89P13

Behavioral therapy, conditioning and training are equally important as physical enhancements. On days when there are no physical procedures each of the remaining kits are exposed to more to weapons training and piloting stimulation. This is done two ways. First through cognitive therapy utilizing videos, auditory clips, electric shock and cold water as well as the actual weapons themselves. The second method is through a series of “games.” You teach the subjects to identify different types of guns, ammunition, magazines, explosives, and other heavy artillery. The subject is given an electric shock if it does not identify the right type of gun, if it is to slow putting the bomb together etc. 89P11 struggles with the exercises the most. It puts javarian three caliber rounds in a Kree blaster and gets beaten to a bloody pulp. Its recovery takes a week and the handlers have to force feed it, its broken jaw making the job all the more difficult. 89P14 is good at weaponry, it has a good aim but it when it is less skilled at constructing bombs. You watch it from behind the reinforced glass as it takes the small parts in its hands. Its hands that are still jerking in pain from the new cybernetics. It concentrates and you examine its brain scans. It is thinking but can’t quite put two and two together. You watch it construct than reconstruct the bomb, unsure of how to connect the last two wires. It ponders what to do and finally you watch it plug the red wire into the black jack and the black wire into the red jack it looks at the finished bomb, leaning down to sniff at it. It blinks, nosing it and…. You wince as there is a banging sound and the little animal lets out a scream unlike any you’ve heard thus far. When the smoke clears 89P14 is on its back, fur still burning. You signal for a handler to enter the bright room. They step tentatively close to the raccoon and puts a hand to their mouth making a sound of disgust. They pick up the subject by its tail, turning it around and you take note of the gaping bloody raw hole where its muzzle used to be.

89P13 is nearly as disastrous. It blows off its arm once, sinew and muscle tissue dashed about the clean linoleum flooring. It lets out an agonized shriek and tries to crawl away when the handler comes to collect its stray body part. Luckily you are able to reattach the arm with a cybernetic bolt and socket. This time 89P13 doesn’t pass out from the pain or the shock if seeing its own bone fused with metal. This time its red eyes watch every movement of you and your surgeons. Beady eyes looking in morbid fascination as you fix its arm back into place, bending it too and throw. It yelps and twists, but it doesn’t go unconscious. The next time you test 89P13’s aim with an Askavarian Automatic it shoots itself by accident, the bullet going into its abdomen. It tries to hide limping to the corner when the handler comes in to gather it. You watch it shrink, curling itself as small as it can be, though that is not much. With its modified skeleton it cannot bend its spine as it used to, it clenches its teeth against the pain and makes a swipe the gloved technician. Eventually three of them drag the fuming subject back to the gurney and strap it on. It shakes and whimpers, trying to nose at its swollen bloody abdomen the entire way. 89P14 blows itself up a week later when it makes another attempt at the bomb exercise. You walk through the rows of cages, the white light illuminating every subject, but it does nothing to cover the miasma of infection and urination, sour flesh and rubbing alcohol. 89P11 paces in its cage, walking upright but walking with a severe limp, tail dragging. 89P12 is standing leaning against the back of its cage but its right arm is out of its socket and its eyes stare unblinking straight ahead, its entire chest bare and breathing uneven breaths. 89P13 is crouched, its stomach crudely bandaged, though by the smell and the looks of dark wine red rimmed with yellow the gauze hasn’t been changed in some time. At least the subject’s back is straight. It cowers when you pass its cage, its pupil-less eyes looking at you with a wary gaze, feverish and shaking.

“Don’t look at me that way P13,” you snap. “You don’t want to be punished, again do you?” 89P13 was punished with icy water yesterday for taking too long to devise an adequate escape from a containment chamber. It only wipes at its face with its paws. “Good,” the subject backs away to the farthest left of its cage trying to curl its tail around itself. “I’m only trying to make you better,” you change your tone, softer. “You want to feel, better don’t you?” 89P13 lets out a shrill whine. “Then you have to do what you are told so that I can make you the best you can be.” The subject looks at you with those inhuman eyes. There is something in those eyes something profoundly disturbing. This time it is the hair on your neck that rises. You reach through the bars, sticking 89P13 with the electric prongs. The light spits and its cybernetics alight with the shock, it lets out a screech which alerts the other subjects. P13’s cries can be heard even as you exit the lab.

You grow inpatient with the lack of progress in six months. The mistakes, the injuries the subjects haven’t even begun cerebral enhancement yet. Luckily that is all about to change.