Who: Allison!Cameron, OPEN
What: Doubt leads to attempts to get drunk among other things
When: Shortly after talking to Billie on the boards
Where: A bar in the city
Ratings: Warning for self harm



She knew there wasn't something right. She'd know for weeks. And it wasn't just the fact she had found herself in some strange place pulled from the only war torn life she had known and thrust into this clean, perfect, whole city.

She wasn't hungry. She ate but mostly because it had been nearly sixteen years since she'd had some of the foods she saw in the city, if at all. She wasn't tired. And when she tried to sleep it was near impossible to shut her mind off. Things just kept floating around, circling in the patterns of her thoughts and telling her the same conclusion over and over again. Something wasn't right.

She tried constantly to remember the last thing before she ended up here. But it was almost impossible. It was a mess of being in that room with that machine, where are you from Allison, and then there was a girl. Jody. A place that was warm but everytime she tried to force the thoughts into a full picture it just became more of a mess.

There were seven glasses in front of her, empty. And she still didn't feel a thing. She should be, well, drunk. The last time someone had given her seven drinks it had been John's birthday, she learned quickly that she was what they called a lightweight.

But yet she felt nothing.

She left money on the bar for the drinks and wandered into the bathroom. Allison ran the taps till the water was cold and splashed some on her face to try to clear her thoughts. She glanced up at the face staring back at her in the mirror. "Allison, my name is Allison," she told her reflection.

I'm Allison. From Palmdale.

You're not Allison. You're not from Palmdale. You're from the future. You're a machine.

A what?

The chip is messed up again, but I can fix you. I fixed you once, remember?

Fixed me? Why would you fix me?

She shut her eyes tight against the memory that pulled at her. John, but not the John she knew, younger. Why did she have memories of a younger John telling her she was a fucking machine. Metal. Not even thinking she shot her arm out, the anger and frustration pouring through her hand as it shoved through the mirror and into the drywall behind it.

It didn't hurt.

It should have hurt and as she pulled her hand out of the drywall she couldn't help but make a small whimpered cry as under the blood and torn skin on her knuckles she could make out silver. Metal. She grabbed one of the broken peices of the mirror and gritted her teeth as she sliced down the inside of her arm, pulling at the cut to reveal the metal endoskeleton beneath. The peice of mirror clattered to the floor and she followed shortly, the flood of memories being processed.

She was a machine.