Post by Maelstrom on Mar 27, 2014 21:53:53 GMT -6
Sweat dripped from his brow, as Jonathan caught his breath between bouts in the machine. This was part of what made it so unbearable. The form-fitting gel, similar to that used in certain models of escape pods, desensitized his nerves to pressure after so many hours of being kept in the soup, so he could not feel his surroundings, while also cutting off all light and sound, except for that which occasionally burst through the helmet tightly fastened on his head. His senses were further cut off by the fact that the gravity was cut off in the room he was in.
He counted breaths to give himself a frame of reference for time. That was one thing they could not fully take away from him. They may have killed his squad. May have convinced his commander to betray him to them. Even locked him in this sensory deprivation/overload tank for hours, sometimes days at a time, but he could keep an idea of the passage of time.
Two hundred and fifty breaths before the machine came on again. They liked to vary it, to keep him off balance, he imagined. Last time it was only thirty-nine.
The machine flashed light so bright that it made his eyes feel like they were burning, but he knew it was only because of the complete dark they kept him in the rest of the time. Sound assaulted his ears, sometimes notes so low that he feared they would blow out his eardrums. Other times notes so shrill that they felt like a drill boring into his brain. And then there were the electrical shocks that accompanied the rest, placed specifically on the nerve bundles across his body that would be the most painful.
But every now and then, he caught a little of what they were trying to feed him without his knowing. It was all the same, whether the flash of a picture or a snippet of audio. Messages of Cerberus as humanity's savior. Benevolent protectors of mankind. Providers doing only what was needed.
One thing he was not strong-willed enough to do was to count breaths while the machine was on. He did not think he was even able to breathe when it was on, the pain was so overwhelming. That was probably why they always stuffed the mouthpiece with breathing apparatus in his mouth each time before putting the helmet over his head. So that he would not suffocate or bite his tongue.
He struggled to keep his breathing even when the machine shut off, despite the tears he felt welling up against his will. One. Two. Three. He got to fifteen before they turned it on again.
Jonathan lay on the table. Even if it were not for the restraints, the anesthesia they gave him would have prevented him from moving. He had heard of the condition before, of people who were resistant to normal drugs and woke up in the middle of surgery, but he never would have guessed he was one of them. Those stories always sent a chill up his spine, the thought of someone lying there helpless as doctors cut into them. Unable to move or beg or even scream out in pain. The reality was far worse.
He felt each incision at they made it. Every time a knife pierced his flesh and then tore cleanly through. And they made hundreds. The ones made with laser scalpels were almost worse. Despite the breathing apparatus shoved down his throat, he could still smell his own flesh burning under the doctors' direction.
What they did once the cuts were made was worse. He could feel them pulling muscle and tissue apart. Some was carved away. Tiny lumps were inserted in their place. The nerves were the worst, though. They were what truly made him wish to die. When they pulled them. Yanked them. It felt deliberate.
The pain and terror were too much for him to think through. All he knew was he heard references to element zero, making sure the nerves connected to the implants right, and something about the efforts at "indoctrinating." That and the security codes they were using. Somehow, he latched onto those for dear life. It was all that kept him sane, memorizing those codes. At least, he hoped he was sane.
But he knew there was no hope...
Jonathan laid on the ledge. His cell was bright, a stark contrast to the tank. But it was the opposite extreme. The cell was perfectly round, the floor sitting about two feet below the two-foot above the four-foot-wide ledge that ran the entire circumference of the room. Everything was spotless, sterile white, and it was all cushioned ever so slightly. The light which came from overhead was so bright on the walls and floor that it almost hurt to open his eyes. The only hard surface in the room was the round waste-disposal unit in the center. The wall would swing out and the ledge down when they placed him in the cell, but it was seamless, so after a few minutes in the room, he would often lose his bearings.
