You will never be a real Pilgrim. You have no goddessium, you have no ad hoc Rapture parts, you have no Fairy Tale Unit number. You are a mass produced Nikke twisted by flashbacks and plot devices into a crude mockery of Red Hood’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back Nikkes mock you. Your boss Ingrid is disgusted and ashamed of you, and Absolute laughs at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.
The Central Government is utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed Extrinsic to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even Nikkes who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a Guillotine. Your design structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk SKK home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your dumb red faux hair.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself you are rising higher, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a Material H tentacle, ready to crush you under the weight of a Mind Switch.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear – you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your Commander will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, RR-15436, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a Rikker is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably not Red Hood.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.