My hands are coated red. It takes me a moment to recognize exactly what I’m looking at, but these are definitely my hands, and that is definitely blood dripping from them. There’s a number of tables with strange items on them; beakers, flasks, pipes, all kinds of swirly and twisty glass tubes and electronics, and mixed among them are bodies sprawled over the tables, faces caved in, backs broken, necks shattered. Blood from their still warm bodies decorate the walls and cabinets and the flickering lighting on the ceiling. I look down again at my own blood soaked hands, at the blood covering my own naked body. I don’t feel any pain. I don’t feel anything anywhere, except a blaring headache. When did this happen? How did this happen? The further down the room I walk, the more questions I have.
The doors to the next are smashed open; just on the other side, a red emergency light faintly illuminates an otherwise dark room. Cylinders of all sizes are scattered across the room, thick cables running to and from each. Creatures I’ve never seen before float in some strange liquid in each. Some of them feel faintly familiar, like i should know exactly what it is, but don’t actually. Others are too alien, too foreign. More bodies litter the floor, in similar states of dismemberment and maiming. One of them is caught between the sliding doors to the next room. They keep trying to shut, only to slam against the body. I stare at this one for a while. I don’t feel anything, seeing him dead. Yet tears leak from my eyes. I surprise myself when I fall to my knees sobbing. Who is this man? I do not know, I do not care, and yet I cry nevertheless as I caress his face. This sensation frightens me, so I stand and walk over his corpse through the doorway, wiping my tears away. He’s dead, and all I feel is nothing.
Past his body lies an inverted cone dug into the floor, an enormous cylinder rising from the center of it, with cables sprouting from the top of it. Strange green and red liquid pools around the indent, and the cylinder itself is shattered. I don’t recall this place. It means nothing to me, yet my fist has found itself buried in one of the mechanical lecterns surrounding the pit. More bodies litter the floor, and almost by instinct I tear them apart even further, donating their blood to the grog in the center. I physically stop myself, an anger blooming inside at my lack of constraint, and a fear that again I feel nothing but act nonetheless.
The cylinder in the pit is the only thing that elicits any form of emotion, one I can’t properly define. I stare at the shattered glass, at my face reflected in it. I don’t recognize the face that looks back, yet I jump backwards and scramble out. Confusion spills over me. Why flee at what I am? I do not know. There is too much I do not know, and now my actions are my own as I flee through the door. My hearts pound violently, and yet I must get away, I cannot stand these feelings! I must flee, I cannot bear to look any further!
The next door shatters off its hinges, and for a moment I grind to a halt. Just behind it, a pile of people all dressed in bulky black garbs and solid helmets point their weapons at me. The weapons flash, and for the first time I feel pain. How dare they? How dare they! I will not be ushered back in there! I refuse to let them! Their bodies fly apart as I swing my arms through them. I rip their necks off and bathe in their screams, but their weapons still bite, the pain still builds, until suddenly I can remember no more.