Harsh Reality

The second time Max woke, she immediately wished she hadn't. The harsh synthetic straps chafed at her wrists. Pain went through her chest, but it seemed petty, insignificant; it was mere candleflame compared to the inferno of fury within her.

Real homecoming, it was. Max never spared a thought to anything but her anger, her hate, but the irony was there all the same. What use for her now? To make more, more little camoflague-clad perfect soldiers running through the woods oblivious to all but the words on a classroom screen? Duty. Discipline. Mission. A farce that was so easily betrayed by the man who created it. Betrayed by the man with a vision, and the moment that vision was questioned, he sent it up in smoke.

What for her now? A fate similar to Brin, perhaps? she was the last one compassionate to Brin anymore. Maybe once they brainwashed her, Zack could kill her just as easily as he would kill-

-himself.

Harsh reality poured home. Zack was gone. Buried. For good. all that was left now was a mass of muscle and tissue the size of a first, living away, its foreign flesh beating her blood.

Blood that cried his revenge.