THE ULTIMATUM.
He was jolted awake by the loud, screeching alarm—a sound he had loathed since the very first day he was brought to this hellhole. Every morning, that mechanical scream served as a reminder that his life was no longer his own.
After dragging himself out of bed, he noticed his breakfast had already been placed on the table by someone, probably the aides. He went toward it and devoured the meal with desperate hunger.
Once finished, he retreated to the washroom to take a bath. As he carefully unwrapped the layers of bandages Paul had applied the night before, he was hit with a shock. The head region that should have been a raw, bloody mess of bruised flesh was already scabbed over, a process that should have at least taken a week to occur. The speed of the recovery was unnatural, upon seeing he started to sweat profusely and immediately covered it, afraid that the secrete cameras in the room might capture it. He started to think of a way to hide it, he turned around and saw the shower stand and thought came into his head. He went toward the shower stand and begun to hit his head against it to reinjure himself, to undo the scabbing.
It did not take long for guards to rush into his room a few moments after he began his act. The guards slammed Brock against the cold tile wall, their fingers into his shoulders. One of them had his forearm pressed firmly against Brock's throat, pinned just enough to restrict movement but not to choke.
Brock let his body go limp, his eyes wide and vacant, mimicking the panicked confusion of a child who didn't understand why he was being hurt. Fresh blood trickled down his forehead, masking the scabs he had just destroyed. "Self-harm incident in Cell 402," the guard reported, his voice echoing in the small washroom. "Subject was bashing his skull against the fixture. Requesting medical assessment."
The guars marched brock to the examination center on his way he took note of the various rooms and pathways, his cell was located on the lowest floor, the examination center was located on the third floor and when they passed through the second floor he noted that it did not only contain training hall it also housed the armory and ware houses.
from this he deduced that the place where the adolescents are being experimented on is also on the third floor. He did not only take note of the facilities on the floors he took note of the security doors that had general access and one that required specific authorization.
"Instructor Stone and the head researcher will have high authorization", he thought.
finally he arrived at the examination where a quick scan was run on him. He was deemed okay. He was immediately dismissed and sent to the training hall.
On the way to the training hall Brock braced himself for another day of torment, fully prepared for a head bashing ceremony. To his surprise, Instructor Stone was not even there, instead a lanky looking man stood in his place and beside him was a familiar acquaintance; Subject 100. Seeing her Brock came to the realizing that he wasn't the only one who survived the experiment.100 had been brought back from her 24-hour examination quarantine and had probably been brainwashed too.
The lanky man clapped his hand to draw attention, after which he announced that Instructor Stone would be away for a while and he was going to be in charge for the time being.
"I go by the name Wilson," he said. He proceeded to introduce 100 as Brock's training partner, a fact Brock already guessed.
Wilson laid out the plan: for the next three months, they were to learn the basics of kickboxing and practice marksmanship. After that, they would be sent on their first missions. Hearing this, Brock felt a surge of glee; he knew this would finally be his chance to escape.
With that training began,
Wilson stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his lanky frame casting a long, thin shadow over the mats. "Kickboxing isn't about hitting," he said in his clinical tone. "It is about the geometry of the body. We start with the stance."
He demonstrated the basic athletic stance: feet shoulder-width apart, lead foot pointing forward, rear foot at a forty-five-degree angle, and weight evenly distributed. "Hands up, chin tucked. If your base is wrong, your strike is a whisper."
Brock mimicked the movements with his signature "clumsy" delay, but internally, he was absorbing everything like a sponge. He processed the rotation of the lead hip for a jab and the way the rear leg acted as a spring for the cross.
During the drills, he felt eyes on him. 100 was casting quick, sharp glances his way every time Wilson turned his back.
I know I'm handsome even when bald, but you don't have to look at me like that, Brock thought to himself, his lips twitching almost imperceptibly as he threw a slow, "uncoordinated" jab that intentionally fell short.
After half a day of grueling repetition on the mats, Wilson didn't offer a break. "Enough kick boxing for today we are moving to the next aspect of your training."
They moved to a specialized section of the hall lined with sound-dampening foam and ballistic glass. On the table before them lay several black polymer handguns.
"This is a tool," Wilson said, picking up a sidearm.
He spent the next few hours breaking down the basics of marksman ship. He showed them the 'Modern Iso' stance, feet square to the target, arms extended like a tripod. He explained the difference between a striker-fired and a hammer-fired weapon.
"Eject the magazine. Slide back to clear the chamber and inspect," Wilson commanded.
Brock watched Wilson's long fingers as it runs along the barrel. When it was his turn, Brock purposely fumbled with the magazine release the first time, acting as if he didn't understand the tension of the spring. But by the third attempt, his hands were memorizing the weight of the slide and the tactile click of the assembly pins.
Wilson then demonstrated disassembling the handgun into its four core components, the frame, the slide, the barrel, and the recoil spring. "Assemble it. Again. Faster. Until it is part of your hand."
As Brock clicked the slide back onto the frame for the tenth time, he looked down at the weapon.
They practiced the various forms of stances in handling different guns like SMGs, AK-47, 73 WASP, and modern guns like the 194-sub electric shooter (SES-194 for short).
The day finally came to an end and just like that two month had passed, Brock was no longer a rookie when it came to basic fighting and marksman ship but not as experienced to be labeled as a guard. Also, during that whole period there was not a time that 100 did not miss the chance to look at. Making Brock very weary of her.
Inspector Stone had arrived back at the facility a few days before the second month ended, though he had been occupied dealing with matters at the base a fact Brock was unaware of.
