Log:Who Am I?
Three...Two...One...The explosion came in a blast of white hot, star-like brilliance. The pain was only a nanosecond, before all the nerve endings burned to death in the conflagration, and Overseer Declan Riordan was reduced to the atoms that made up his physical form. His last thoughts were that his daughter was safe, and he was about to be with his wife again. Then, there was nothing. Literally nothing. Blackness.
Amazed at the lack of pain, but feeling an itch at his brow, he raises a hand that should not exist, and the lights snap on. The man who was Riordan sits up in bed with a gasp of shock and the bedsheet slips down to his waist. He is alive, in a room, in pajama pants. Did Weyland-Yutani do something? Clone him? Bring him back from the dead? Were they trying to learn where Hannah went, to silence his daughter forever? Sweat trickles down the side of his face and drips onto his bare chest, which heaves with the rate of his breathing and the pounding of his heart.
He dashes from the strangely familiar bed, past the chalkboard scrawled with endless facts and questions, equations and formulas. He dashes through a closet with oddly familiar clothing into bathroom where he skids to a halt in front of the sink and the mirror above it. He stares at the reflection of the man looking back at him. A man at least 10 years younger than Declan Riordan. His body is fitter, toner, his eyes bearing fewer creases at the outer edges, his forehead still smooth and unworn by the twin disasters of Sevastopol and Tenochtitlan Station. Or the Island and it’s lost tribe of natives. Wait, what?
Ethan, no, Declan, no...who is he again? The Pedagogue blinks at his face in the mirror and leans heavily on the bathroom counter. He’s back in that place; that facility he woke up in after being a 54-year-old professor in a place filled with living skeletons and imminent nuclear destruction. “Am I losing my mind?” he whispers to his reflection, before he runs the cold tap and splashes his face with water. “Who am I, really?” he asks the room, looking upwards as if expecting to see a camera or a window where someone is watching him for their own amusement.
He dries his face with a towel and moves back into the main bedroom. He looks up at the wall, where the spotlights shine not just on the temple rubbing from the Island, but the beautifully rendered schematic of Tenochtitlan Station which hung over his desk in his office on the Noc. Another life lived? No, while recent events there are very sharp and clear, everything before is already feeling foggy, disconnected. There are no sensory things attached to meeting his wife, getting married, Hannah’s birth, her first words, the loss felt when Sevastopol disintegrated abd plummeted into the gas giant.
The Pedagogue picks up the chalk on the metal rail of the chalkboard, and he begins adding new information to the cluttered thing, erasing some of the old things to make room for the new. More variables for the equation, more unknowns in the formula that is the mystery of his identity and his life.