Not to dip my toes into my old Fallout blog insanity but oh my God. Nick Valentine bro.
Imagine. You awaken in a dumpster. Your last memory is having your brain scanned by some eggs at C.I.T. in hopes of somehow technologically excising the trauma of seeing your fucking fiancé get domed. (Something else can be said for the culturally masculine approach to PTSD this suggests. And the clinging to the noir aesthetic that this furthers.)
The world is shattered. You are not You. You live dually, disgustingly. Part of you knows you are Nick Valentine. You feel his fears and hopes and dreams and love. And the other part of you knows you’re only a cold imitation. You cannot bleed like him. You cannot cry like him. All sensation is filtered through sensors and fobs.
All of your identity is carried over from a man you know would be disgusted at seeing you. But it is all you have (at least until the plot of Fallout 4.)