All they fed him was a tasteless white goo which came in a cup every so often. He was convinced that there was no regular interval to it, that they simply averaged it out. Whatever it was, its composition was largely liquid, as evidenced by the fact that he was still alive and they never once provided him anything to drink.
He tried to keep his eyes closed because of how bright it was in the room, but when he did open his eyes, though, he noticed now and then a flicker in the lights. At first he thought it was random, but then he realized, quite by accident, that if he closed his eyes quickly enough after seeing the flashes, he could see an image burned into his eyeballs. Another image of Cerberus' benevolent nature.
The room was silent, not even the soft whir of an air circulation system. He knew units such as that existed, but they were expensive. It was silent, that was, except for the whispers which he noticed. They tipped him off to the fact that they were watching him. The whispers only played when he was going to sleep. At first, he wondered if it was just his mind playing tricks on him as he was dozing off until, one day, he tested it, lay perfectly still and breathed slowly while he was perfectly alert. The whispers followed. Barely audible but saying the same sorts of things as the shrieks in the tank.
It was like they were trying to drive him insane. Well, he figured someone had to be to work for them. That was what they wanted, he imagined. It had to be. And what truly scared him was that it was starting to work.
He had lost all sense of the passage of time, between the times he slept, the numerous surgeries he underwent (despite the fact that the only scars he was able to find on his body were over his right temple and at the base of his skull, and even those were barely noticeable), and the times he slept in his cell. It was further confounded by the fact that each time he was moved, they first introduced an odorless mist into the room's air, a fast-acting sedative that actually succeeded un rendering him unconscious, unlike the doctors' damned anesthesia. Often, in the tank, he forgot to count his breaths.
Sometimes, he even found himself thinking pleasantly forward to the day that he might work for them.
He rebelled against such thoughts violently with imaginings of how sweet it would be when he was finally able to make his move. Those doctors who cut on him would scream. Jonathan resolved not deliver justice but to take his time. To carve them up a piece at a time. To watch their blood run in beautiful streams over their sterile labs. Of course, he knew he could not be so sadistic no matter what they did to him, but it helped him remember what Cerberus really was. A dog that needed to be put down. He just hoped he would have the strength to do it.
At one point, not long into his captivity, he had considered trying to bash his head in against the bowl of the waste disposal unit in his cell, but he imagined he would have gone unconscious before he could kill himself, and he did not want to think what they might do to him for that, most likely taking the room's sole fixture away from him.
A hiss came from the ventilation system. The mist was coming. He wondered which of the three activities he would be experiencing. More of the tank? Most likely not surgery. He could not be sure, his memory was not very clear at this point, but he did not think he had gone to surgery in some time. The only other option was the one almost bearable one, the one which seemed to start only after the surgery was done. Propaganda.
Today was different. Usually, the activity he had deemed "propaganda" involved him sitting in another sterile white room hooked up to a computer. It would ask him questions, and he was administered electrical shocks if he gave the wrong answers. Like everything else, the interface was black and white. Nothing to stimulate the senses.
At first, the questions had been multiple choice. Their way of teaching him. Answer in any way but the most flattering to Cerberus, and he got shocked. The answers were quite long, and both they and the questions changed from time to time. Some of them, though, he recognized as similar to the whispers and the images. At first, he fought against what they wanted, picking the answers that were openly hostile towards Cerberus. Then trying the ones which suggested none of the above. Eventually, the pain got to be too much, and he started giving them the answers they wanted, while in his own mind reciting the ones he wanted to give.
After that, propaganda had evolved. There were fewer multiple choice and more short-answer questions. He saw through what they were doing. They wanted him to put it in his own words, to make the lies his own. It was difficult for him to hold his own answers and theirs in his head at the same time, and if he took too long writing their answers out, he was shocked. Eventually, though, he got the hang of it.
Then they changed again. Essays. They really wanted him making their truths his own. Each time, they were a little different, and if they were any less than stellar praises, he was punished.
Today was different, though.
