Memories rush through my mind at breakneck speeds. Memories that are not mine. Visions of childhood, of strife, of school gangs and trouble. Two names frequently crop up in these memories: Aaron, the one through whose eyes I am seeing these scenes, and James, a dear friend. I see their relationship develop from a passing acquaintance to fire-forged comrades, and I feel thoughts of grandeur coming on, thoughts that soon outgrow the small village these two names have been growing up in. The two leave, striking out on their own in search of fame and fortune, traveling across several states and exploring the frontier. They make due with odd jobs and the occasional crime, skipping town before they become too notorious, and for a while, it seems to work. But then, their luck comes to an end. An encounter with outlaws that they can't escape, a gunfight, a shot to the chest... and then, darkness.

My eyes open, and I somehow instinctively know that they have just opened for the first time. The surroundings I find myself in are unfamiliar, though presumably any surroundings would be unfamiliar to me. Looking around, I seem to be in a remote laboratory of some kind, with equipment scattered all around in a completely disorganized fashion and me laying on a metal slab. I get up off it, my limbs feeling strange and rigid, with me struggling to stay standing at first, though I manage. With staggering steps, I move towards a mirror, and what I see surprises me deeply. I look just like the Aaron whose memories I saw in my mind before waking up here, but a few things seem off.

Deciding to ignore that for a moment, I instead try to find any sort of explanation for my situation, eventually settling upon a nearby table with writings scattered all around on loose pages and blueprints. Perusing them gives me several answers, as well as several questions. It seems to be that I am a mechanical creation of some type, an automaton made to resemble a human being, according to these schematics. This would explain the slight oddities I noticed earlier in the mirror—while the work is quite detailed, there are a few things that do make it quite clear that I am a machine of some kind. And yet... I have the memories of this Aaron and nothing else, though I still have some sort of awareness that I am not this Aaron. Or maybe I am?

The schematics gave me some answers as to just what I am, even if some are still outstanding, but my attention is then quickly drawn to the other notes. Different writings dated through weeks and months, early ones somewhat coherent and cleanly written while late ones devolve into mad scrawling and incoherent raving. They describe the trials and tribulations of a man named James, whom I can only assume to be the James I saw in those memories that were not mine. After his lifelong friend Aaron was killed in a gunfight—which matches those memories—he spiraled into a sort of manic depression trying to bring him back. James sought his salvation in mysticism, in medicine and more before settling on science as his last resort. He purchased the blueprints off an insane hermit inventor and tried to create life from the machine with them, a desperate attempt born from a lack of other options. And despite what his writings describe as a total lack of skill... somehow it seems he succeeded, because here I am. The result of his labor, an artificial man, a replica of his friend. While I do not seem to share his eager and upbeat personality, it seems to be a massive success.

And just as I ponder this, the door to this makeshift laboratory opens, and in steps James. The years between the last memory of him and now and his slow descent into desperation has clearly done a number on him, but it is clearly him. He sees me, his creation, his replica of his dearest friend, a mixture of flesh and iron, and he can scarcely believe it.