» Tue Mar 15, 2011 9:34 am When he did awake it was in a jolt of pain. He scrambled back against the far wall, gasping and glaring at the corpse in the middle of the room as if it could have done something. He switched his gaze to the offending limb and felt a trickle of memory at the sight of the medical brace holding his left arm together around the tendon and bone of what remained of his elbow. Screws driven into the flaking greenish-yellow flesh to the bone on either side of the joint to the bone, four to a side, each with a supporting screw in the forearm or bicep that also reached the bone. At least hypothetically. Currently three of the eight screws around the joint were loose, one was missing, and two of the support screws were hanging by a thread. I did this, he realized suddenly, more in awe of the act of remembering itself than admiring or appraising his handiwork. In his mind he ran through several surgical procedures great and small, and ran through a list of medicines and their varied interactions. I think I was a doctor! The thought came in a flash, but he was suspicious of it. He couldn't remember medical school at all, but steady flashes of pain anytime he moved his arm made any thinking a struggle. He had no way of knowing it his scrap with the other feral ghoul had caused most of the damage to the brace, and the strain of feeding and normal feral activity caused the pain that had led his mind back from whatever bleak shore it had been inhabiting.
Well, somewhat.
He resolved to sit very still and take stock of his surroundings, with an eye first and foremost for a screwdriver of somekind. A thin bit of metal. A coin. He cursed the day he became irradiated and lost the ability to grow thumbnails. And on the tail end of his curse came the jagged thought shard: Irriadiated...each thought causing a pang that hurt more than his grinding and aching bones, Ghoul...monster...Feral... He wailed softly to himself, holding his arm steady againsted his wracking sobs.
When his vision cleared and his despair at least managable he slowly worked his way to a stanging position by leaning back against the wall and straightening his legs. He got dizzy for a brief moment and thought he would fall, but the vertigo passed. Realizing he was malnourished he made food his first priority. Edible food! he thought to himself shuddering despite the ripples of pain it caused, Don't even look at that...that thing! You weren't in your right mind, it couldn't be helped! Carefully avoiding looking at the floor near the center of the room he took in his surroundings. It was a high ceilinged cylindrical room with a computer consule on one side. Opposite the terminal about twenty feet away was a wall mounted ladder leading to a heavy pressure door some forty feet up. The door opened inward and stood wide open. The terminal was set into the wall and was designed to be water-tight, bordered with the usual bright yellow plastic that wards away moisture. A cistern, he mused, Though not used for some time, judging by the furnishings. The high water mark was well up the wall and faded to a faint tan rim. There were two beat up chairs flanking a sagging card table littered with paper that may once have been useful. A bookshelf collapsing into disrepair under the weight of so many molding books lurked to one side of the ladder. Leaning towards him from the top perched like a buzzard was a globe with the phrase "The World is Yours" across it in pink neon that hadn't felt the exciting caress of an electron in decades. Grimly it occured to him he was probably the last person on the planet who had seen 'Scarface.'
To conclude his sweep of the rather small room, there was a waist high chest of much newer material to the right of the terminal, and the computer had obviously been hacked and modded to account for and control this chest as well as the two lockers next to it. A smelly and rather befouled matress on the floor completed his survey of the bleak room. At least visually. He became aware of a faint hum, something that resonated within him and made him feel...well...almost ok. Not so hungry, not so sore. Radiation, bitterness tinged his thoughts, a ghoul's best friend. A whir and a click broke his line of thought as the large chest opened a compartment and deposited a freeze dried meal and a cup of dirty water on a tray. Noting that the tray was connected to the box, he grabbed the food quickly and backed away, eating swiftly and without the manners he learned so long ago. As he finished the water the metal cup jerked from his hands, landing on the tray which in turn swivled back into the chest. Thankful he had been holding it right handed, he walked over to the chest, where he found a dull knife and a rusty yet servicable 10mm handgun resting on top, each with an old tin tag with "Use Me" carved into it attached. Through the looking glass indeed, He pondered, but was then struck with a more sinister thought as he caught sight of his reflection in the polished metal of the box, Why do I remember that? Why Scarface? Why do I know I'm a ghoul, that radiation can heal me? Why don't I remember why I'm here? How long I've been here? Why did I go feral?
As he glared down at his own noseless face, listening to the wheeze of his sinuses and noting the intelligent green eyes set in sallow skin under patchy hair he had the most chilling thought yet:
Why don't I know who I am?
