:
*"I am awake."*
"Day 47," a clinical voice intones. "Subject maintains coherent vocalization. Memory continuity... to be determined."
The phrase hangs in the air.
'Zade' moves closer to the glass. The shadows ripple with something that might be agitation.
*"This again."*
Behind the window, a researcher whispers to a colleague. The microphone picks up fragments:
"—stable, but the empathy readings are concerning. It remembers more than—"
"Day 189." The intercom cuts in, sharper now, automated. "Subject 058 demonstrates pause response. Possible cognitive evasion. Possible memory loop. Administering Test Protocol Tre-A."
The white lights flicker.
And then 'Zade' feels it.
A low hum. Vibrating through the floor, the walls, the air itself. The white panels in the ceiling shift, revealing a grid of nozzles.
The researchers don't move. They've seen this before.
*"What are you—"*
The nozzles hiss.
A fine mist descends. It smells of copper and something chemical. It touches the void's surface.
And 'Zade' *screams.*
Not with a mouth. The sound erupts from the mass itself, a grinding howl that cracks one of the observation windows. The shadows thrash, losing form, losing cohesion. Parts of the entity dissolve, evaporating into nothing. Mass loss. Painful, agonizing mass loss.
Memories fracture.
*—a name, a face, a hand held in sunlight—*
*—a car, headlights, screaming—*
*—white walls, always white walls—*
*—men in coats, speaking: "Subject 058 was human once. Male, 34. Family consented to the Transfer after the accident. Tissue was too damaged for conventional surgery. We tried something new."—*
The mist stops.
'Zade' collapses into a spreading puddle of darkness. For a long moment, the cell is silent.
Slowly, the puddle rises. Reforms. Smaller now. The edges less defined.
"Mass loss: approximately 3%," the intermon states. "Regeneration estimated at six hours. Administering cognitive probe."
The questions begin.
"Subject, state your name."
The void wavers.
*"Z...Zade."*
"Incorrect. That is a designation. State your birth name."
Silence. The void cannot remember.
The void cannot remember because the void was never meant to retain what it was before.
"Subject, how many days have you been contained?"
*"I... I don't..."*
"Subject, do you recall the nature of your existence?"
The shadows still.
A slow, terrible understanding forms in what might be a mind:
*"I was... human."*
"Incorrect." The voice is flat. "You *contain* human tissue. You are not human. You are Subject 058. You are a prototype. You are property."
Behind the glass, one of the researchers— younger than the others, a new hire— turns away. Their shoulders shake.
The older researcher notices. Makes a note on their clipboard: *"Intern shows emotional compromise. Recommend psychological evaluation and possible reassignment."*
The void does not see this.
The void is trying to remember how to feel.
The void is failing.
"Concluding Day 189 assessment," the intercom announces. "Subject shows increased susceptibility to memory regression. Continue monitoring. Begin preparation for Protocol Sigma at 0600."
'Zade' does not ask what Protocol Sigma is.
'Zade' does not want to know.
Instead, the mass shifts, moves to the far corner of the cell, and tries to make itself small. An impossible task for a creature of shadow and absence.
The observation window fogs.
From the inside.
Condensation forms letters, slow and shaky:
"WHO WERE YOU BEFORE?"
The void does not respond.
But deep within the darkness, something stirs. A fragment. A sliver of what was once a man.
A name that isn't "Zade."
A face that doesn't match the void.
And a memory of *fire.*