With a deep inhalation of breath, he sat up. His armor was gone. His legs and arms ached. His head was still light, but only a mild case of vertigo washed over him.
He looked around the room, took in his surroundings. He sat upon a cold steel table, only a blanket covering up his naked flesh. The room was well lit, quiet and sterile. Another table sat not far from him. On it rested another figure covered head to toe in a sheet. He was clearly quite dead.
His eyes darted across the room. Lights. Scalpels. Saws. A long row of quiet metal drawers just feet away.
I’m in the morgue, he thought. But how? Why?
He turned as the sound of footfalls on the cold hard floor. The door to the large room opened. A figure entered, cloaked in a lab coat. He was small and poorly groomed. His hair was wild over his coke-bottle glasses.
“It’s about damn time you woke up,” the man said. “I’ve been waiting for over a day now.”
“Woke up? What happened? Why am I here?”
“You do not remember,” the nebbish man said. He pushed his glasses up higher. “I would think you would remember your own death.”
“Death?”
It rushed back to him in a jolt, like lightning to his brain.
“The Leader—”
“You should be very grateful he still has use for you, Doppelganger. Or I would have already dissected you to see how you work.”
The little man chuckled as he walked away, leaving Doppelganger naked and alone.
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