He was sitting in a chair- an Alliance standard-issue chair- without any restraints. Without anything at all hooked up to him. And it was colored. Maybe just different shades of gray, but it was colored. And so was the room. Rather plain, a simple beige, but colored nonetheless. There was a table in front of him. It had squared corners, not rounded. He spent several seconds feeling the top to see that it was in fact solid. And on the table was a glass of water. And a beef stew, still steaming, its aroma filling the room. Near the wall, there was a vase with flowers. All the color almost hurt his eyes after so much time in sterile white or pitch black.
Most shockingly, a person sat across from him. Aside from the doctors who cut on him, whose codes he had memorized, this was the first time he had been conscious in the presence of another person since he was taken prisoner. The whole thing almost made him feel like he was at home.
And then he forced himself to remember the bloody bodies of his fallen comrades, though with great effort he kept from displaying any signs of the memory.
"So, Mister Hunt, how are you feeling today?" the man sitting across from him asked. He was dressed in a military uniform. Almost Alliance standard, save that the emblems were Cerberus instead of Alliance. The rank insignias were for a commander. He was not armed. Instead, he sat there with the quiet authority of a commanding officer. His deep voice and strong features certainly fit with the role he was playing, and the specific way his eyes played about and his uniform sat over his muscles told Jonathan he was dealing with someone who was actually trained and ready for combat. In many ways, it reminded him of the one time he had been invited to the Captain's table, just before his first mission. His only real mission.
He wanted to say so many things, but social programming kicked in instead. "I'm doing well."
The man across from him nearly beamed. "I'm glad to hear it. I'm commander Rand, but we're a bit more informal than you're used to, so you can call me Cody. So, do you know why you're here?"
He was not sure how to answer. Honestly? Or was there another answer the man was looking for. He knew he did not have much time, so he spoke frankly. "You want me to work for Cerberus."
"Very sharp young man," the commander said approvingly. "But I'm sure you must be hungry. Why don't we eat. As we do, you can tell me about yourself."
"I'm sure you've read my record, sir," Jonathan said. Calling the man "sir" left a sour taste in his mouth.
"That I have, but I'd like to hear it from you. Files can be so impersonal sometimes," the man said.
Starved as he was, both physically and for human connection, Jonathan complied. Commander Rand seemed very happy with the exchange, sharing the meal by ordering his own bowl of stew and having some rolls sent in. Clearly an attempt at positive reinforcement. The stew was good enough that such an effort was unnecessary. Much better than military-issue. All the while, Jonathan tried to keep his hatred of Cerberus simmering under the surface. It was difficult, though. The man was a natural listener and conversationalist, asking just the right questions to prove he was paying attention. Knowing what subjects to stay away from.
When dessert came in, a simple vanilla ice cream with a brownie underneath, Jonathan noticed his stomach was not upset. Whatever goo they had been feeding him was obviously enough to keep his digestive system comfortable with food. Over the dessert, the Commander shared his own story, how he rose quickly through the ranks fighting batarians and the like. He even tried to foster ties by telling, in complete confidence, what were supposed to be classified stories. The story ended with how he got frustrated with the Alliance's red tape and joined Cerberus to make a real difference. He said he never looked back.
Jonathan was barely able to keep from laughing. Damned sure would have if you'd been recruited the way I was.
"You know, Jonathan... can I call you Jonathan?"
He nodded.
"You know, I was impressed when I read your file. I think you're exactly the sort of person we need here. You could make a real difference. Save lives. I'd like to offer you a position with Cerberus. Completely voluntary, of course. If you want to leave and go back to your life, just say the word, and you can go."
This was the test. He had heard of drugs that could make people forget the past several hours. Illegal in Citadel space, but that would not have stopped Cerberus. Jonathan knew that if he chose to go home, he would most likely be administered one of those cocktails, wake up in his cell with no memory of what had happened, and be conditioned more. He wondered how many times it might have happened already. It was completely possible, he supposed.
