Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Resistance franchise. I do not intend to steal it, either. For those who attempt to, beware the curse that Hybrids will gun you down, and a Titan will melee you, resulting in instant death. Be afraid. Very afraid.
Rating: "T", for certain themes and the "better-to-be-safe-than-sorry" motto.
Notes: Maybe it'll be more than one chapter, but who knows. This hit me smack in the face when I just started to write. So it is here, presented to you in full. The first section is written in first-person POV because I think it adds more depth to the character. Also, there is an OC introduced, but he plays a minor role just to keep the story moving. I also decided that nobody has written one of these bad boys yet, so I might as well put one out there, right? Anyway. Here it is, my gift to you.
"I don't know what I want to be yet.
But I can show that I need to see this.
No time for lies and empty fights.
I'm on your side.
Can we live a life of peace and happiness?
I don't think so."
-- "You Fight Me" by Breaking Benjamin
I hadn't wanted this. I tried to tell those bastards over and over again that I wanted no part of this.
Did that mean that they actually listened to my pleas? Of course not. Hands grabbed me roughly, and restraints began to lock over my body. Cries rose and died from my throat as I tried to call for help, but there was nobody around to hear. Fear rose in me, making my stomach twist into knots and my hands clench and unclench. Having successfully locked my body into the heavy restraints, the doctors released me and stepped back; one of them turned away from me and flipped on harsh, bright lights. I hissed in pain and fear as I recoiled away from the sight. This wasn't how I was supposed to die. I was supposed to die on the battlefield, in a fantastic blaze of honor and glory.
Panic made my heart stop and my body freeze as I spotted the needle. Mounted onto what looked like a large, metallic hangun. Hooked into the body of it was a transparent glass cylinder. Although the liquid inside of that cylinder was clear, I knew exactly what it held. My death. I was a grown man, nearing the age of thirty-three, but the sight of that needle made my body start to shake. My mouth moved, and words came from my throat, as I tried another desperate attempt to plead for my life.
"I didn't agree to this," I stammered nearly incoherently, "You can't do this. I have rights."
Nobody replied to my accusations. Latex hands grabbed for my arm, and years of military training had me thrashing about again. I prayed desperately for a moment, hoping that just maybe, somehow, I could break free and subdue the soldier supervising the whole event. With me jerking my arm around wildly, they piled more people onto my limb. A man grunted as he tried to contain me, and that provided just a small sliver of satisfaction. At least I'm not going without a fight, I thought to myself.
"If you do not calm down, we will not hesitate to sedate you!" A doctor hissed into my ear, sounding very angry. Rage boiled in my blood in half a second -- he wasn't the one laying strapped onto the table all in the name of science, was he? Regardless, his words stilled my struggles, and hope fled from my body.
They were really going to do it. I was just going to be another body added onto the tally of this war. My dignity and pride kept me from crying, but I felt like breaking down and sobbing. I was supposed to be strong, and be a man, but this. . . It went beyond cruelty. I couldn't believe that people could be so heartless. Like a sword to the grief came fury. If any one of them got close to me, I wanted to free my hand and break his face. Watch him bleed and cry from the pain and humility as others watched.
Hands grabbed at my arm again, tentative and almost gentle. It was all a charade, I knew. They just wanted to know if I was going to snap and try to escape. Although it was useless, I tried to speak once more. My eyes focused on the needle, the frightening instrument that would surely cause my death.
"I never consented to this. . . Y-You're breaking the law. You have to stop." My voice was weak and horse, but I didn't care. I could barely hear myself speak.
"Yes you did, sir," A doctor finally responded, staring at me with calm and aloof eyes (he didn't want to use my name, because not having a name would dehumanize me), "you signed all the consent forms when you agreed to be a part of this."
"No, I didn't, damnit! I didn't agree to this!" I hissed, not bothering to consider I had made a mistake in appearing aggresive. Now one of the five doctors was laying his hand carefully on another needle, surely holding a promised sedative.
The larger needle holding my death was now ready and prepared. I felt a cold wetness being rubbed over the inside of my elbow, and the sharp sting of alcohol drifted up to me seconds later. Nobody replied to me again, because now it was time for judgement. Now I was going to die, and nothing I said was going to stop them. Raw fear rose inside of me, making my muscles clench as I felt the sting of the needle as it slid into my skin. My lips moved, and I closed my eyes, a disjointed prayer for mercy escaping me. God would not let me die like this, would he? Half-mutated into some kind of monster, my body burned later to hide the evidence. Of course he would, some half-insane part of my mind hissed at me, because God doesn't exist.
