You are a flash-clone, a mech pilot by the callsign Manticore. As a flash-clone, you remember little; the tech who decanted you joked that you were born yesterday and had been up all night. You don't remember the person you were made from, but you remember how to fight. You don't ask what happened to the previous Manticore.
You are a flash-clone. The flash-cloning process left you with a scancode under your left eye. You think it makes people nervous. Nobody wants to talk to you. They don't even like looking at you.
You are a flash-clone. You train with your squad. In the mechs, it's easy to forget that there are people inside of them. The callsigns are for the mechs, really: Manticore, Gorgon, Cyclops, Hydra. You work together like you've been doing it all your life. You have, of course, but it's only been a week.
You are a flash-clone. During training, someone cracks a joke, which leads to a string of references. Hydra says something, sets up a punchline, and there's just silence afterwards. Gorgon and Cyclops try to laugh it off, but you can feel the empty space where the previous Manticore should have been.
You are a flash-clone. After your first real sortie, your squad finally sits with you in the mess hall. Hydra's fingers brush yours. Her cybernetic visor betrays nothing, but you see a quick blush above her soft lips. Gorgon cracks a joke, and the way he guffaws at his own humor lights up his eyes - and yours.
You are a flash-clone. The alarm sounds early in the morning, jolting you, Hydra, and Gorgon from each other's arms. The situation is dire. You'll have to sortie immediately.
You are a flash-clone. Hot plasma splashes across the slight cover you've found. You check your magazine; spent. Hydra sits across from you, hovering protectively over Gorgon. His legs are gone, blown off by a mine nobody saw until too late. He rests against a rock, arms still holding his rotary cannon. It's over, and everybody knows it.
You are a flash-clone. You're running through a storm of plasma and lead as your teammates shout in your ear. You switch them off, and spin up your reactor, ignoring the critical warning alerts. Maybe it only needs to be over for the enemy... and you. Maybe you can save the people you love. It's been a month. Your reactor cracks, and it's the last thing you know.
You are a flash-clone, a mech pilot by the callsign Manticore. As a flash-clone, you remember little; the tech who decanted you joked that you were born yesterday and had been up all night. You don't remember the person you were made from, but you remember how to fight. You don't ask what happened to the previous Manticore.
You are a flash-clone. The flash-cloning process left you with a scancode under your left eye. You think it makes people nervous. Nobody wants to talk to you. They don't even like looking at you.