Another thought occurred to him. If he failed the test too many times, then they would probably deem the experiment a failure. Terminate the subject.
All that ran through his mind in barely a second. Without any seeming hesitation, he said, "I think that would be a good fit for me. I'm in."
He counted breaths to give himself a frame of reference for time. That was one thing they could not fully take away from him. They may have killed his squad. May have convinced his commander to betray him to them. Even locked him in this sensory deprivation/overload tank for hours, sometimes days at a time, but he could keep an idea of the passage of time.
Two hundred and fifty breaths before the machine came on again. They liked to vary it, to keep him off balance, he imagined. Last time it was only thirty-nine.
The machine flashed light so bright that it made his eyes feel like they were burning, but he knew it was only because of the complete dark they kept him in the rest of the time. Sound assaulted his ears, sometimes notes so low that he feared they would blow out his eardrums. Other times notes so shrill that they felt like a drill boring into his brain. And then there were the electrical shocks that accompanied the rest, placed specifically on the nerve bundles across his body that would be the most painful.
But every now and then, he caught a little of what they were trying to feed him without his knowing. It was all the same, whether the flash of a picture or a snippet of audio. Messages of Cerberus as humanity's savior. Benevolent protectors of mankind. Providers doing only what was needed.
One thing he was not strong-willed enough to do was to count breaths while the machine was on. He did not think he was even able to breathe when it was on, the pain was so overwhelming. That was probably why they always stuffed the mouthpiece with breathing apparatus in his mouth each time before putting the helmet over his head. So that he would not suffocate or bite his tongue.
He struggled to keep his breathing even when the machine shut off, despite the tears he felt welling up against his will. One. Two. Three. He got to fifteen before they turned it on again.
#########
Jonathan lay on the table. Even if it were not for the restraints, the anesthesia they gave him would have prevented him from moving. He had heard of the condition before, of people who were resistant to normal drugs and woke up in the middle of surgery, but he never would have guessed he was one of them. Those stories always sent a chill up his spine, the thought of someone lying there helpless as doctors cut into them. Unable to move or beg or even scream out in pain. The reality was far worse.
He felt each incision at they made it. Every time a knife pierced his flesh and then tore cleanly through. And they made hundreds. The ones made with laser scalpels were almost worse. Despite the breathing apparatus shoved down his throat, he could still smell his own flesh burning under the doctors' direction.
What they did once the cuts were made was worse. He could feel them pulling muscle and tissue apart. Some was carved away. Tiny lumps were inserted in their place. The nerves were the worst, though. They were what truly made him wish to die. When they pulled them. Yanked them. It felt deliberate.
The pain and terror were too much for him to think through. All he knew was he heard references to element zero, making sure the nerves connected to the implants right, and something about the efforts at "indoctrinating." That and the security codes they were using. Somehow, he latched onto those for dear life. It was all that kept him sane, memorizing those codes. At least, he hoped he was sane.
But he knew there was no hope...
#########
Jonathan laid on the ledge. His cell was bright, a stark contrast to the tank. But it was the opposite extreme. The cell was perfectly round, the floor sitting about two feet below the two-foot above the four-foot-wide ledge that ran the entire circumference of the room. Everything was spotless, sterile white, and it was all cushioned ever so slightly. The light which came from overhead was so bright on the walls and floor that it almost hurt to open his eyes. The only hard surface in the room was the round waste-disposal unit in the center. The wall would swing out and the ledge down when they placed him in the cell, but it was seamless, so after a few minutes in the room, he would often lose his bearings.
All they fed him was a tasteless white goo which came in a cup every so often. He was convinced that there was no regular interval to it, that they simply averaged it out. Whatever it was, its composition was largely liquid, as evidenced by the fact that he was still alive and they never once provided him anything to drink.
