Alistair - 006

I sat in the sterile, cold room, the fluorescent lights above casting harsh shadows across the table. Agent Harris and Colonel Richter sat across from me, their faces etched with determination. The incessant ticking of the clock on the wall only added to the growing discomfort gnawing at my bones.

"My bones itch," I stated, shifting in my chair. The feeling was unlike anything I had experienced before, a deep, relentless itch that seemed to originate from within my very marrow.

Agent Harris glanced at Colonel Richter, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "Focus, Lieutenant Galen," he said, dismissing my concerns with a wave of his hand.

I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the sensation. "I've told you everything. The lab was secluded on the lower layers. Major Tiberius conducted the genetic modifications."

Colonel Richter leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "And what about the doctors? What did they look like? Were there any distinguishing features?"

I rubbed my temples, the growing ache in my head making it difficult to concentrate. "They wore masks, full protective gear underneath lab coats. I couldn't see their faces. In hindsight, very unusual."

Harris and Richter exchanged a glance before Harris spoke again, his voice stern. "And when exactly did AM-3S shut down?"

I struggled to focus on their questions, the pain in my bones escalating to a level that was becoming impossible to ignore. "It happened just before I raised the alarm. One moment it was fine, the next it shut down completely."

They continued their barrage of questions, each one more probing than the last. I could feel their suspicion, their need to find any inconsistency in my story. But the discomfort in my body was now full-blown pain, spreading from my bones to my muscles.

"Describe Major Tiberius," Harris demanded, his tone insistent.

I tried to recall the details, but my head was pounding, each beat of my heart sending waves of pain through my skull. "He was tall, dark hair, green eyes. Wore fairly standard attire. That's all I remember."

Richter's eyes bore into mine, searching for any hint of deceit. "You need to give us more, Galen. Sounds like you may be a part of a terror cell."

I wanted to scream, to make them understand the agony I was in, but I knew they wouldn't listen. "I can't... I can't think straight. My head... it hurts."

Agent Harris leaned back, exasperated. "Circles! Dammit! Circles! We don't need circles. We need answers, Lieutenant Alistair Galen."

The pain was now excruciating, radiating through my entire body. I could barely keep my eyes open, each breath a struggle. "I... I know..."

Colonel Richter's voice cut through the haze. "This is critical, Galen. We need to know everything about those genetic modifications. Where is the lab? Who else was involved?"

I barely registered their questions now, the pain overwhelming my senses. My vision blurred, the room spinning. "Please... help... something is wrong..."

Harris and Richter exchanged another glance, their frustration palpable. "Stop attempting to distract from the questions, officer."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Harris muttered.

I felt myself slipping, the pain now completely overwhelming. I felt artillery strikes ringing on my bones, erupting into fire across my skeleton.

My head ready to explode. "Gas.... me..."

Agent Harris sighed, his patience wearing thin. "Focus, Galen. We need answers."

But I couldn't. The pain was all-consuming, a relentless force that left no room for anything else. "Please... Colonel..."

Colonel Richter stood, his expression one of grim determination. "We can continue this in the med bay."

I doubled over in my chair, the pain unbearable. Each breath felt like a thousand needles stabbing into my lungs, and my vision blurred as I struggled to stay conscious. Agent Harris and Colonel Richter's voices seemed distant, muffled by the roaring agony in my head.

"Lieutenant Galen, let's walk there," Richter said, standing up and moving toward me. His concern was palpable, but I couldn't properly display how much pain I was truly in.

"No... stay back," I gasped, my voice strained. "My brain is on fire."

Richter ignored my plea, reaching out to help me to my feet. The moment his hand touched my shoulder, something inside me snapped. Instinctively, a dagger of psychic energy shot from my body, transferring directly to Richter's touch. His eyes widened in shock as he stumbled back, barely staying conscious from the sudden attack.

"?" Harris exclaimed, rushing to Richter's side. "Richter, are you okay?"

Richter gritted his teeth, clutching his hand where the psychic dagger had struck. "Cognitive suppressants... now," he managed to say, his voice filled with pain.

Harris grabbed his radio, his urgency clear. "We need sleep gas in interrogation room three, immediately. Do not enter."

I could barely process what was happening, the pain overwhelming my senses. The room seemed to spin, and I could hear the distant sound of footsteps approaching. My vision blurred further, and I felt myself slipping.

