[i]There was no way out, no door to be opened to exit the prison his own mind trapped itself in. All that he could do was to attempt to open the morgue drawers and seek a way out; his efforts were in vain, as it seemed that no matter how hard he pulled or gripped the handles, his body refused to respond to his will. Nothing seemed to work: pulling the handle up, down, right, left, outwards only seemed to seal the doors tighter, frustration and panic taking over his senses; he occasionally checked the time on his watch, which seemed to switch between 31:32 and BB:2a, but his mind accepted the display malfunction as a correct time, driving his mind to believe that he was about to run late for the briefing. Seeing that his efforts were futile, he gave up on trying to search for a way out and instead decided to wait for something to happen, anything that would change his surroundings and allow him to escape. Looking around him, he confirmed to himself that there were still only morgue drawers occupying all four walls enclosing his presence in a small area; above the neon light was obviously turned off, yet, it emanated light, alight so unnatural that Aidan felt that the more he stared at it, the darker the room would become. The knowledge of the strange property of that light planted the seed of fear, which quickly amplified as he realized that a door had creaked open right behind him with a rusty, painful screech, the cold metal tray pushing against his back only managed to paralyze the canine with fear.

He knew there was no other way out, so after an eternity of hesitation and attempts at trying to win confidence, he turned mostly against his will and dropped his eyes right over the tray, but the sight didn't terrify him more: there was, indeed, a body bag neatly fitted on the tray, but he couldn't help but notice that water seemed to drip from the otherwise impermeable material the bag was made out of. Touching the water, he felt no temperature change, no wetness, no sensation at all, but his body still registered him touching something with the tips of his fingers. Determined to confront the horror inside the bag, Aidan pulled the zipper with confidence, yet, the bag did not open; it only opened when he felt that it wanted to reveal its contents. Gazing upon the desiccated piece of leather and bone, he still recognized the facial expression of the body, its features unaffected by rot and time.

"Robert John McNail. Drowned."

The next tray opened and a dirty, silvery goop ran out between his fingers.

"Andrew Pepper. Workplace accident involving molten lead."

He was pretty sure that their faces were accurate, exactly the way he remembered them when they flat-lined. Another opened and, instead of a metal creak, there was sobbing and gurgling.

"Nadina Coman. Suicide attempt, overdose."

The dripping metal and water started to rise, even though he was wearing a pair of boots, he could still feel the cold touch of the combined liquids soaking his fur. Another door opened, brown flakes and chunks spilled out from the body bag, the man inside had black spots all over his fur, along with brown, sticky patches of dried out blood and flesh.

"Arcade Ruthless. Thrombotic storm."

He whimpered and whined when he heard another door open and this time, he was too afraid to look at it. The tray rolled out with a rattly, raspy rubber groan, the sound itself pulled most of the air Aidan had in his lungs as he attempted to burn his fear with a scream. He realized with terror that he couldn't scream and, instead, he could hear himself exhaling a long whine. Curiosity got the better of him, so he threw a fleeting glance over his shoulder, only to see a cat with hollowed out eyes, nose and mouth, its thorax bloated and rotting ribs poking and punching through the flesh.

"Esailia Sprinsteam. No-"

He turned his head away, knowing that there was nothing else that he could do about her. Guilt and shame were his companions now. They were soon replaced by shock and pain when he threw another glance as an attempt to bring closure for his failure, but this time, it wasn't her anymore.

"Aidan Sykes. Bled out."

"Good call, doc. Too bad it's too late." The desiccated body replied, its mouth remaining still and black, empty eyes affixed to the canine. "I believe that if you'd think faster -actually, think at all- you would've had only half as many dead under your name."

"Shut up."

"You can't shut your own mouth by giving it a verbal order, doc. See? I told you, if you'd think, life would be so much prettier."

"What do you want from me? You've been plaguing me for over a month." Aidan finally found the power in his guts to turn around and face the thing, which, looked more like his own mother.

"I've been 'plaguing' you ever since you've developed your first conscious thoughts, dummy. It's not healthy to dislike your own thought patterns, you know, it could lead to psychosis, some would argue you could end up with schizophrenia. I am content with your presence, mind you; it amuses me to see you fail and get so worked up on it, blaming everything on yourself, then, trying to work out that you're actually not to blame. Sure, it is pathetic if someone would look at you from the outside, but what do they know, right? All they see is this one man who they can trust their lives with, a safety net, the guardian angel that keeps them safe in their sleep. You love your title, don't you doctor?"

"Quit it and get to the point." His voice trembled.

