The recording flickered to life. For once, he wasn’t watching some three dimensional hologram but a video on a screen attached to the ancient terminal, reminding him of what they had on Earth. The dimly lit interior of what looked like a bunker or ship cabin resolved into crisp view. Wires ran along the walls like the roots of a cybernetic tree, monitors displayed scrolling Forerunner encryption, and a flickering holo-panel cast a pale blue glow across the sombre room.

  A man sat in the center of the frame, leaning lazily in a dusty chair, one boot propped against the edge of a metal table. A half-empty bottle of synthetic liquor rested in his grip, his fingers tapping idly against the glass. He wore a military green shirt and grey workman’s trousers, a few tools still hanging from the belt.

  Marcus recognised the face immediately. It was the only face he’d seen the past fifteen years, like forever looking into a mirror. His own. But younger now, as weird as it felt thinking that. The lines on his forehead weren’t as deep, his hair fuller and a golden blond. It was not just age that set this Marcus apart, though. The one on the screen held himself differently. The shoulders looser, his expression more care-free, almost content. Happy, as though the burdens of wealth or power had not yet settled onto his back.

  Then he spoke.

  “Didn’t think I’d actually do this.” He shook his head, and a dry chuckle escaped him as he ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Hell, I didn’t think any of us would.”

  He even sounded different. The same tone, sure, the same cadence—but there was a certain bite, a clarity in his speech that had long since worn down.

  “I used to think I’d die on Vespera in some alley with a knife in my gut or a bullet lodged into my skull. Now?” He took a lazy swig from the bottle, the clear liquid thrashing in the glass, then smirked. “Now I get to be the damn vessel for the thing that’s gonna save humanity. Lucky me.”

  His stomach coiled the more he watched. Vespera… He… I… lived there? It stirred more thoughts than he cared to count in his mind.

  On-screen, the thick steel door behind him slid open with a soft hiss, and for a brief moment, another figure stepped into the frame. A young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, with lush amber eyes that seemed to carry the sun in them. A streak of white cut through her dark hair. She was dressed plainly, wearing a fitted black jacket and worn fatigues. She moved in a casual, carefree way, swinging her arms as though walking through a field of wheat.

  “You still recording these?” she asked, stepping over and setting a glass of water beside him. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  “Shouldn’t you be minding your own business?” the Marcus on-screen shot back with a smirk.

  She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, leaning down to press a quick kiss to the top of his head. “Get some sleep, babe. You’re not saving the world tonight.” And then she was gone. Just like that.

  Yet Marcus found his digital reflection’s words now passing into one ear and out the other. A woman… My woman? He almost licked his lips. His body froze the moment her face vanished from the screen, like some kind of primal reaction to seeing someone new, someone human, someone not grown out of a fucking vat—someone familiar yet utterly alien to him at the same time.

  What the fuck is this? Marcus searched his thoughts, finding himself desperate to remember this woman. Remembering how much he had longed for a woman’s touch, someone to hold in the night. Yet when he groped through the shadow of time, there was nothing. Just static. He only remembered Anna Pankova. He only remembered Earth.

  On the recording, his past self exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. He turned back to the camera, suddenly more serious. “If this journey kills me before those cyborg freaks do, then at least someone will know we tried. Why we left. Why I agreed.” The log cut there, and the screen went silent.

  Marcus sat still, staring at the dead display. Was that me, truly me, or is this body merely just a vessel? A haunting memory replayed itself to him, back when the clones first fished him out of that freezer, and they told him that the cryo sleep could cause hallucinations or false memories.

  No… no. Marcus shook his head, scratching at his temples as though he could claw the truth out of there. Earth was real. IS real! How could all of that be a fabrication of his mind? Marcus had hallucinated before, and hallucinations make no sense. Yes, you see things, but none of it is right. It's always vague shapes that never quite fit into the real world as you know it. Yet he remembered vividly the first time he rode a bicycle on Clafford Street. His childhood home, a three bed semi detached house of red brick in a middle class estate. The first time he got drunk at his friend Stephen’s house party. His first kiss. Her name was Daisy, a cute redhead with emerald eyes and a soft voice. His first detention in school, for yelling too loud in the classroom, his first job, a paper round at sixteen for the local newsagent, the first time he drove a car, a white BMW 1 Series (it wasn’t legal). All of it! That cannot be a mere fabrication!

