Trial 017 - 2019 Wattys Sci-Fi Winner

Chapter 19 - Cyrus

Pain.

That was all Cyrus could remember after he was shot out of the air. Falling nearly twenty stories down, he remembered striking the cliff face several times, one of the impacts tearing the flesh out of his back. The plasma round had struck him on the right side of his head, burning away the skin there. He couldn't see out of one eye.

The next day or two had been excruciatingly long, every hour feeling like weeks. Throughout it all, he could feel his body struggling to heal itself, even as the Lizards around him cut him apart, tearing away his flesh faster than he could regenerate it. Some of his organs had been tampered with, and more than once, he could feel them injecting their poisons into his body. He was different now. Even immobilized and numbed by pain, he could feel it. Something about him had changed.

When the scrawny boy came into the room, Cyrus tried with all his might to communicate, but there was nothing he could do. He watched as the boy gagged at the sight of Cyrus's body, and he lay helplessly as the boy was cornered by the enemy.

An impact had jarred him loose from the table, throwing him to the floor. The pain from his open ribcage made him want to scream and pass out, but the toxins in his body forced him to remain awake. Somehow, the tubes that pumped the paralyzing toxins into his body had been disconnected during the boy's fight. As the boy was finally trapped and captured, Cyrus screamed then, as loud as he could, but all that came out was a soft breath.

Eventually, the boy was removed. They left him alone with a small squad of soldiers, who set about tidying up the lab by sweeping up the mess and picking up whatever had fallen during the brief struggle. During the cleanup, a few of them moved him back to the table, but none of them had thought to reapply the needle. It was now or never.

Straining his body, Cyrus forced his hand to make a fist, squeezing his fingers together. They responded, barely, but he thought he could feel his fingers curling. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see the the soldiers finishing up, already brushing the remains of debris into a corner for removal.

His legs regained feeling next, allowing him to focus on his muscles there, shifting his position ever so slowly as he fought to regain feeling. Bit by bit, sensation reentered his hands and feet, allowing Cyrus to feel the table and begin propping himself up slowly. By now, the muscles in his neck were starting to return, and he turned his head to peer at the soldiers in the corner of the room. There were only four of them, backs still facing him; none of them had noticed that he was now sitting up.

He twisted his neck, letting his tightened muscles relax somewhat. For some reason, he still couldn't see out of his right eye, and he couldn't feel much of his right arm. Whatever effect the toxins had, it was slow to wear off. Without full function of his limbs, he couldn't risk an all-out fight, but he couldn't just sit around waiting for his limbs to respond.

Before the soldiers could turn around and see him moving, Cyrus dragged himself over the edge of the table, falling to a crouch on the other side. Placing his arm on the ground to stabilize himself, he lashed out with his foot, kicking the table as hard as he could. To his satisfaction, the table immediately ripped free of its metal bolts, rolling across the room noisily to crash into the squad, burying them in less than a second.

"Augh," he moaned in a slurred voice, feeling his chest ache in response to the sudden movement.

Cyrus glanced down hesitantly, lowering his eyes to get a good look at his body. To his horor, his chest was hanging open, the skin spread out unevenly. Everything from the chest up was charred, the skin having formed into boils and burned crisps, already headed into a permanent form.