Chapter 17: Echoes

Rhys stood amidst the wreckage of the operating room, his chest heaving, every muscle in his body tense and quivering. The metallic scent of the Necrolythian's internal fluids created a nauseating atmosphere. He focused on the mangled form of the Necrolythian surgeon sprawled before him.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?" Rhys roared, his voice booming throughout the chamber. The sound echoed off the cold, sterile walls, amplifying his anguish and fury. His throat burned from the intensity of his scream, but the physical pain was insignificant compared to the turmoil inside his mind.

Despite its shattered form and catastrophic injuries, the Necrolythian began to reassemble itself, twisted limbs snapping back into place with unnerving precision. Pieces of metal and synthetic tissue crawled across the floor, magnetically drawn back to their origin. The creature's hollow eyes flickered back to life, glowing with an otherworldly light that sent a chill down Rhys's spine.

Rhys took an involuntary step back, a mix of horror and disbelief washing over him. How could anything survive such devastation? His heart pounded in his chest as a cold realization settled over him. These beings were not just relentless; they were unkillable.

A sharp pain suddenly lanced through his head, causing him to wince. Whispers—faint but insistent—echoed at the edge of his consciousness. They were like fragments of thought, elusive and incomprehensible, yet undeniably present. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to shut them out, but they only grew louder, a chorus of voices overlapping and intertwining.

"What... is happening to me?" he muttered, his eyes wide with fear.

He glanced down at his hands and froze. Beneath the grime, faint lines of luminescent patterns pulsed just under his skin, tracing intricate designs along his veins. The glow intensified with each beat of his heart, casting an eerie light over his fingers.

Panic surged through him. This wasn't normal—this wasn't him. The surgeries, the injections—they had done something to his body, something unnatural. He could feel a strange energy coursing through his veins, warming his muscles and sharpening his senses. But alongside it, the whispers grew louder, more insistent, like a thousand voices urging him to let go, to surrender his thoughts.

"No," Rhys whispered fiercely, clenching his fists. "I won't let you break me."

The Necrolythian, now partially reassembled, began to rise. Its movements were jerky but purposeful, mechanical joints clicking back into alignment. Wires sparked and reconnected, and torn synthetic flesh knitted itself together. The creature fixed its gaze on Rhys, the hollow eyes seeming to peer into his very soul.

A surge of anger flared within him, hot and potent. As the emotion swelled, he felt a corresponding increase in the strange energy pulsing through his body. The luminescent patterns beneath his skin glowed brighter, and the whispers momentarily receded, overshadowed by his rising fury.

"Stay down!" Rhys roared, his voice thick with fury. He struck again and again, each blow fueled by the relentless anger surging through his veins. The luminescent lines beneath his skin pulsed brighter, casting an eerie glow that matched the intensity of his emotions.

The Necrolythian temporarily ceased its movements, collapsing into a heap of inert parts. Breathing heavily, Rhys stepped back, his fists loosening. His hands trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the overwhelming energy that still coursed through him.

As the immediate threat dissipated, the whispers began to creep back into his consciousness. Faint at first, they grew louder with each passing moment of calm, intertwining thoughts that were not his own.

Let go, they urged softly. Embrace us. Become whole.

Rhys pressed his palms against his temples, his fingers digging into his scalp. "Get out of my head," he muttered through gritted teeth. The whispers intensified, a cacophony of voices overlapping and echoing within his mind.

Panic surged, but with it, anger flared anew. The whispers dulled once more, retreating as his rage took hold. Realization struck him—his anger was a shield, pushing back the invasive murmurs. But was it his own emotion, or something the injections amplified?

He looked down at his hands, noticing for the first time the intricate patterns glowing beneath his skin. The luminescent lines pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, brighter when his anger peaked, dimmer as he calmed. A sense of dread settled in his gut.

"What have you done to me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

A distant alarm snapped him back to reality. Crimson lights began flashing along the perimeter of the room, and an automated voice droned over the intercom: "Containment breach detected. Security units, proceed to Sector 9 immediately."