He tried to keep his eyes closed because of how bright it was in the room, but when he did open his eyes, though, he noticed now and then a flicker in the lights. At first he thought it was random, but then he realized, quite by accident, that if he closed his eyes quickly enough after seeing the flashes, he could see an image burned into his eyeballs. Another image of Cerberus' benevolent nature.
The room was silent, not even the soft whir of an air circulation system. He knew units such as that existed, but they were expensive. It was silent, that was, except for the whispers which he noticed. They tipped him off to the fact that they were watching him. The whispers only played when he was going to sleep. At first, he wondered if it was just his mind playing tricks on him as he was dozing off until, one day, he tested it, lay perfectly still and breathed slowly while he was perfectly alert. The whispers followed. Barely audible but saying the same sorts of things as the shrieks in the tank.
It was like they were trying to drive him insane. Well, he figured someone had to be to work for them. That was what they wanted, he imagined. It had to be. And what truly scared him was that it was starting to work.
He had lost all sense of the passage of time, between the times he slept, the numerous surgeries he underwent (despite the fact that the only scars he was able to find on his body were over his right temple and at the base of his skull, and even those were barely noticeable), and the times he slept in his cell. It was further confounded by the fact that each time he was moved, they first introduced an odorless mist into the room's air, a fast-acting sedative that actually succeeded un rendering him unconscious, unlike the doctors' damned anesthesia. Often, in the tank, he forgot to count his breaths.
Sometimes, he even found himself thinking pleasantly forward to the day that he might work for them.
He rebelled against such thoughts violently with imaginings of how sweet it would be when he was finally able to make his move. Those doctors who cut on him would scream. Jonathan resolved not deliver justice but to take his time. To carve them up a piece at a time. To watch their blood run in beautiful streams over their sterile labs. Of course, he knew he could not be so sadistic no matter what they did to him, but it helped him remember what Cerberus really was. A dog that needed to be put down. He just hoped he would have the strength to do it.
At one point, not long into his captivity, he had considered trying to bash his head in against the bowl of the waste disposal unit in his cell, but he imagined he would have gone unconscious before he could kill himself, and he did not want to think what they might do to him for that, most likely taking the room's sole fixture away from him.
A hiss came from the ventilation system. The mist was coming. He wondered which of the three activities he would be experiencing. More of the tank? Most likely not surgery. He could not be sure, his memory was not very clear at this point, but he did not think he had gone to surgery in some time. The only other option was the one almost bearable one, the one which seemed to start only after the surgery was done. Propaganda.
#########
Today was different. Usually, the activity he had deemed "propaganda" involved him sitting in another sterile white room hooked up to a computer. It would ask him questions, and he was administered electrical shocks if he gave the wrong answers. Like everything else, the interface was black and white. Nothing to stimulate the senses.
At first, the questions had been multiple choice. Their way of teaching him. Answer in any way but the most flattering to Cerberus, and he got shocked. The answers were quite long, and both they and the questions changed from time to time. Some of them, though, he recognized as similar to the whispers and the images. At first, he fought against what they wanted, picking the answers that were openly hostile towards Cerberus. Then trying the ones which suggested none of the above. Eventually, the pain got to be too much, and he started giving them the answers they wanted, while in his own mind reciting the ones he wanted to give.
After that, propaganda had evolved. There were fewer multiple choice and more short-answer questions. He saw through what they were doing. They wanted him to put it in his own words, to make the lies his own. It was difficult for him to hold his own answers and theirs in his head at the same time, and if he took too long writing their answers out, he was shocked. Eventually, though, he got the hang of it.
Then they changed again. Essays. They really wanted him making their truths his own. Each time, they were a little different, and if they were any less than stellar praises, he was punished.
Today was different, though.
He was sitting in a chair- an Alliance standard-issue chair- without any restraints. Without anything at all hooked up to him. And it was colored. Maybe just different shades of gray, but it was colored. And so was the room. Rather plain, a simple beige, but colored nonetheless. There was a table in front of him. It had squared corners, not rounded. He spent several seconds feeling the top to see that it was in fact solid. And on the table was a glass of water. And a beef stew, still steaming, its aroma filling the room. Near the wall, there was a vase with flowers. All the color almost hurt his eyes after so much time in sterile white or pitch black.
