"Perhaps I can convince you to come quietly now?"
He stood over me, a gun in his hand. I was clutching the hole in my leg, well aware that if I couldn't find some way to stop the bleeding soon, I would either lose the leg or lose my life. Too much blood, all because I was too damn careless.
"You never stopped trying before. Why would you this time?" I laughed. He had been relentless. The only reason he had come this close now was because I had let myself be trapped, like an animal. I knew it had to end, one way or the other. But he was holding a gun, and the most I had was a knife, just out of reach of my hand.
"I am only thinking of your well-being," he said, lowering the gun slightly. It was no longer aimed at my head, but it was still aimed at me, and from experience, I was sure that a shot through the kneecap would hurt a lot more than a shot through the head.
"Really? Why don't I believe you," I said. After all, he had just shot me.
"I don't have to bring you in alive, you know. There are other ways."
"Believe me, I know. Do you think I didn't read the reports on Lazarus?" I had familiarised myself with as much information as I could before I had fled. These people might have made me who I was- in more ways than one- but in the end, I never trusted them.
"Well then, I suppose that is our only option."
"I guess so." He raised his gun, and I went for the knife.
-{-}-
He woke up with a start. Sweating, panting, heart racing, the works. He looked around, clutching at his chest. The dream had been so vivid, it had felt real, the gunshot tearing right through him... but now he tried to recall what he had seen, it vanished in his mind, the images becoming as dark and cloudy as smoke, fleeing away from sight whenever he tried to concentrate on them. He could remember nothing of the dream, nothing, except for the immediate pain he had felt when the gun had gone off.
Come to think of it, he couldn't remember much. The worrying thing was that, no matter how hard he tried, he simply could not remember his name. He would have assumed that would be the first thing he could remember, but apart from the shadowed remnants of the dream- no, call it a nightmare- that he had just went through, he struggled to recall anything. As far as his memory was concerned, the first time he had ever opened his eyes had been the painful occasion a few seconds ago.
He looked around, sure that there would be some sign in the room he was in, but no luck. The 'room' was nothing more than a dull grey box, a metal cage, complete with bars on the door. He would have attempted to slip his arm through and try to signal for somebody, but he saw the emitters hidden in the metal, pulsing blue; when he placed his fingers between two bars, a quick flash of blue light surged up and a painful jolt went up his arm. Apart from the shielded doorway and the bed, which was a severe, simple thing dangling from the wall like a tray, he could see nothing of note. No wardrobe, no mirror, no sink or toilet, no chair, no bookcase, nothing that would indicate what purpose this room served, other than to contain him.
He did his best to crane his neck and look down the corridor outside. It was mostly very similar to the room he was in- very simple, with flat metal walls, ceiling and floor, and strips of light running along the ceiling- and contained absolutely no one. It was empty. There was an open door at the far end, but apart from that, the only thing that was at all worth noticing was a symbol painted on the wall, made of parallel yellow shapes. He knew that somehow, he knew what organisation it belonged it.
It began with a C, but that was about all he recalled.
He was not content to simply sit around though, and a voice in the back of his mind was screaming at him to run as fast as he could. He examined the door, and noticed that the only way to open it was via a holographic panel, which was currently showing that the door was locked. He tried to tap a few of the keys on the interface, but every time his fingers touched anything, the console flashed a harsh red and he was shocked once more.
With no way of getting out, he sat down on the bed again. This time, he focused on remembering anything he possibly could. He was struggling, and he still could not remember his name, and after a while, he gave up hope. He faintly remembered someone telling him about amnesia, but for the life of him, he could not say how the conversation had gone, or who had given it; frankly, he was unsure how he knew the word, or the meaning of, amnesia.
He felt his ears prick up ever so slightly, and, in the distance, he heard a faint rumble and a sharp, sudden bang. Explosion, he realised, unsure how he knew that. The lights outside and in his room flickered, and there was his ray of hope. He stepped closer to the door and watched the emitters on the bars briefly. Another of the rumbling sounds, another explosion, and another flicker of the lights, and the emitters cut out for a brief instant. That was all he needed. Seizing on the chance, he delivered a kick to the door that sent a jarring pain up his leg, but he succeeded in levering the door from its frame a slight margin, and when the lights came back on, the console now listed the door as 'open'.
