Drew Karpyshyn - Retribution

The truth wasn’t pleasant, but the Illusive Man had made a career out of facing unpleasant truths. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. And he wasn’t about to chastise one of his best agents for doing something he had tacitly approved of.

“That operation was too well planned to be a one-off mission,” he informed Kai Leng. “Get on the secure channels. Find out who else was hit.”

Damage control had to be his first priority. He needed to evaluate the situation, take stock of his resources. After that, he could turn his attention back to Grayson.

He couldn’t be allowed to live. It wasn’t about revenge anymore. They’d turned him into a monster, an abomination. Grayson had become an avatar of the Reapers, and now he was on the loose. Finding him and destroying him was the only way to protect humanity.

Grayson woke when he heard the alarms. More precisely, when his cybernetically enhanced senses detected the distant sound of sirens echoing from somewhere outside his cell, the Reapers in control of his body caused him to sit up and open his eyes.

He was once again trapped inside himself. He could see and hear everything acutely, his senses relaying information along the network of synthetic synapses coursing through the gray matter of his brain.

He could feel the temperature of the air, cool against his skin. The stench of his own flesh — unwashed in weeks — filled his nostrils. Even his sense of taste was heightened to preternatural levels: the spicy sauce from the rations he had devoured last night still lingered on his tongue.

But though he was fully aware of his surroundings, it was all somehow distant, as if it was filtered before being processed. This wasn’t the pleasant fog of a red sand high, though he could feel that the effects from the last dose of drugs Cerberus had given him had yet to clear his system. This was something else. It was almost as if his consciousness had been removed from the equation, the inexplicable link between the physical and mental self severed.

The Reapers were growing stronger: it was the only explanation. The thought caused his heart to pound as adrenaline released itself into his system. The instinctive fight-or-flight response gave Grayson hope. His fear had triggered the reaction; if his emotional state could still exert any kind of influence over his body, then perhaps all was not lost.

He tried to reassert control, his battle against the enemy within temporarily making him ignore the distant sounds of battle coming from somewhere far away. As he pushed against the Reapers, he felt them push back. They were aware of him and his efforts, just as he was aware of them on a far deeper, more intimate level than before.

Horrified, Grayson tried to sever the link by flooding his mind with raw emotions: fear, hate, desperation. He hoped the primitive, animalistic thoughts would somehow disrupt or disgust the machines controlling him from beyond the edges of the galaxy, but it was immediately apparent that was not the case. He realized he was powerless; in this fight, he had no effective weapon to use against them.

The same could not be said of the Reapers. The sensation of a thousand red-hot needles piercing his skull made his mind scream in anguish, the suffering so brutally intense he instantly broke off his efforts to try and regain control of his body.

His enemy’s victory was not absolute, however. In his torment, Grayson’s physical shell had responded with a barely audible moan … further proof he was not yet entirely under their control. The memory of the searing pain was too fresh for him to try and resist them again, at least for now. Instead, he let his consciousness retreat, falling back into itself and leaving the machines unopposed for the time being.

Relegated to the role of observer, he was witness as the Reapers moved him over to the cell door until his ear was pressed up against it. He felt the alien technology focusing its energies on his ears, and amazingly his hearing became so acute he was able to discern sounds beyond the constant whooping of the alarms. He could pick out gunfire and even yelling coming from both near and far, punctuated with the occasional explosion or scream. The Reapers took it all in, desperate for information, using the auditory clues to try and construct a probable scenario of what was happening outside.

Grayson didn’t know what was happening, either. He had a few theories, but he was afraid to consider them in detail. He didn’t think the Reapers could actually read his thoughts — not yet — but he didn’t want to chance it.

They held the position for several minutes, ignoring or not caring about the cramp forming in Grayson’s neck and shoulders from the awkward angle necessary to keep his ear plastered tightly to the door.

Eventually he felt the muscles seize and spasm, bitterly cursing the twisted irony that even though he couldn’t control his body, he still suffered when it was harmed.

A few minutes later the gunfire tapered off, then ceased altogether. Soon after, he heard multiple footsteps as a small group approached the door. A second later they were fumbling with the electronic locking mechanism on the other side.

He thought the Reapers might brace for a desperate lunge for freedom the instant the door opened.

The muscles in his legs trembled slightly as the option was considered, then quickly discarded. Instead, his body took several steps back so as to present less of a threat to whoever was about to come through.

Grayson was intently focused on everything his enemies did, on everything they had him do. Carefully studying his foe was his only hope of discovering any weakness they might have. The simple act of stepping away from the door told him the machines were rarely impulsive. They applied cold, unassailable logic to each situation, analyzing it for the most likely successful outcome. More often than not, he realized, they would choose to proceed with patience and caution.

The door slid open a few moments later to reveal three heavily armed turians. Discovering him inside the cell, they all took a step back and raised their weapons at Grayson’s wild appearance.

His hair had grown back to cover his scalp, just as the scraggly, unkempt beard now covered his face.

But he knew that wasn’t what startled them. Completely naked as he was, the cybernetics weaving their way beneath his skin would be plainly visible; he suspected he barely looked human anymore.

“Who are you?” one of the turians demanded.

From the voice, it was obvious she was female. A long white scar ran across her chin, visible through the visor of her combat helmet along with the dark red markings painted on the bony carapace covering her face and skull.

“I’m a prisoner,” the Reapers replied. “They tortured me. Experimented on me.”

Grayson’s voice rang hollow in his ears, like listening to a recording of himself.

“What’s your name?” the turian demanded, keeping the gun leveled at his chest.

On some level Grayson was hoping she would shoot. She was obviously repulsed by the synthetic hybrid he’d become. Maybe she could sense the alien presence inside him. Maybe some finely honed self-preservation instinct would compel her to simply pull the trigger and end it.

The Reapers shook his head. “I … I don’t know my name. They drugged me.”

“Look at his eyes, Dinara,” one of the other turians noted. “Totally dusted.”

“Please help me,” the Reapers begged.

No, don’t! Grayson silently screamed.

At a signal from their scarred leader, the turians lowered their weapons. Grayson was deflated the ruse had worked, but the fact the Reapers didn’t know his name verified his suspicion that his thoughts were still private … though for how much longer he couldn’t say.