My name is Subject S.
I am a human female.
And I have been alive for four years.
At least, that's what they would have me believe. I live in darkness. I endure pain. I am made to fight blindly. I am not given a choice. I am alone. Though I have never seen my body, I knew it to be older than my four years. How much older, I could not say. I feel scars on my right arm that run from my shoulder to wrist. They have been there since I was awoken. I do not know how I got them. My hair reaches the middle of my back, though the sides of my head are shaved to create easy access for the electrodes to be attached. If I run my fingers along my scalp, I can feel the small holes that have been left. I do not know my hair color. I know nothing about myself. Who I am. Who I was. I only know what the distorted voice has told me. I am alone. I am salvation. I am not loved. I am feared. I will never be freed. I am a tool to be used until I am no longer useful. Then I will be discarded.
So why haven't I given up?
Because I don't believe everything they say. They are liars. They are tormentors. And somewhere . . . somewhere somebody loves me. I just know it. It's the only thing I remember clearly since waking in the darkness that would become my home. That day, my thoughts had been a swirling vortex, making me dizzy. Faces, blurry and distorted, darted in and out of my mind before disappearing. Names that I can no longer remember, had been on my tongue. And then they too were gone. It was like everything about me was being erased in those first few minutes of my life. I had panicked and began grasping at something—anything—to keep. Even then, confused and scared, I had known something was wrong. And so love . . . someones love . . . was what I had managed to capture. It is the only thing that has helped me to keep my humanity.
They don't know that I remember this.
Not long after opening my eyes, the distorted voice spoke to me. Told me what was expected. Told me that I was created for their use. A lab project grown from a test tube that would defy nature itself. That I was to be used as seen fit. That my every move was monitored. That any attempt to disobey would be punished—not that they ever gave me the chance to disobey. Somewhere in the darkened cell were vents that emitted a powerful sedative. I always knew when it was coming due to a low buzzing sound that would hum through the walls right before I passed out.
Most of the time when this happens, I usually wake groggy, worse for wear, and often in agonizing pain. Sometimes I'm nauseous and will spend quite a bit of time throwing up. And sometimes I am bleeding from various wounds. But even then, when this occurs, I consider myself lucky. There are other times when I wake while they still have me. Or at least . . . my mind wakes. To them, my body is asleep or under their control. I cannot see, but I can hear and make coherent thoughts. And I can feel the excruciating torture that they are putting my body through. I cannot scream. I cannot stop it. Then there are the times I wake inside of a body that is moving, but outside of my control. I can see during these times, but it does me no good. It's dark. It's always dark. But I can feel the present danger as my body twists and turns in the pitch black cavern. I can sense as something large and deadly strikes out and rips open my skin. I can hear the scream that erupts from my lips—out loud this time. But it's robotic. Like my movements are being decided by a third person and I am merely along for the ride.
Four years of this.
At least that's what they tell me. What they don't know, is that I have learned from these experiments as much, or maybe even more than they have. I have learned what my body is capable of doing and the amount of pain I am capable of withstanding. I have focused on what they have me doing when I am blindly fighting. I have learned to mimic the actions—learned to fight when I am awake and outside their control. I have also learned that they might not have been being truthful about my every move being watched. I was sure that when I first started practicing the fighting stances and moves, they would try to stop me. Or at the very least, say something about it. Surely it would give away that I remembered some part of their experiments, or be considered some act of rebellion. All the same, nothing was ever said. Now I move with fluency.
When I wake on the lab table is a different story. I try to focus on the voices as best as I can, as that is the only time they are not distorted, but usually they are drowned out by my own internal screaming. They never say anything useful, however. I never hear a name. Whoever they are, refer to each other simply by numbers. And after four years, the tests have only gotten worse—the injections more painful. I don't know what they are hoping to learn from this. From me. But whatever it is, they have not figured out.
In fact, the only thing I have found of any interest while strapped to that table and trapped inside my mind, is when I heard them refer to different alien races. Salarians, Turians, Hanar, Krogan . . . I have heard each one mentioned. And it's not so much that they are talking about them that I find interesting, but more my own reaction to it. I had no way of knowing about different alien species other than myself, and yet I am not the least bit surprised by it. Like I always knew of their existence and am completely comfortable with it. I am also starting to believe that my captors are both alien and human alike.
Now, curled into a fetal position in my dark cell, I think back on the most current lab session. Because it is always dark, I have no sense of time so I don't know how long ago it happened. But seeing as how I had just woken up, I'm guessing it was recent. And it had been the most painful one yet. My body still felt like it was on fire, so I have to clench my teeth and force myself to focus on what I was able to learn. It had not been much this time—it never is. I had screamed a lot—not that they heard it. I can feel the bitterness at the thought at the same time that I cry out from another wave of burning heat scorching through my veins. My head is pounding. Not even the cool stone floor I lay on was enough to ease the throbbing. All the same, there was still something off about this last session. Something was different. Of that I was sure. Even through the agonizing torture, they had seemed rushed. They had sounded . . . I falter, trying to think of the right word. Trying out different ones in my head, and not coming to anything that seems correct. Finally my mind wraps around one: Worried. And then another word: Scared. That was it. But I had never heard them sound like that before. It confuses me.
Suddenly, the walls emit their low hum and I sit up quickly. Fear rushes me as my eyes dart upward to where I know the vents are. They have never done it back to back like this. Never this close together. My pulse begins racing, bringing with it a new wave of agony from the deep veined fire that is still rushing through me. I bite down, pushing through it as I clamor to my feet. Soon the hum cuts off, and I hear the hissing of the vents. I try to take small breaths. I try not to breathe.
I have been scared before—beyond means. Several times. I have undergone treatments and tests and torture that would surely kill most people. But through it all, it had been the same in a sense. In four years, they had always seemed to follow a guideline. Never swaying. And one thing I had become convinced of, was the order to it. I was always given time to rest after being used. Several hours at least, I had come to guess. Something about giving my body time to adapt, heal, and prepare for the next time. So the fact that I could taste the sedative through my shallow breaths, so close after having just woken . . . absolutely terrified me to my very core. My head grew heavy, my mind dizzy. Fight it, I screamed at myself. I didn't bother screaming out loud. I was never answered. But something was wrong. I had sensed it before, and now I knew I was right. Something was . . . I vaguely felt the pain in my jaw as it connected with the floor.
Gun fire.
Screaming.
Needles piercing my skin.
Pain.
More gunfire.
Electricity coursing through my brain.
Moving through darkness.
Fighting.
Falling.
Something inside me explodes.
Cold.
A gasp.
A voice that causes a spark somewhere in the back recesses of of my mind.
Light and dark through closed eyelids.
The light is painful.
Just darkness now.
I'm pretty sure I died.
AN: Hello! So this is my first attempt at a Mass Effect fanfic story. I've been playing Mass Effect a lot lately, and I just couldn't help but start thinking about . . . well . . . you'll see. Anyway, I hope you guys like it! Please let me know what you think :)