He pushed the door softly and, very carefully, stepped out of the room. He looked down both ends of the corridor, but was confronted with absolutely nothing at all. The only door, apart from the one he had just opened, was located at the far end of the corridor, and there was nothing at all that showed him who he might be. Although he was apprehensive, and unsure about what to do or what he would find, he decided the only course of action was to head to that door and see what was on the other side.
This one was unlocked, and slid open as he approached; the movement startled him, and he took a quick step back. There was nothing on the other side though- no people, either- and so he walked through, cautiously checking both sides and every corner of the room he was in. A huge array of computer consoles and monitors covered one wall, and half of the room was separated by security glass and was filled with lockers and racks, which no doubt once held weaponry. Indeed, a sign above the door read 'Armoury'.
Ignoring that for a moment, he went to the consoles, to see if he could see anything. They were clearly security devices; cameras were shown, and he could see many different rooms and areas. Two of them showed explosions and two groups of people fighting, but he couldn't discern any individuals or any organisations, and decided to ignore them for now. Instead, he looked for any footage of his own room, hoping to find any information whoever had occupied this room might have had on him. It took a moment, but he found a console in question, and while the other camera feeds all bore names such as "Entrance Hall" and "Barracks", this one only bore one word; "Warren."
Having never heard the word used to describe a room in a facility, he decided that must have been his name. Warren.
Warren turned to the armoury and pushed the door open, checking to make sure no one was hidden inside. Only one of the racks actually had anything within, and that was somewhat disappointing; a pistol. Warren was wary of picking it up, sure that someone found in a facility having broken out of a cell with a gun in hand would not be met with a friendly reception, but he took it regardless. Oddly, it felt much better to have a weapon in hand, and the pistol felt just right in his palm. It was almost frightening, how much better he felt to have it.
Maybe I deserved to be locked up in there, he thought, but he was sure he was just over-thinking things. After all, who wouldn't feel better in a strange place with explosions sounding off in the distance to have found a means of defending themselves?
Warren turned back to the security consoles, and decided to search around for a way out. He tapped a few keys on the console, and managed to find a map of the facility in a few moments. He was surprised to find so little encryption or security on the console itself, but he supposed that a map of the facility would hardly be classified information. He looked for any indication of an exit, and found a room marked as Hangar Bay. Deciding that would be the best place to head towards, Warren took a moment to memorise which turns he should take, which doors he should walk through and what he should avoid before he turned towards the door at the opposite side of the room.
He opened it with a brief touch of the console on the surface, and walked through, holding the pistol at the ready. He was slightly disappointed that he had not seen any armour in the armoury, as he was just wearing a shirt and a pair of black combat pants, and he knew those wouldn't have shields equipped. Still, he doubted armour would do him any good. After all, it would make noise, and he didn't think it would do any good to restrict his movement with ill-fitting armour. He would just have to make do.
He honestly had no idea where that sort of thought was coming from. How the bloody hell do I know anything about armour? He shook his head and pressed on down the corridor, heading down towards where a series of arrows pointed towards an area marked "Section 3".
He thought he could hear voices ahead, and pressed himself to the door in a crouched position, the pistol held in oddly steady fingers. He shuffled along the wall until he reached the end of his wall, and listened. There were, indeed, voices, oddly muffled and warped by something, likely a helmet.
"How the hell did they find us? I thought we were put here to prevent this kind of thing."
"No doubt someone betrayed us. After all, with the boss dead, somebody was bound to Cerberus was over. Probably told the Alliance to bring a full battalion over here; way too many for us to handle in a straight-up fight."
"And yet here we are, stuck watching a pair of kids to make sure they don't wake up."
"Do you know who these 'kids' are? Just pray they don't wake up."
"Hell, I was there when they brought Warren in. He didn't look ready to wake up any time soon."
"They can do miraculous things these days."
