The Cruel Horizon

Obinai's body jolts violently as the current rips through him. His torso arches against the restraints, muscles straining, veins standing out against his skin. His eyes roll back, showing only the whites, and his mouth gapes open in a silent, twisted scream. A spasm wracks him, sending a small, jerky seizure through his limbs before he falls still. His head slumps forward, drool escaping the corner of his mouth, blood trickling from his nose in a thin, crimson line.

Crowe steps closer, his boots clicking softly on the tiled floor. He kneels beside Obinai, flicking on a small flashlight and shining it into the subject's eyes. He doesn't speak at first, just hums thoughtfully as he tilts Obinai's chin, examining the lifeless stare. "Hmm," he mutters, voice low. "He's out. Deep shock, but that's to be expected."

Dr. Briggs stands slightly behind Crowe, arms folded. He glances at the other scientist—the one who's been oddly stiff and silent throughout the process. Briggs notices how the scientist stands rooted in place, shoulders tense, not having moved since the final surge of electricity. "Hey," Briggs calls softly, voice cutting through the hum of the equipment. The scientist startles, jerking a little at the address.

Briggs lets out a quiet sigh, extending his hand with a weary patience. "Hand me the clipboard," he says. The scientist fumbles slightly, then passes the clipboard over, their hand trembling just a bit. Briggs takes it, frowning at the notes they've gathered. He lets out a small sigh and begins jotting down a few more details with quick, precise strokes of his pen.

Meanwhile, Crowe leans in closer, studying Obinai's slack features and the slow, shallow breaths confirming he's still alive. He gives a sidelong glance to the scientist who's now, standing rigidly beside him. Crowe's eyes narrow, taking in the scientist's unease, but he says nothing. Instead, he rises to his full height, slipping the flashlight back into his pocket.

Briggs adjusts his glasses, finishing his notes. He steps toward Obinai, carefully beginning to remove the electrodes and sensors attached to the subject's body. "Help me with these," he instructs quietly. The scientist follows his lead, though still shaky, helping disconnect wires and leads without meeting Briggs's eyes.

As they work, Briggs clears his throat. "After he wakes up," he says, directing his words to Crowe, "he should make a full recovery, or as full as it can be. Then we can move him with the others."

Crowe paces a few steps away, boots clicking on the floor. He rubs his chin thoughtfully, "Good," he says curtly, casting one more unreadable glance at Obinai's limp form. "That's what we need."

With the equipment removed, Briggs and the scientist step back, leaving Obinai cuffed to the chair, head lolling, eyes vacant and unfocused. There's no recognition, no spark—just...

...hollow...

Crowe turns sharply on his heel, his boots clacking against the weathered tile as he heads for the door. Briggs follows, clipboard tucked under his arm, the stiff scientist trailing behind. Their footsteps echo down the hallway as they depart, leaving Obinai behind in the cell, cuffed, with eyes...

staring at nothing.

**

Crowe, Dr. Briggs, and the other scientist step into the lab, the soft hum of machinery and the low whir of ventilators greeting them. They begin putting the equipment away—Briggs carefully stows wires and electrodes, while Crowe sets down a clipboard, his gaze drifting as he processes recent events.

As Briggs organizes a tray of instruments, he clears his throat. "Sir," he begins, "I wanted to mention that the other subjects have started showing spikes in their activity. The data's coming in erratically, but there's definitely something brewing."

Before Crowe can respond, he notices the other scientist—Dr. Chen—wobbling slightly. The figure's posture is off, shoulders tense, the hazmat suit rustling with each shaky step. Chen stumbles toward the exit, one gloved hand pressing against the headpiece as if to steady it.

Crowe narrows his eyes, calling out, "Dr. Chen, hold on. What's wrong?" His words echo in the quiet room, but the scientist doesn't answer. Instead, 'Chen' lifts an arm, pointing vaguely at the helmet's visor, then continues toward the door with uneven steps.

Briggs sets down the tool he's holding and takes a half-step forward, concern furrowing his brow. Crowe watches, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Something is off. "Dr. Chen!" Crowe tries again, but Chen simply waves a dismissive hand, slipping through the door and out of sight.

Silence stretches. Briggs glances at Crowe. "He'll be fine, sir," Briggs says quietly. "I'll make sure he reports to you once he's sorted himself out. Probably just a cough getting worse, or the suit's discomfort. I'll follow up."

Crowe stands there, considering. Finally, he exhales, long and slow, and turns his gaze back to Briggs. "Alright," he says. His eyes flick once more toward the door where 'Chen' vanished, then he turns fully to face Briggs.

"Continue," Crowe instructs...