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Yet he remembered nothing about Vespera, felt nothing when that name had been mentioned to him for the first nor the millionth time, nor did he remember that woman who had kissed his head. Where is she? He now wondered. What’s her name? Was she frozen too? She couldn’t be on Neptura. One of the clones would have at least mentioned her by now. He had brought up the subject of women before, many years ago, and all they could suggest was trying to grow him one. The clones have as little idea about her as I do… he now thought with a strange sadness. Longing, perhaps? How fast his mind was clinging to the thought of her!

  He had to learn more. Unable to resist, Marcus looked across the series of buttons below the screen and pressed the one that was clearly the play button.

  The terminal crackled to life again. This time, the lighting was different, darker, the only illumination coming from a single overhead bulb, giving the room a dim yellow glow. Thick dust motes drifted in the air, making the room look stale, like the sort of place where people sat idle for too long.

  Old (or younger) Marcus sat at the table, tapping some buttons on his keyboard as he glanced toward the camera, checking if it was working. Though he looked a little different now. The smirk was gone, his jaw set tighter as though he was constantly chewing on something, the stubble on his face rougher, his posture stiffer. His old, faded blue jacket was draped over the back of his chair, revealing a sleeveless green undershirt stained with sweat and grime.

  He ran a hand through his hair, heaving a breath before finally speaking. “You know, they tell you when you sign up that it’s about the cause. That it’s about something bigger than yourself.”

  He snorted, shaking his head. “It’s funny. I ate that shit up for such a long time.” Then, he reached for something off-screen, and when his hand returned into view, it held a small, battered metal badge. A military insignia of some kind, depicting a star pierced by a sword right through the middle, scuffed by time and wear. He turned it over in his fingers, starting at it for a moment before setting it down with a metallic clink.

  “Fifteen years ago, I was just some dumb kid with a rifle, patrolling the streets of Neo Sela, thinking I was making a difference. Protecting my people back home, you know, all that crap.” His fingers tapped against the table. “They used to tell us we were fighting for the people. For a better future. But the thing is—” He exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “The people never seemed to have a say in that.”

  He let the words hang in the air for a moment as he appeared to be deep in thought. “I still believe in the revolution, I do. But when I hear them talk, I can’t help but think it all sounds the same. I keep asking myself… if we win, what then? Do we kill the Technocrats just to replace them with the same, or possibly, something worse? Do we wake up one day and realize we’ve become exactly what we’re fighting against?”

  There was something bitter in his tone now, as though his words were dressed with bile. Not quite regret but doubt and a creeping uncertainty.

  “Maybe that’s why they chose me for this.” He reached for something out of view again, and this time, his hand returned with a pistol. A big, clunky looking thing. He spun it idly in his palm, the light just catching the worn edges of the barrel. “Maybe they wanted someone who actually gave a shit, or someone dumb enough to go through with it. Someone pliable, expendable, you know? I’ve always been good at being a grunt, but I could never lead anything or anyone. Who can be bothered for that?”

  Before the on-screen Marcus could elaborate further, the sound of movement in the background caught his attention. The camera feed flickered slightly, the resolution grainy but clear enough to show another person entering the frame.

  It was her again.

  She wore that same black jacket as before but this time had a holopad in her hand, scanning something with narrowed eyes. A few strands of hair had slipped from behind her ear, though they seemed to escape her notice.

  “They still haven’t sent the orders through,” she muttered, not looking up.

  “Shock horror,” Marcus replied.

  She glanced at him, frowning slightly. “You look like hell.”

  “Feel like it too.” He chuckled.

  “You should eat.”

  He shrugged. “Not hungry.”

  She watched him for a second longer before shaking her head. “Silly boy.” Then she gave him a hug, embracing him and shoving his head against her breast. “I’m going to bed soon. Don’t take too long talking to that bloody thing. It gets cold in there without you.” She disappeared out of view again, the clang of her boots against the metal floor faded with each step until there was silence.

  Old Marcus sighed, rubbing his temple before looking back at the camera. “I’m not sure if I’m forgetting what it feels like to believe in something.”

  His jaw clenched slightly, then the screen cut to black.

  Marcus sat in silence, staring at the now blank terminal. His own voice—but not his own—still echoed in his ears. The words lingered, pressing into him like a weight against his chest. His jaw clenched. Maybe it was all bullshit to begin with… He reached for the data box, his fingers tightening around it as though to crush it.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he just sat there, the cold hum of the room around him, his breath slow, controlled.

  His hand finally loosened.

  He played the log again.