At the start of the third month, Brock entered the training hall expecting to be greeted by Wilson's annoying voice. Instead, he saw Stone standing there, gripping the all familiar bat. Brock began to shiver involuntarily. "This man isn't dead. Why did he come back? Argh, he's going to kill me", Brock thought to himself in a panic.
Stone's voice boomed through the hall. "You guys have made some progress, so I won't teach you much. My focus will be on entering and exiting your mental space voluntarily. I believe 100 is already capable of this, but you, 088, be ready."
Stone matched 100 with a training dummy to test her skills, then turned his full attention toward Brock. He stood there, fixing a cold gaze at him while rhythmically hitting his palm with the bat.
"Even though you are not Awakened, that does not mean this training is not part of you. When you prove your loyalty to the organization and rank up, you will naturally understand," Stone stated, his eyes never leaving Brock.
"Like I said previously, split your consciousness in two. One half stays in your mental space, the other controls the body. When you reach high mastery, you can maintain that state for a long duration without it affecting your actions. This level of mastery is the basics every Awakener should have."
When Brock heard that, he was stupefied. That level of mastery is 'basic'? Are you kidding me? He is lying, he is definitely telling lies.
Brock was so shocked by the claim that he momentarily forgot his "infant" act, his eyes widening with genuine disbelief.
Stone tossed the bat aside and approached Brock with a syringe in hand. He explained that it contained a serum designed to induce hyperalgesia, a state that would radically increase Brock's nervous sensitivity. Before plunging the needle in, Stone told Brock that he wanted him to feel the literal touch of fingers across his body; the objective was to use that heightened sensation to bridge the gap between his mental space and his physical form, specifically aiming to lift his arm.
Once the serum was administered, Brock entered his mental space for the first time in two months. He looked around the familiar darkness and immediately noticed a change, the reddish-purple patches that had previously been small and sparse had increased significantly in quantity. A wave of worry washed over him, but he forced the thought to the back of his mind. He couldn't even exit this place at will yet, let alone figure out how to fix a spreading anomaly.
He sat down on the floor of his mental space, straining every internal sense to feel Stone's touch on his physical skin. He tried with everything he had, but he felt nothing.
He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, but he knew it had been a long duration. Suddenly, a familiar cold sensation washed over his skin, followed instantly by a throbbing headache that was far more intense than anything he had felt before.
Brock's eyes snapped open as he was yanked back into his body. He reached up to touch his head, and when he pulled his hand away, his fingers were coated in fresh blood. No one had to tell him what had happened. He had clearly failed the attempt, and Stone had "corrected" him with a strike from the legendary emotional support bat.
Stone looked down at Brock with deep disappointment, the bloody bat resting against his shoulder. He uttered a single word that Brock never expected to hear from him: "Trash."
He then pointed toward the area where 100 was training. "Join her," he commanded, his voice cold and dismissive.
Brock felt a strange pang of sadness. Even though every session with Stone had been pure torment, he realized he had started to enjoy Stone's company in a way, Stone was the only one who treated him with a raw, honest brutality. With a dampened, he trudged over to the section filled with combat puppets. 100 was already there, her eyes fixed on him with her usual, unblinking stare.
As Brock began to strike the puppet, his mind was still reeling from Stone's rejection and the failure in his mental space. Suddenly, 100 leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper beneath the thuds of the training hall.
"You did not get brainwashed, isn't it?"
A violent shiver ran down Brock's spine. The "infant" mask he had worn so carefully for months felt like it was cracking in half. He froze, his heart hammering against his ribs, but before he could even think of a way to play it off, 100 continued.
"Don't worry. I also didn't get brainwashed."
The admission released some of the immediate tension coiling in Brock's chest, but he didn't relax entirely. He kept his guard up, his eyes darting toward the cameras and Stone's distant figure, wondering if this was another test or if he had finally found an ally.
Brock continued to practice with the training puppet, as he pretended not to hear a thing she said. His heart was still racing from her admission, but his survival instinct told him to stay silent.
100 didn't let up. "I can help you," she said.
It was there Brock felt something was amiss. The distance between his training puppet and hers was significantly too wide for a whisper to sound with such clarity, even if she had been leaning over. He threw a wide, clumsy-looking hook at the puppet, using the momentum to turn his body and face her while pretending to still be focused on his training.
As he looked at her, the voice came again. "I can help you split your consciousness."
Brock was completely stupefied. He was staring directly at 100, and saw that she hadn't even moved her lips. There was no hum, no breath, and no physical sign of speech, yet the words had vibrated in his mind as if she was standing right next to him.
100, noticing his shocked expression, spoke directly into his mind again. "Do you believe me now?"
Brock shot her a look that screamed, Do you think I'm a fool? Even though he was on edge and caught off guard, he refused to let surprise override his logic.
"I guess I have to show some credibility," 100's voice echoed in his head. "You are not just awakened. in your mental space, there is corruption taking place, and it has increased since the first time we met."
Hearing that she knew about the "thing" in his mental space and that she had been tracking its growth since their first encounter and had not uttered a single word to him only telling him now. Brock finally felt a layer of his skepticism peel away. He still didn't understand how she was communicating, but he figured it was through the mind. He concentrated, projecting a thought as hard as he could, What do you want?
100's response immediately made him doubt his conjection. "Nothing," she replied. "I only want to help a fellow survivor."
Brock gave her a flat, sideways glance that told her exactly what he thought of; like Bruh, you don't expect me to believe that shit, do you?
100 didn't argue. She simply gave a small, knowing smirk and turned back to her training puppet. "I have given you my offer," she said. "Take it or leave it."