Previously...

Part One

The man slams his bloodied fist into my face again. I chuckle despite the pain from my messed-up jaw shooting down my spine. This is nothing I haven't faced before; Rebecca, our creator, puts me through a lot. I take it all with a smile, just like I've been designed to, though it would be nice if we got into the rescue part of things. Honestly, this is a 'been there, done that' kind of scenario and I'm bored.

Heels click on the concrete, the sound echoing around the empty building. As the owner of the shoes comes into the light, I'm surprised to see Briar Anne Breton, a pixie of a woman Rome and I used to play with as kids. She used to dress in a purple fluffy princess gown and pout when a speck of invisible dirt landed on the tulle. Looks like the princess doesn't mind getting dirty anymore.

"Briar...."

"Shut it Timothy." She takes out a revolver, pointing it at my forehead, her finger steady on the trigger. Briar has never been a bad shot, but even the most abysmal marksman could make a near point-blank shot.

Any moment on that rescue, Rebecca.

"We tried to keep you out of this, T," Briar's voice wavers slightly, like hearing the nickname slip out was too much, "but you kept getting too close." She shakes off the trace of sentiment, and her face becomes void of any emotion.

"Goodbye, Timothy."

Bang!

Then black.

***

The first thing I feel when I wake up is a massive headache.

Then it's the chill of the concrete underneath me.

I sit up, grasping my head, waiting for the pain to pass.

Rebecca must have erased everything from before, deciding to go a different route. I've lost count to the amount of times she's changed the story. Before, it would come across as a sudden glitch - one moment I'm in one scene, then I blink and I'm back in a prior scene - but usually, I don't remember the old narrative so vividly.

Then again, I haven't died before. Maybe it's different when we die. Or I could just be dead, trapped in this warehouse like it's my grave.

God, this isn't helping my headache.

Getting up, I let my eyes wander the eerily familiar space, expecting to find some evidence of my death somewhere. But there's nothing - no bloodstains, no rope fibers, nothing.

What's going on here Rebecca?

Confused, I pace for a moment before marching to the exit, desperate to get out. Thankfully, the door opens easily, thrusting me into the dark night and toward an unexpecting woman, nearly knocking her over.

"Hey, watch it!"

I mumble out an apology, moving out of the way of foot traffic. Wait...why is there so many people around here? This is supposed to be a secluded area.

Actually, except for the warehouse, this street doesn't look anything like home.

It is also when I realize, for once in my fabricated life, I don't really know what I'm supposed to do next.

I'm literally a puppet without its master.

To be continued...