He lay there for what felt like an eternity, the rhythmic hiss of escaping steam the only sound in the vast, hollow space. He was out. He was free. But as the initial shock of the "birth" subsided, a hollow ache began to settle in his chest—a void where his identity should have been.
He waited, his breath hitching in the cold air, until his muscles finally stopped their violent seizing. Slowly, he pushed himself up.
He tried to speak, to call out into the darkness, but his throat felt lined with glass.
"I... v-vunn... lorn..." he croaked. The sounds were thick and mangled, slipping from his lips like broken glass. He frowned, his brow furrowing in deep confusion at the strange, nonsensical noise he had just made. He tried again, desperate to anchor himself to the world with a word, but all that came out was a rhythmic mumble. "S-ska... n-ne... lo."
The words meant nothing. He had no name, no past, and apparently, no voice that worked.
He stood, his legs trembling like a newborn's. He was completely exposed, his bare skin slick with the viscous, fatty residue of the machine. He turned back to look at the giant, egg-shaped monolith that had birthed him. Up close, it was an intimidating labyrinth of steel and copper. He reached out a hesitant hand, inspecting the hull, searching for a name, a serial number, a sign—anything that could tell him who he was.
But the machine was silent. It was just a cold, indifferent cage of metal. Inside the open hatch, he could see the dark, shimmering vat of fluids he had been submerged in—a thick, chemical soup that had been his entire world until moments ago. It offered no answers, only a faint, medicinal smell that made his head swim.
He turned away from the machine, his gaze drifting toward the only other feature in the room: a set of heavy, industrial doors on the far wall, directly opposite the egg.
The walk across the floor felt miles long. Every slap of his bare feet against the cold grating rang out like a gunshot in the emptiness. He felt small—insignificant—under the towering ceiling.
"D-dor... vut... ree..." he muttered to himself, the nonsense syllables bubbling up as he stared at the exit.
He reached the doors and paused. His hand hovered over the cold handle. A strange instinct flared in his mind—a flicker of something he couldn't quite grasp—before he turned his head to look back at the machine one last time. It sat there in the red light, a giant, hollow shell.
Then, with a deep breath of the sterilized air, he pushed the door open.