Warren gasped. They knew him, and they were the ones trying to keep him contained. They would most likely not be pleased to see him, but he had nowhere to go. He could hear footsteps coming towards him but when he looked back he realised the corridor was too long; they would see him before he could disappear from view and he would be caught in very tight quarters without any cover. No doubt they would have guns and armour. He could feel a nagging voice in his mind yelling at him to do something, but he couldn't say what. Frankly, he was too afraid to move; these men were either soldiers or guards and either way would have more training than Warren and would not be pleased to see him up.
The soldiers had reached the corner, and Warren felt his body move before he could tell it to.
His body snaked around the wall and grabbed the first man by the arm. Both men were wearing white body armour, black helmets and carrying sub-machine guns, but that apparently did not stop Warren. He felt like he was outside of his body, looking on as his hand slammed the man's gun away and punched up, grabbing the man's chin and lifting the helmet up to expose the neck, just as Warren's hand holding the pistol lifted up the weapon, pressed it in between the chest-piece and the helmet and fired. The blood splattered all over the man behind him, turning his armour from white to red, but he barely had time to react before Warren pointed the gun around the body he was still holding up, using the corpse as a shield, and fired. The shot took the man through the eye, bursting through the other side. The man had not raised his shields.
Warren dropped the body, and his pistol, looking at his hands which were both covered in droplets of blood. What the hell was that? Who the hell am I? he found himself thinking. He hadn't done any of that. At least, he hadn't consciously done any of that. All he had wanted to do was hide. He didn't even know how to fire a gun... and yet he did. He had killed these two men without even thinking about it, and now he was sure that he had belonged in that cell.
"He's awake!"
Warren looked up to see two more men in white armour looking at him further down the corridor. They raised their weapons and, while his brain was still processing what he had just done, he had forgotten to dive aside or pick up his pistol again. They had a clear shot, and he realised that they would kill him.
Suddenly, the men were blasted off their feet by a wave of dark blue light and slammed into the wall next to them. One slumped down against the floor, not moving, while the other struggled back onto his knees. Warren took that chance and slid his pistol off the ground, walking towards him and firing off three shots. All of them slammed into the white armour, one in the chest, taking down the man's shields, and the other two blasting the man's brains through his helmet. As his body fell, Warren stepped towards the other man and shot him through the back of the head as he lay on the ground. There was no sense in taking chances.
He was dangerous. He was a killer. He knew that he had deserved to be locked up in that prison cell, but he did not know who these people were or why they had held him. All he knew was that he did not want to be there, and he had already killed four men. There was no point in stopping now. Somehow, he felt as though someone in the back of his mind was applauding as he reached that conclusion.
He heard a noise behind him and turned around, pistol raised.
A Human girl stood before him, dressed in the same way as he was and looking almost as angry and confused. Her hands were raised up in front of her and a wavy blue light, the same that had slammed the two soldiers against the wall, and Warren's mind told him that they were Biotics. How he knew he had no idea, and what biotics were, he also had no idea, but this girl had sent two heavily armoured men flying into a wall and she had done it from about ten feet away, so he had no desire to get on her bad side.
"Who are you?" he asked. She didn't answer. She simply stared right back at him, the light around her hands getting stronger, and he decided that he had best behave. He lowered the pistol. "You obviously don't like these men," he said, pointing to the corpses he had left behind. "Same as me. Now, maybe we can help each other, but I would like to know who you are."
"You tell me first." Her voice was quiet, but her glare spoke volumes.
"Warren. I would tell you more, but I don't know." Warren looked at the bodies. "These men knew who I was, and they didn't seem too happy that I was walking around. Now, who are you?" He had the pistol pointed at the floor now, and as the girl continued to glare at him, he smiled at her, in what he hoped would be a reassuring fashion. She continued to glare, but eventually, her eyes took in the soldiers on the floor, the soldiers lying further down the corridor, the blood on Warren's clothes and the gun in his hand. He could see that in her mind she was calculating things. Slowly, the light around her hands dissipated, and she stood up straight. She didn't come any closer, but she looked less angry.
"Gillian. Gillian Grayson."
"Pleased to meet you. Now, how about we get out of this place?"