A cold feeling began to rush up my arm, and moments later I felt another sting as the needle was withdrawn. I closed my eyes tightly and fisted my hands roughly, body shaking once more. I could feel the doctors in the lab staring at my body, waiting for the imminent death. My senses sharpened, I swore I could hear the soldier reaching for his gun, ready to draw it on the monster he was bound to see. I tried to relax, attempted to disconnect my mind from what was happening. I thought about my family, and about the times of my childhood that seemed so far away. But I couldn't. For the next moment, a pain began to build inside of me, making me groan.
Images began to flash in front of my eyes, as though I were watching a movie. Voices began to speak to me, but I couldn't understand the words that were being said. It sounded like a garbled and muted mess. As impossible as it was, I could hear whispers, too, and even though I could not understand what they were saying, it was comforting and beautiful. I tried to focus more on the whispers than the garbled voices. The pain began to escalate, moving from a dull throb that I felt everywhere to sharp pricks. I felt myself wince, although my muscles seemed to be burning. Suddenly it felt like I was laying on a bed of hot coals, the heat beginning to sear my skin. I was hot, I realized, although I couldn't seem to grasp the reason why. The whispers and the voices began to grow louder, rubbing against my too-hot brain.
The pain began to intensify, and I felt the desperate need to escape the bed of hot coals I was laying on. The images began to flash before my eyes faster, more disjointed and brokenly. This added to the pain that began to spread everywhere. I think I tried to scream, to escape whatever was holding me to the bed of flames, but I couldn't hear anything. I called out to God, and begged for him to end this agony tearing at my flesh. It felt as though I were being ripped apart. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, and I couldn't move. It was all too much to take.
Blissfully, my mind shut down, and the embrace of unconsciousness greeted me.
Dr. Altman stared at the. . . Man that lay before him.
His body was beginning to twist and mutate into one of the monsters. . . But which one? He didn't look like a regular Chimera, what with his body beginning to swell and expand, looking inflammed and infected. Bands of bruises covered his skin, as if his bones were pushing against his body and itching to burst through. All the while, he laid in a comatose, completely unaware to the changes occuring with his body. Of that, Dr. Altman was glad. At least these horrifying and painful changes were taking place while he could not feel them. With a sigh, the weary doctor turned and grabbed the clipboard placed by the patient's bed. Jotting down a few quick notes, he stepped outside of the observation room and softly closed the door behind him.
"Dr. Altman?" A young voice asked, and as he turned his head, he found himself staring at a nurse they'd picked up sometime before the beginning of the program. Altman could see the paleness of his skin, and he acknowledged the man was probably still unused to the sights of the labs.
"What do you need me for?" Altman finally managed to make himself reply, shaking himself from his rousings.
The nurse looked at the ground sheepishly, and then back up to Altman, "I was wondering sir. . . If what the patient said was true. . . ?"
Altman heaved a small sigh and thought carefully before he answered. While it was true that the patient had signed all consent forms admitting him to be a part of Project Abraham, the chairs had pulled a nasty trick. The soldier knew he would be recieving the agent and (theorized) cure for the cause for Chimera conversion, hopefully building an immunity to the virus. He had agreed to the procedure somewhat reluctantly, and not without a sliver of fear in his eyes. However, the higher ups had wanted to test a new strain that Dr. Malikov had recently engineered. So when the soldier had entered the procedure room, and laid onto the table, Dr. Altman had broken the news to him. News that informed him that he would not be recieving the intended strain, but something more concentrated. . .
It was then that the soldier had proceeded to resist and combat the doctors.
Dr. Altman stared at the patient eyes of the male nurse, and finally he heaved a small sigh.
"It isn't our place to wonder, sir. We just do what we are told. Speaking of which, I need you to locate Dr. Malikov for me and tell him I need to have a word with him on the patient."
The nurse nodded his head, face carefully arranged and impassive, and walked away. Altman watched him walk away, body giving away his emotions. His hands closed into fists, revealing the anger at Altman's evasive statement. You'll learn soon enough, my friend, Altman thought to himself, that I've relieved you of a painful burden. You do not have to carry the guilt of killing a man, one at a time. Giving one last look to the door, Altman felt the all-too familiar well of guilt build up inside of him. On the other side of that door, Private Jordan Adam Sheppard was slowly dying.
Just another tally on his record of deceased victims. All of which were men, serving under the classified Project Abraham.