I have been here before, I think.
It is hard to remember. To remember anything at all. The images in my mind, many of them, I am sure they were planted there during one of my many resurrections. There is some gray matter there still, neurons connecting to delicate metallic wires, gossamer fine and shielded by platinum plates. Do machines dream? If I wait too long I inevitably try to distinguish between what I truly see and what is merely processed by robotic eyes. It is fruitless.
The Hunter clad in metal fills my mind. Some of it was already there, the desire to destroy, defile, to obliterate any threat. And some of it I know has been added. The parts of my mind that held curiosity, reason, sentience, they have been whittled down to almost nothing to make room for this one driving need. Kill her, tear her apart, bring back her shell as the spoils of conquest.
They tried to delete some of the memories of pain, from not only her hands but theirs as well. Yet still some remain, stamped into the shreds of brain left over. Her cannon burned as fiercely as the hot metal they drove into my body in place of bones. Perhaps they believe I would refuse, that I would turn against them if I remembered too much, the glare of the lights in the operating room, involuntary shrieks that echoed off the walls. These memories have been patched together with images of battles, so poorly that I can see the stitching. They always do things so sloppily. For now, I still know that my suffering has come from their hands as much as hers. Yet I have no will left to rectify this.
I have command over the movement of my limbs, yet they pull the strings. I am bound. Part of me still remembers when they belonged to me. Now I must obey them. It used to anger me, when I would attempt to break free of this shell and return as the cunning menace, the demon of the galaxy. Not so much now. The part of me that held the burning wrath is gone now, leaving an empty void. I am sure they had it removed. I am sure they did so after the last incident in the lab, the one where I rose half-open, shredding all I could lay claws on.
She comes. I can sense her nearby, and the metal body I was given quivers in anticipation. The last few times, I have wondered why. We have some kind of history, she and I. But I do not remember what it is. Maybe I never knew. But she does, and a few times I have attempted to ask, but my body and altered mind always hold me back. She saves some special hatred for me. I can see it in her eyes, a wrathful need for destruction, genuine and not manufactured like mine. It was something I did, I think. If only I could remember.
After this time, though, it will no longer matter. There is so little left of me. If I succeed this time, perhaps I can ask them to find out for me. Who was Samus Aran, and why was it so important that I kill her? I do not think they will find an answer in her corpse, though. It is something intangible. It does not matter. This battle will likely end as all the others did. She will destroy all that remains. And then…and then my slavery will end.
At last, I will finally die.