"That's what makes you so special, the only thing that makes you 'better' than most: your title. Beyond that, you're kind of average, don't you think? I mean, it's obvious why they signed you up for the special GEAR training and become the armored corpsman you are now; you were the average one in the company, that one guy people avoid when they have health issues. They had to get rid of you somehow, so they made this program as an excuse; I can't believe you were blind enough not to see their intentions, bud. You were the first candidate so that they would draft you first, it wasn't because you were the most capable of the bunch; what, you really think the rest of the guys actually got any GEAR training? Have you ever considered the logistics of training a battalion of field medics and give them expensive war machines, which they have to leave behind anyway when an emergency needs their attention? Why do you think they gave you this piece of junk to pilot around? It was most likely destined to be used for extra parts and what ever, but instead, gave it to you so you could properly ruin the rubbish GEAR and turn it into scrap metal, so they wouldn't have to tear it down piece by piece. Save some money after they gave you the DATMK."

"Why I'm here, you ask? You daft mutt, I'm here to wake you up. You've ran away from me, from reason, from reality for too long. I had to insist long and hard to break you down and make you listen to me, so, listen already. You hold responsibility for no one, no one's your child. You try so hard to prove yourself you're such a good man, but you know you're a man incapable of doing his job; then, you feel all disappointed about yourself because you had big expectations from yourself. Wind the fuck down before it's too late and accept it. Accept that you're nothing. Nothing but a tool in greater hands, a courier, a meat shield. That's why you're in khakis instead of an expensive suit. A somewhat useful dork, if you will. You're not so important."[/i]

"I am not so important." Aidan uttered through the link, the only thing still functioning. "You people go wreck the imperials, I can tend to myself. I would say it's an order if I were higher in rank. I mean it. Please."

Aidan was curled up in the wrecked cockpit, holding the surviving half of his helmet that contained the microphone. A minute ago, he woke up gasping for air, confused by the pitch black darkness that surrounded him; he felt something sting his forehead and when he felt for the object, he realized that whatever that thing was, it managed to punch through the GEAR's front hull, through the electronics, through the screen and crack the helmet in half, stopping three millimeters into the skin of his forehead. Nothing worked since  there was no power, most probably due to the hard crashing into the street, which might have screwed the power cells, thought the pilot. He carefully undid the straps that held him to the seat and extricated himself with some difficulty, his right leg nearly being trapped under the pedal. The only source of light was his PADD, which he checked for any sort of damage. The PDW was still intact, but, the large medkit was properly ruined. When the light of the device touched the cockpit, he realized with stupor how bad was the damage the vehicle had suffered, bending the hull inwards almost to the point of resembling a spacious coffin. Once he freed himself from the seat, a mild headache and a slight dizziness got to him, but they passed away quite quickly. To somehow fit inside the destroyed vehicle, Aidan curled to the side and laid the weapon next to him and the PADD over it, illuminating the left side of the cockpit, where the arm of the GEAR would be. With whatever was left of the emergency tool belt, he tried his best to open up the escape hatch, which he hoped that wasn't sealed off either by the rubble, or the compression of bent metal. Bolt with bolt, he unscrewed and unlatched and decouple away, concentrated on his escape more than on anything. He didn't know what was driving him to try and escape the confinement of the wreck, but he didn't care anymore either. He wanted out, pronto. He heard some rumbling from outside, steel clangs, shots being fired, but nothing stopped his efforts. Once he was sure that the arm was loose and the only force left that kept it in place was mere friction, he turned his body so that his feet were aimed towards the left side panel; he started to mule kick the panel, outputting any force left in him, grunting with every kick.

[b]*THUD* *THUD* *THUD*[/b]

It seemed to him that the arm did not mobilize at all, yet, he did not give up.

[b]*THUD* *THUD* *THUD*[/B]

Nothing. He grabbed hold of something solid and pushed himself away and against the panel, groaning loudly as he felt something move under his heels. Once his muscles started to ache, he turned around again to check if he managed to do anything and, to his satisfaction, he panel did seem to move only so slightly outwards. He then pushed harder, kicked harder until his bones and skull hurt from the shock, but in the end, he managed to steer way the arm enough to squeeze his body through and try to swim through the cloud of debris, bricks, wood splinters, home appliances. By the time he cleared away, he found himself on his belly in the alleyway he aimed to retreat into when his GEAR was still on its legs. He crawled a little more until he found a door he could open, hiding inside. He took the PDW and PADD with him and the only auto-shot of morphine that survived the crash, the rest of the equipment was virtually ruined.

"I'm out and I'm on my feet. I'm fine." He uttered again, taking a quick look around the room he was in. "The GEAR's dead, don't bother with it. I'll try to find my way to the warehouse."

With that, he took a look at his PADD and tried to determine his rough position on the map; he peeked outside, trying to determine how to get where he needed, but seeing the arm of his GEAR sticking out from the mount of debris made him sigh, he even felt a knot tying up in his throat.

"You had a good run, [i]Stumpy[/i]. 'Bout time you get wrecked; I honestly don't know how you managed through everything I put your stinking, rusted ass. See you on the other side, brother."

He wiped some blood from his forehead, switched the safety off no his firearm and off he went in the open world.