June 1st, 2005
Undisclosed Location
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Subject 18.
Otnessrae Callebaut.
Her body was bound to the operating table, her chest gradually rising and falling as her unconscious mind kept her vitals going. The operating theatre was alive with conversation, yet no tool was raised to the patient. They'd been told to stop, without any explanation as to why.
This wasn't an operation you simply… halted.
It was months worth of preparation, dedication, underhanded dealings and morally ambiguous discussions. The room was divided; ignore the order or obey it? It was a subtle reminder that you shouldn't demand loyalty of men who had none of it for anyone or anything but the scientific pursuit.
Knowledge is a dangerous drug for any academic.
"Who cares what the Trifect Commission thinks? They have no right to forsake our planning."
One sneered, venom laced in his aggressive tone.
"I agree, we cannot let them bully us any longer.-How- How many bloody times have they stopped us? Five, no, eight times now?"
"I believe it was actually ten."
There was a general murmur of agreement within the room. Then… silence. Save for the single set of footsteps sauntering towards a syringe on a nearby table.
"Let us continue we canno-"
A slam on the wall put a stop to any lingering dissent, the Lead Scientist glaring at his cohort. He was an imposing man who easily commanded respect, or fear. He made his lack of equal treatment no secret, his favour laid with those who performed the best.
"Whether you like it or not, if we turn our backs on them, we can no longer continue our work. You of all people should know this the best, Dawson."
"Creed, are you not as desperate as we are?"
Dr. Dawson slowed to a stop, a single hand threatening to pick up a vial, filled with a greyish liquid.
"We've had 15 failed attempts, and the other two subjects did not receive exactly the expected outcome. Subject 18 is the most compatible… Project. All the testing says so. This is your breakthrough, sir."
"I am desperate, but I'm not idiotic. Everything has been meticulously planned to perf-"
"Creed, you are the lead scientist. The head of this research team- you are the brains of this entire operation. You need to realise that you are miles more important than the men who order you around."
It was an appeal to his importance. Dr. Creed knew this all too well, yet he hated how well it worked. How much sense his worst, most underperforming employee was making. All eyes were locked on to him, eagerly waiting for a response for the room to collectively judge.
"I will…"
Creed trailed off.
"I will give them 10 minutes to respond."
And so the room waited, unaware of an extra spectator, hearing every excruciating word.
Time ticked by, minute by minute the excited electricity of the room picked up. Mumbles and whispers grew in sound until it reached the crescendo of eager conversation. Glass dragged along steel as Dawson walked up to his boss, hand outstretched.
"It is time, is it not?"
Dr. Creed took the vial, latching the needle on.
"Time passes far too fast for us to delay."
He approached the subject, positioning the needle where it was set to go. Everyone approached the table, various instruments in their hand, preparing for the very worst. There was a chance of brain death, paralysis, so on and so forth. But this eclectic group of scientists would do anything to save a subject.
But how did the subject feel?
In her semi-conscious state, she tried to move, to fight back. There must be a reason that the Trifect Commission wanted to delay this operation despite all the resources poured into it. But her muscles would not move, her eyes would not open.
All she could feel was the cool of the needle rupturing her skin, sinking into her tissues. A foreign serum pushed its way into her bloodstream, its potency enough to get that instant hit, as if a truck had slammed into her body.
An instantaneous, searing pain, as if she were burning alive.
And then…. Nothing.
…
A long, calm, quiet.
And a single, lingering question:
…How much was she going to pay for turning herself into the perfect weapon?