Rhys knew he had to move. He scanned the room, his heightened senses picking up on every detail—the hum of the failing machinery, the acrid smell of burning circuits, the faint vibrations of approaching footsteps. His mind raced, but the whispers threatened to overwhelm him as his anger waned.

Gritting his teeth, he summoned the fury once more, thinking of all the pain and torment he had endured just hours ago. The image of the Necrolythian surgeon slicing into him reignited the fire within. The whispers faded, granting him a moment of clarity.

He dashed toward the only exit, the door sliding open as he approached. The corridor beyond was a maze of steel and flickering lights. Memories—or were they implanted thoughts?—surfaced, guiding his path. He knew which turns to take, which corridors to avoid, as if the facility's layout had been etched into his mind.

As he ran, fragments of information flooded his consciousness. Schematics of the facility, data on the Necrolythians, snippets of their language—all scrambled due to the persistent whispers. The voices were integrating with his neural pathways, blurring the line between his thoughts and theirs.

"Focus," he told himself. "Stay angry. Stay in control."

Unfortunately maintaining the anger was exhausting. Each surge drained him mentally, and the moment his fury ebbed, the whispers returned stronger like a tidal wave.

Accept your fate, they whispered.

"Shut up!" Rhys shouted, his voice echoing down the empty corridor.

He skidded to a halt as a squad of Necrolythians emerged ahead, their mechanical limbs clicking ominously. Their hollow eyes fixed on him, and in unison, they raised their weapons.

"Subject identified: Initiate capture protocol," one of them intoned in a cold, synthetic voice.

Rhys's anger flared instinctively, the luminescent patterns on his skin blazing brighter than ever. Time seemed to slow as he assessed the situation. Without a conscious thought, he darted toward the wall and ran along its surface with impossible agility.

The robots fired, but their shots struck empty space as Rhys weaved through the lasers, arriving in front of the squad. He lashed out with a kick, sending one Necrolythian crashing into another. Sparks flew as they collided, limbs entangling.

But the effort was taxing. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he could feel his anger waning. The whispers seized the opportunity, flooding his mind with a torrent of voices.

Why resist? Embrace us. 

Why resist? Embrace us.

"No!" he screamed, clutching his head.

A drone seized the moment, swinging its arm toward him. Rhys barely dodged the strike, stumbling as he did. Desperation fueled a new surge of anger, but it was weaker, fleeting.

He needed to run away.

He quickly turned and raced through a series of twisting passages, each turn taking him further from his pursuers. The metallic clang of their footsteps grew fainter. Finally, he burst into a distant hallway, putting significant distance between himself and the Necrolythians.

Rhys leaned against the wall, sweat dripping down his face. His anger was spent, and the whispers surged, more aggressive than before.

Embrace us. 

Embrace us.

Embrace us.

"Get out... of my head," he panted, but his resistance was weakening.

Images flashed before his eyes—memories not his own. A vast expanse of consciousness, collective and cold. The Necrolythians weren't just machines; they were once biological beings seeking freedom from their immortal prison.

They sought a return to mortality, to feel life and death again. And Rhys was their vessel.

"No," he groaned. "I won't be used."

But the whispers were relentless.

You will be reborn.

We will be reborn.

His vision blurred, the corridor spinning around him. He sank to his knees, hands clawing at his temples. The luminescent lines beneath his skin pulsed erratically, fluctuating between bright and dim.

Desperate, Rhys searched for something—anything—to anchor himself. He thought of Jax, of their camaraderie, their shared dreams. The memory stirred a warmth within him, a spark of hope.

"Jax," he whispered. His friend was somewhere in this facility. The thought of Jax suffering the same as him ignited another wave of anger, and the whispers receded. Clinging to his rage, Rhys dashed even further into the hallways.

He navigated the maze of corridors, searching desperately for his friend. "Jax!" he called, but there was no response. Each empty room intensified his frustration, fueling his anger to keep the whispers at bay.

Reaching a control room, he scanned the monitors for any sign of Jax but found nothing. "Where are you?" he growled, smashing his fist into the console.

"Jax, I'll find you," he vowed. The whispers lingered, but his anger kept them subdued—for now.