Most shockingly, a person sat across from him. Aside from the doctors who cut on him, whose codes he had memorized, this was the first time he had been conscious in the presence of another person since he was taken prisoner. The whole thing almost made him feel like he was at home.
And then he forced himself to remember the bloody bodies of his fallen comrades, though with great effort he kept from displaying any signs of the memory.
"So, Mister Hunt, how are you feeling today?" the man sitting across from him asked. He was dressed in a military uniform. Almost Alliance standard, save that the emblems were Cerberus instead of Alliance. The rank insignias were for a commander. He was not armed. Instead, he sat there with the quiet authority of a commanding officer. His deep voice and strong features certainly fit with the role he was playing, and the specific way his eyes played about and his uniform sat over his muscles told Jonathan he was dealing with someone who was actually trained and ready for combat. In many ways, it reminded him of the one time he had been invited to the Captain's table, just before his first mission. His only real mission.
He wanted to say so many things, but social programming kicked in instead. "I'm doing well."
The man across from him nearly beamed. "I'm glad to hear it. I'm commander Rand, but we're a bit more informal than you're used to, so you can call me Cody. So, do you know why you're here?"
He was not sure how to answer. Honestly? Or was there another answer the man was looking for. He knew he did not have much time, so he spoke frankly. "You want me to work for Cerberus."
"Very sharp young man," the commander said approvingly. "But I'm sure you must be hungry. Why don't we eat. As we do, you can tell me about yourself."
"I'm sure you've read my record, sir," Jonathan said. Calling the man "sir" left a sour taste in his mouth.
"That I have, but I'd like to hear it from you. Files can be so impersonal sometimes," the man said.
Starved as he was, both physically and for human connection, Jonathan complied. Commander Rand seemed very happy with the exchange, sharing the meal by ordering his own bowl of stew and having some rolls sent in. Clearly an attempt at positive reinforcement. The stew was good enough that such an effort was unnecessary. Much better than military-issue. All the while, Jonathan tried to keep his hatred of Cerberus simmering under the surface. It was difficult, though. The man was a natural listener and conversationalist, asking just the right questions to prove he was paying attention. Knowing what subjects to stay away from.
When dessert came in, a simple vanilla ice cream with a brownie underneath, Jonathan noticed his stomach was not upset. Whatever goo they had been feeding him was obviously enough to keep his digestive system comfortable with food. Over the dessert, the Commander shared his own story, how he rose quickly through the ranks fighting batarians and the like. He even tried to foster ties by telling, in complete confidence, what were supposed to be classified stories. The story ended with how he got frustrated with the Alliance's red tape and joined Cerberus to make a real difference. He said he never looked back.
Jonathan was barely able to keep from laughing. Damned sure would have if you'd been recruited the way I was.
"You know, Jonathan... can I call you Jonathan?"
He nodded.
"You know, I was impressed when I read your file. I think you're exactly the sort of person we need here. You could make a real difference. Save lives. I'd like to offer you a position with Cerberus. Completely voluntary, of course. If you want to leave and go back to your life, just say the word, and you can go."
This was the test. He had heard of drugs that could make people forget the past several hours. Illegal in Citadel space, but that would not have stopped Cerberus. Jonathan knew that if he chose to go home, he would most likely be administered one of those cocktails, wake up in his cell with no memory of what had happened, and be conditioned more. He wondered how many times it might have happened already. It was completely possible, he supposed.
Another thought occurred to him. If he failed the test too many times, then they would probably deem the experiment a failure. Terminate the subject.
All that ran through his mind in barely a second. Without any seeming hesitation, he said, "I think that would be a good fit for me. I'm in."