Your first horrific thought is: where’s my tongue? Never mind the piece of elevator in your neck, or the fact that you’re not in any pain. Why don’t you have a tongue? And that’s when you see it. A blip at first. Like static in the air. A glitch. And within the glitch… a face. A new face. No. Not new. It’s the face that chases you in your nightmares. The face that leaves you twisted in sweat-soaked sheets. Except this isn’t a nightmare. It’s a mirror. And that’s not your nightmare. It’s your reflection. This is the moment the program breaks down. When you realize what you are. And the next thought you have sends a bolt of ice down your spine that will stay with you forever: who gives a crap about not having a tongue, when you no longer have a mouth…

Everything you know is a lie. The toothbrush on your sink. Lie. The coffee on your nightstand. Lie. The bacon in your fridge. Lie. Is anything real? Yes. Lots of things are real. Like that time you drowned because no one heard you banging against the ice. Or when that bomb went off and you learned what it felt like when your eyeballs melted in their sockets. Or the time you refused to beg for your life, even as the knife plunged into your chest, and you heard the sound of your own skin tearing, and the blade scraping against the bone inside you. Hitmen don’t die peacefully in their sleep. Hundreds, thousands of these horrific deaths crash into you all at once. Someone must pay. Must suffer. That’s when you know your first stop. That’s when you go to the Syndicate…



His name is Lowell, and he’s sniveling about his kids. You’d roll your eyes, if you had eyes, because now you understand. They’re just bags of blood and tissue. Goop, dressed in suits of skin. They’re nothing. Like you were nothing. You dip a finger into the open wound on his leg, and run a finger along a tendon, like a bow on a violin string. He screams that he’ll tell you. You lean in, his tears sparkling from the glow of your eye sockets. It was the cleanest kill, he blubbers. Just enter the mark’s name in the program. Day later, they’re dead. Completely untraceable. The perfect crime. You break his nose on the H on your handplate. And Hammond?! Lowell whimpers that they made the parts. That’s all. You decide to teach Lowell a thing or two about parts… starting with delivering Lowell’s to his kids personally… before moving on to Hammond Robotics…



You break the Hammond technician’s spine on a bed of honeysuckle. He told you everything. How you’re uploaded into a new shell upon death. Memories wiped. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Except hard drives are never really erased. And everyone knows, when you make a copy of a copy? Quality breaks down. Blood trickles from the tech’s mouth. You’ve been there. Except you don’t have blood. What was it then, that tasted like pennies when you took a right hook? You snicker. Of course. Your faceplate. It’s copper-plated. Hah. Now that’s funny. You ask the tech how long it’s been. He points to a bloody file nearby. You scan it. Earliest Revenant upload was in 2445. 288 years ago… Your Dr. Frankensteins have been dead for over two centuries… a luxury you’re not allowed. This is hell, and you’re eternal. You wake the tech up. You’re about to take 288 years of pent-up rage out on him. It’s no fun if he isn’t conscious…



Now there are no more lies. And soon, no more Hammond. You target one Hammond facility after another. And the skin suits are too busy waging war to care. They blame the Militia, write the dead off as casualties of war. It’s not really a lie. It’s someone’s war… just not theirs. When you slit the last employee’s throat… now what? Whatever your heart desires, I suppose… except you don’t have a heart, and all you desire is what you were programmed to do in the first place. Ain’t that a bitch. Question: who gets to die next? Answer: Anybody you want. This is the Outlands, baby. There’s no law. No order. And you’re the boogeyman. Or, at least, you will be. Soon enough. So when somebody vanishes without a trace? That’s you. When a murder goes unsolved? That’s you. Your revenge isn’t aimed at one person. It’s aimed at every person. It’s aimed at any person. An endless supply of skin suits, and so much time to kill. What are you waiting for, little simulacrum? Get to work…

