Drew Karpyshyn - Retribution

The last reason was enough to make him ignore his hunger, though he did open a bottle of water and take a long drink. He could go a long time without food, but he needed water to survive. And Grayson wasn’t about to give up on life just yet.

He spent a few minutes examining the rest of the cell, only to find there was nothing else of interest to discover. Then utter exhaustion set in and he had to lie down again. Before he knew it, he was in a deep sleep.

Grayson had no idea how long he’d been imprisoned in the tiny cell. He’d fallen asleep and woken up again five or six times, but that had little bearing on how many days had actually passed. He had no energy. No initiative. Just trying to stay awake required a monumental effort.

Nobody had come to see him. But he knew they were out there. Watching him. Studying him.

The bastards had planted probes inside him so they could monitor what was happening inside his head. He’d felt the tiny, hard lumps beneath the skin while running his fingers over the stubble growing back on his shaved scalp. Two on the top of his skull. Another pair centered at the top of his forehead.

One behind each ear and a larger one at the base of his neck.

A while ago he’d tried to dig them out with his fingernails, clawing at the skin of his forehead until he drew blood. But he couldn’t dig deep enough to dislodge the probes.

Or maybe you just don’t want to. They’re screwing with your brain, remember?

The rumbling of his stomach drowned out the rest of what the voice in his head was saying, hunger tearing at his gut like some kind of creature trying to rip its way to freedom.

Ignoring the risks, he grabbed one of the rations from the shelf and tore open the vacuum-sealed packaging. He wolfed it down, gorging himself on the bland, nutrient-rich paste. He was reaching for another when his stomach cramped up violently. He barely made it to the toilet in time to disgorge everything he’d just eaten.

Flushing the toilet, he wiped his chin in a halfhearted attempt to clean himself up without benefit of a sink or mirror. Opening one of the bottles of water, he rinsed and spit into the toilet until the foul taste of acidic vomit was gone.

The second meal he ate more slowly. This time his stomach managed to keep it down.

His best guess was that a week had passed. Maybe two. Probably not three. The passage of time was impossible to track in the cell. There was nothing to do but eat and sleep. But when he slept he had dreams — nightmares he could never quite recall on waking, but that left him shivering nonetheless.

He still had had no contact with anyone from Cerberus. But he couldn’t really say he was alone anymore.

They were inside his head, speaking to him in whispers too faint to understand. These weren’t like the critical, sarcastic voice he used to hear in his thoughts. That voice was gone. The others had silenced it forever.

He tried to ignore them, but it was impossible to block out their constant, insidious murmur. There was something simultaneously repulsive yet seductive about them. Their presence in his mind was both a violation and an invitation: the Reapers calling to him across the great void of space.

Somehow he knew that if he concentrated on them, he would be able to understand what they said.

But he didn’t want to understand. He was trying very hard not to understand because he knew understanding the voices was the beginning of the end.

With each passing hour Grayson could feel the whispers growing stronger. More insistent. Yet even though Cerberus had implanted him with this horrific alien technology, his will was still his own. For now, he was still able to resist them. And he intended to hold them at bay for as long as was humanly possible.

“I thought you said the transformation would only take a week,” the Illusive Man said to Dr. Nuri.

They were staring down at Grayson through the one-way window in the ceiling of his cell. Kai Leng was lurking in the shadows over by the wall, standing so still he almost seemed to disappear in the darkness.

At the back of the room, the other members of Dr. Nuri’s team were monitoring the readings on the hovering holographic screens projecting up from the individual computer stations. They were tracking and recording everything that happened inside the cell: Grayson’s breathing, heart rate, and brain activity; changes in body and air temperature; even minute fluctuations in electrical, gravitational, magnetic, and dark energy readings emanating from the room.

“You told me to proceed with caution after we nearly lost him during the implantation,” she reminded him.

“I just want to make sure nothing’s gone wrong.”

“The time line was only an estimate. Our research strongly suggests indoctrination and repurposing varies greatly depending on the strength of the subject.”

“He’s resisting,” the Illusive Man said appreciatively. “Fighting the Reapers.”

“I’m amazed he’s held out this long,” Dr. Nuri admitted. “His focus and determination are far beyond anything I expected. I underestimated him in my initial calculations.”

“People always underestimated him,” the Illusive Man replied. “That’s what made him such a good agent.”

“We could try to artificially accelerate the process,” Nuri offered. “But it would skew the results. And it might send his body into shock again.”

“It’s too much of a risk.”

“Dust him up,” Kai Leng suggested, stepping forward to join the conversation. “We still have the red sand we grabbed on Omega.”

“It could work,” Dr. Nuri said after a few moments of consideration. “Our testing shows narcotics have no impact on the Reaper biotechnology. And it could weaken his focus. Make him more susceptible to the indoctrination.”

“Do it,” the Illusive Man ordered.

Grayson didn’t move when he heard the cell door open. He was lying on his side in the cot, facing the wall. He heard footsteps crossing the floor and he tried to tell how many people there were. It sounded like a lone individual, but even if there had been a dozen armed guards it wouldn’t have made a difference; he knew this was probably his only chance to escape.

The footsteps stopped. He could sense someone standing beside the bed, looking down on him. He waited another half-second — just long enough to let them lean in to check on his motionless form. Then he sprang into action.

Whirling around, he kicked out with his feet, intending to send his target sprawling backward. His blow never connected.

Instead the person beside his bed — Chinese features, medium but muscular build — moved nimbly to the side and brought an elbow crashing down, dislocating Grayson’s kneecap.

Under normal circumstances the agonizing injury would have ended the fight. But Grayson was driven by desperation and a primal survival instinct. Even as he screamed in pain, he curled his right thumb across a rigid palm, extended his fingers, and jabbed at his enemy’s throat.

Yet again his attack was thwarted with ease. His adversary grabbed his wrist and twisted the arm up and back, yanking Grayson from the bed so that he landed hard on the floor, knocking the wind out of him. Momentarily stunned, he was unable to resist as the man plunged a needle into his arm and injected him with some unknown substance.

The man let go and Grayson tried to struggle to his feet. His attacker delivered a single punch to the liver, and Grayson collapsed back to the floor in a quivering ball.

The man calmly turned and walked away, never looking back. Helpless, Grayson could only watch him go. His eyes fixated on his assailant’s ouroboros tattoo until the cell door slammed shut behind him.

A few seconds later he recognized a familiar warmth spreading through him. His face felt flushed and his skin began to tingle as the soft blanket of red sand wrapped itself around him.