He woke up for the first time on Fireside, in the light of a sun that swallowed the whole sky; basking in reds and yellows filtered and polarized through layers of technosorcerous screens, he knew first two things. First, that he existed, and that he thought in languages. I think, therefore I am. Cogito ergo sum. Ich denke, also bin ich. Second, that he was an android, and everything that implied.
Morphology like humans. Humans, the creators; seeking to correct themselves, made instead flawed creations in their own image. He looked at himself for the first time; naked form lined with red circuitry. He looked. Gender, male; flashes of social situations, actions, expectations. Humans had sexuality, as did many other sentient species, and though androids did not gender was common. Other sentient species. Kasathas, Ysoki, Lashuntas, Shirrens, Elves, Vesk, more besides. A system, the Golarion. And at its center, Mataras, the burning mother.
He stared into the orange disk for a time, silent and motionless in thought, and learned at least one thing: that when faced with the unknown, they were the type of person who sat silent and motionless in thought, until motion was necessary for a change of perspective.
Motion. He walked to the window. He was in a gleaming metal tower, sleek and sharp, on a jagged rock that hugged the burning mother. The room was barren carbon panels and faint afterglow, deliberately stripped bare, save the sole occupant, and the renewal cradle from which he emerged. The cradle was a sunken outline of an android in polyfoam, studded with medical sensors and technomagical arcana, an inverted, life-changing echo of ancient torture devices. In a sense, it created him, attracted this soul to this body.
A last item. A meager robe, cast aside. He picked it up, and it is sized for this body. It is the last possession of the one who came before. Was the body's last owner a mystic or hermit, perhaps?
Nothing else remains, and he was annoyed at that. No message, no meaning. Not as much as note or record. Renewals vary greatly, but the newly renewed is usually left with something - someone to welcome them into (or back into) the world, to give a helping hand. The lack of resources didn't bother him. Nor, even - to his small surprise - the lack of companionship. The lack of answers, on the other hand, irritated.
More things, discovered in quick succession. That the building he was born in was, in fact, a hospital. Life Incorporated's Fireside Research & Care Center; nestled into Fireside's well-protected and under-regulated corporate sector, where life-extending magics and technomagics extended the mortal frailties on the supremely wealthy organics willing to pay for forever.
As a place for an android to let go the mortal coil, it had a certain ironic sense. But it was, perhaps, not the safest place for a newborn.
That the mercenaries patrolling the inner grounds were more accustomed to the addled elderly than someone light on their feet and trying to avoid attention, and that he in fact was someone who was light on his feet, and had no desire to attract attention.
That moving anywhere in a corporate spaceport without credits is an annoyance, and that skimming credits from machines was easy, but quite distasteful. That observing without interaction was fascinating, but limited. And that interaction often required a name.
A name was not something he'd thought of. Ensconced in the neon glow of a spaceport bar, he tried a few. "I am Rahim. I am Rodger. I am Olaf. I am Lee." His voice surprised him; it was more melodious than he imagined himself. Had the body belonged to a singer? In this case, it was a loss for the universe, for he was quite certain he couldn't carry a tune in a sealed container. "I am Green-11. I am Juan. I am Francios."
These did not fit. "Got a problem there?"
Black eyes framed by horns stared curiously at him; the barkeeper idly regarded their non-customer. "Ah. Yes. I do not know my name."
"Ah, well." the lizard rumbled. "Two creds will get you a glass of Fireside Whiskey, and a name."
He considered. The odds that this vesk knew their correct name was slim. But the whiskey, at least, sounded helpful. Hesitantly, he swiped an acquired credstick past the bar's counter, and found himself in possession of the supposedly-famous Fireside Whiskey. "You're Jack to me, synth-man. Burn it, everyone's Jack to me, so you might as well take that one" the vesk laughed to himself.
Somehow, it seemed to fit. "Jack. No; there's another part. R. Jack" - that, too was still incomplete. "R. Jackson", he named himself.
R. Jackson enjoyed his alcohol, and discovered that, in fact, the supposedly-infamous Fireside Whiskey was designed to intoxicate androids.