I awoke with a start, my senses immediately alert. The room, previously a blur of pain and confusion, now felt crisp and clear. Every detail stood out in sharp relief: the smooth, cold metal of the interrogation table, the subtle hum of the fluorescent lights above, the faint scent of antiseptic that lingered in the air. My armor, once a source of discomfort, now fit snugly around me, as if it had been custom-molded to my body.

I turned my head slowly, taking in my surroundings with newfound clarity. Agent Harris and Colonel Richter were slumped in chairs across the room, still unconscious. Even from this distance, I could see the faint rise and fall of their chests, their breathing steady but shallow.

My gaze drifted to Harris first. I noticed the slight scar above his left eyebrow, a testament to a past injury. The scar was a thin, clean line, indicative of a blade rather than blunt trauma. Perhaps a knife fight, likely a close-quarters skirmish given its location. His pulse, visible at the base of his neck, was steady but quickened, likely due to the recent excitement. His uniform was impeccably clean, but a small tear near his right shoulder hinted at a recent scuffle. The fabric around the tear was frayed, suggesting it happened in the last few days. Traces of dried blood around the tear indicated he had been caught off-guard, possibly while dealing with a suspect.

I shifted my attention to Richter. His complexion was paler than before, the result of our earlier encounter. His hand, the one that had been struck by my psychic dagger, tremored and rested on the armrest of his chair. His pulse, visible in the vein on his neck, was quicker and more erratic. I could see the lines of age and stress etched into his face, each one telling a story of battles fought and decisions made. A very faint scar ran from his jawline to his collarbone, jagged and irregular, likely from shrapnel or an explosion. The oil residue on his uniform, particularly around the cuffs and knees, suggested he spent a considerable amount of time around machinery, perhaps personal repairs or maintenance of private vehicles.

The room itself was sparse, functional. The walls were painted a sterile white, adorned only with a few security cameras positioned to capture every angle. A single door stood at the far end, the only exit. The air felt cool against my skin, a welcome contrast to the heat of the earlier confrontation. The faint scent of gun oil mingled with the antiseptic, a reminder of the ever-present military readiness of this facility.

As I observed my surroundings, I noticed small details that painted a broader picture of the room's use. Organic fibers on the floor, near the base of the walls, indicated a mop had recently cleaned the area, suggesting the room was used frequently and maintained rigorously. The subtle scuff marks on the floor, near the chairs, hinted at heavy, possibly frantic movements. This room had seen its share of struggle, likely from other prisoners brought in for questioning.

My gaze fell on the ventilation grates high on the walls. They were slightly dusty, but one vent had a cleaner outline, suggesting it had been recently serviced or tampered with. A closer inspection revealed a faint residue of oil on the screws, indicating it had been opened and closed repeatedly. Perhaps a maintenance worker had been monitoring or adjusting the airflow, ensuring the room remained secure and comfortable for its occupants.

I took a deep breath, my mind tranquil. The pain that had wracked my body earlier was gone, replaced by a serene focus. I felt... different. More aware, more in control. Every muscle, every fiber of my being seemed to hum with a quiet, restrained power. A second wave from whatever gene cocktail I received from "Major" Tiberius.

Slowly, I rose to my feet, my movements fluid and precise. I flexed my fingers, feeling the strength coursing through them. The room seemed smaller now, the walls closer. I took a step forward, the soft thud of my boots against the floor echoing in the silence.

Harris and Richter remained unconscious, their faces peaceful in their slumber. I wondered what they would say when they awoke, how they would react to the changes they would undoubtedly notice in me. For now, though, I had a moment of calm, a brief respite before the storm that was sure to follow.

I walked to the door, testing the handle. It was locked, as expected. I turned back to the room, my gaze falling once more on Harris and Richter. There were so many questions, so many uncertainties. But for now, I had one clear goal: to understand what had happened to me, and to use that knowledge to protect those I cared about.

As I stood there, the memories of the interrogation slowly filtered back into my mind. The questions, the accusations, the pain. But now, they felt distant, like echoes from another time. I was different now, changed in ways I couldn't fully comprehend. But I would carry on, because that's what I had always done, and I would start by finding out exactly what had been done to me.

Further beyond the scenes of interrogation, I could retrace the exact steps AM-3S and I made to the laboratory, recount the exact words from the personnel there. 

I sat with my elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of me, waiting for the men to awake.