Zero

Patient Zero whimpered behind his facemask as the eighth needle punctured his chestbone and drilled deep inside his body. Pain coursed through him like lava, blinding him and sending him into violent convulsions. A stern voice bellowed, "Reduce the toxicity!" and the pain quickly weakened, still strong, but bearable.

Zero felt the blood rush back to his extremities, blinked over and over until the glows and blobs became lights and staring faces.

Blink.

One face peered closer, eyes blue and cold.

Blink.

Another, behind him, bored.

Blink.

Three other faces, under helmets, above chest-armour, arms wrapped around black assault rifles. The two doctors had no guns though. But they had plenty of other painful devices.

Zero knew them all too well.

But Zero did not know his own name (long forgotten, or did he ever have one?). His own face (no mirrors here, only faces and sharp things.) This was his home, his hell, forever.

He hovered inches from the floor, suspended from the ceiling by black leather straps that dug into his pale thin flesh and left bruises that lasted days. Sweat dribbled down from his scarred cheeks to his mouthgag, all behind a mask that encased his face and made his cries echo around his ears long after his voice had worn out.

He felt only hate for these professional brutes, their eyes always on him, their toys prodding him and making him scream.

One was his true enemy.

Dr Attel, he was called. Sharp eyes, sharp voice, sharp grin, sharp scalpels. He favoured operating on Zero while still conscious. "All the better to see how resilient Zero is," Attel once explained to his young female orderly. The first woman Zero had ever seen. He felt his heart race, felt himself harden, until she was gone, and there was only Attel.

Attel had smiled. "Did you like her?"

Attel did not wait for Zero's response. The doctor tapped a button on a console, and Zero's world became infinite pain.