21. Simon
Something is off.
Usually, I’m led back to a converted laboratory/examination room where I’m weighed, measured, bloods are taken, and then I’m strapped to a steel table where they pump me full of gods-knows-what. All while O’Hare crows over me, verbally poking and prodding and trying to get under my skin.
Today, though, I’m ushered into what looks like a small gymnasium, and O’Hare is noticeably absent. The usual weigh-in and measurements are taken, this time overseen by another staff member and our not-so-friendly wannabe enforcer. I’m then directed over to a treadmill and hooked up to all manner of machines and monitors, and instructed to simply, “Run.”
I quickly settle into an easy lope, the sound of my bare feet hitting the rubber mat a steady background beat to the rhythm of my breathing. They have me run for an hour, then move me onto other weight and cardio machines, all the while monitoring my vitals. They still haven’t drawn any blood for testing, which is strange, nor have they injected me with whatever cocktail is on today’s menu.
I’m coated in sweat and breathing quite heavily after another hour on the treadmill, and my muscles ache from the workout. My bonds thrum with anticipation and agitation, and while I’ve still got my own ends dampened down, I can feel how close the others are to this place. I’m low-key excited to see them again, but also nervous about the likelihood of their success. After all, they have no idea that they won’t just be rescuing me—no, they’ll have another fifteen shifters to free.
“Stop running and sit over here. We need to take your blood before we inject you with this next serum. It’s supposed to erase fatigue, so you’ll have to describe any affects it has on you.”
I’m ushered over to the metal table, and I take a seat, ignoring the quick sting of the needle sliding under my skin. Several vials of blood are drawn before the needle is removed. There’s no alcohol swab, no cotton ball or band-aid to help with the bleeding, and it takes a moment for my healing to kick in. A small trickle of blood runs from my elbow down my inner forearm, but I ignore it.
The “scientist” heading up today’s program approaches me with a syringe full of a thick white substance. He quickly jabs it into my neck, depressing the plunger and filling my veins with scorching heat. It tingles and burns as it makes its way through my circulatory system, but I bite down on my inner lip and swallow the pained hiss rising from my chest. Like fuck am I showing them any of my discomfort. That’s mine, and I live to piss them off with my lack of reaction.
After a minute, the burn dissipates, but a bone-deep ache lingers.
“Now, back on the treadmill. We’ll need to take more blood to see how you’re metabolizing the serum afterward and take note of any other affects you may experience.”
I side-eye the guy in the lab coat but say nothing as I follow his instructions. The lemming is posted up near the doorway, and I don’t like the way his eyes glitter with smug satisfaction and victory as I once again set a rigorous pace on the machine.
It doesn’t take long for my limbs to feel heavy, and I stumble, struggling to lift my feet. I force myself to concentrate, focusing on my legs, mentally demanding they obey my commands. I stumble again, this time falling to my knees, the rubber surface catching on my scrubs and sending a friction burn through the rough material. Someone turns off the machine, and I’m lifted back over to the table by a pair of guards, my head lolling on my neck. It’s concerning just how quickly I’ve lost control of my body, although my mind is still clear.
Tál sits up in my mind, a flicker of fear crossing his face.
The scientists all bustle around me, taking my vitals and drawing more blood. My mind reels at their excitement, because whatever the fuck they injected me with, it sure as shit wasn’t some form of stimulant.
“Wait here with him. I need to go find O’Hare, if he hasn’t already left!”
The guy in charge quickly jogs his way out of the room while the other scientists hastily pack away their instruments and machines and follow. I’m left with the unit of guards who escorted me here, and Johnson takes this moment to preen and monologue like the bargain-bin villain he is.
“Yer a fucking idiot, ya know that? Mister ‘High and Mighty Lion,’ can’t even see what’s going on in front of him. Ya played right into O’Hare’s hands, and now that he don’t need ya no more, what do ya think is gonna happen to your little bum-chums and all the other useless pieces of shit yer been protecting, hmmm?”
I reach for my bond with Quin, but I can’t feel him. It’s not like before, when we’ve practiced shielding from each other. It’s different, like the bond never existed in the first place. I hurriedly reach for the ones for Nick and Luc, feeling a blast of fear ricochet down the line before they, too, blink from existence.
Even Tál is starting to panic as one-by-one, my blood bonds vanish from my mind, and I can only pray that whatever it was that they did to me isn’t permanent.
Johnson keeps rambling on, his tone becoming more malicious and vindictive with each gleeful sentence.
“Mommy and Daddy Bassatne decided to cut off all their loose threads. They’ve got plans for yer tiger-boy, although they don’t really need him alive to finish them off. Havin’ his blood will do juuuuuust fine.”
A rumbling thunder booms through the underground complex, accompanied by an unnerving tremor which shakes the walls and roof. Fine particles trickle down from the enormous crack in the ceiling, and faint cries and screams seep through the damaged concrete.
One of the guards runs out of the room, radioing for assistance and demanding an update. He quickly returns, his face blanched with a greenish cast to it as he stutters out, “The main exits are all blocked, and it looks like some of the buildings have collapsed. There’s no way to get back to the holding cells. Those corridors are full of debris, fire, and smoke. Before they were cut off, surface security said to evacuate if we can, and that O’Hare said to leave the specimens behind.”
A single look at Johnson’s face tells me this is not something he expected, and the burst of static and then silence as one of the other guards tries to radio for more information means that the guards—and particularly Johnson—are trapped down here with me.
Tálstrom galvanizes into action, pushing his way out as he burns through whatever lethargy remains from the drugs. I happily surrender to him as an immense wave of loss and grief overcomes me. My friends and family may have come to my rescue, but by doing so, they’ve inadvertently caused the deaths of those I’d vowed to protect.
There’s nothing left for me here but pain.