**

The scientist stumbles into the soldiers' hall, moving with a frantic, uneven steps. Reaching a familiar door, he fumbles with the handle before finally pushing it open. Once inside, he kicks it shut with the back of his heel, the dull thud echoing in the cramped room. Without pause, he rips off the hazmat suit's helmet and gloves, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

It's Santos. His face is flushed, hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead. He paces back and forth. His chest heaves with every shallow breath, the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.

"What the hell… what the fuck?" he mutters under his breath, voice shaking. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I knew we were collecting them, but… he told me rehabilitation," he hisses, fingers raking through his hair in agitation. "He told me it was for the greater good."

He nudges his bag with his foot, then lashes out, kicking it across the floor. "Damn it!" he shouts. His heart pounds, stomach twisting.

Dropping onto the edge of the narrow cot, he buries his face in his hands. His shoulders shake, tears escaping despite his attempts to hold them back. "This has to be illegal," he whispers, voice raw. "There's no way… oh god, what have they been doing to the others?" The realization makes him gag, bile rising in his throat. He spits onto the floor, disgusted and terrified.

"What if…" his voice falters, his eyes distant and unfocused, "what if that was Cici?" He chokes on the thought, bile burning at the back of his throat. "What if it was Lydia, or Angela?" He slides off the bed and onto his knees, clutching his chest, trying to breathe through the panic.

He trembles, weeping softly, tears slipping over his lashes and down his cheeks. "I couldn't… I can't…" he mumbles brokenly, his voice barely audible.

His vision blurs with tears, but he forces himself to look up, gaze drifting to the closed door. "But Crowe…" he whispers.

Three Years Earlier...

It's late at night, and the back alley stretches in front of him like a grim corridor lit by a single, flickering neon sign. Santos staggers through piles of damp cardboard boxes and puddles that reflect the distant glow of streetlights. He's dressed in dirty pajamas, the cuffs frayed, fabric stained with who-knows-what. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks hollow, and there's a faint, sweetness on his breath.

"S-so what… what does she know?" he slurs, the words tumbling out unevenly. He weaves between discarded crates and a toppled trash bin, hands raised in a mock shrug. "She thinks she can kick me out? Ha!" He giggles, a hollow, mirthless sound that bounces off the brick walls. "They don't know me… none of them do."

He tries to take another step but stumbles, his foot catching on something unseen. His head droops, and he mumbles a few curses under his breath. In this moment of distraction, he collides with someone standing in his path. He reels back, blinking furiously, and manages a slurred "Watch it!" as he attempts to focus on the figure before him.

A man turns slowly to face him. The alley's dim light reveals a face etched with a long, diagonal scar cutting across his nose and cheek. He's tall, composed, wearing a coat that's a bit too nice for this rundown part of town. There's something about his stance—rigid, alert—that makes Santos's breath catch itself.

They stand in silence for a heartbeat, the man's eyes steady. Santos, off-balance both physically and mentally, lifts his chin in a show of defiance, though he's not sure why. He takes a half-step backward, pressing closer to the damp brick wall behind him.

"It's hard, isn't it?" the man says at last, his voice quiet but carrying.

"H-hard?" Santos echoes, confusion knotting his brow.

The man takes a careful step forward, not aggressive, just closing the distance enough so that Santos can see the faint lines of age and weariness around his eyes. "They'll never really know what you've gone through," the man continues, voice still calm. "They just know what you've done for them. You might as well make it something they can be proud of."

Santos tries to scoff, but the sound snags in his throat. He swallows, thick and uncomfortable, gaze flicking up and down the alley.

"Who—" Santos starts, his voice catching. He coughs once, then tries again. "Who are you?"

The man's lips curve into a small, knowing smile. He lifts his hand, extending it slowly, invitingly. "My name is Crowe," he says, the syllables clear and deliberate. "And I have a test for you."

"A test?" Santos repeats. He leans his shoulder against the wall, trying to look casual. "What kind of test? I don't have time for games, old man."

Crowe tilts his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I never said it was a game," he replies evenly. "It's a chance. An opportunity, if you will."

Santos snorts. "Opportunity for what?" he demands, voice a little too high.

Crowe's eyes narrow slightly, considering his words. "For you to prove something," he says finally, his voice measured. "To yourself, to the people who doubt you, to the world that's been content to watch you stumble. It's up to you whether you accept it."

Santos hesitates, his breath fogging in the chilly night air...

"Fine," Santos murmurs, jaw tight. "I'll hear you out. But I'm not promising anything."

Crowe's smile widens just a fraction. "That's all I ask," he says gently...

"Come with me."

Present...

Santos wipes at his face with the back of his hand, sniffling quietly as he pushes himself up from the floor. His tears have dried, leaving only a dull ache behind his eyes and a tightness in his chest. He draws in a slow breath, willing the tremor out of his limbs as he reaches for his uniform.

He stands before the small mirror on the wall, its surface scratched and slightly warped. His reflection stares back at him, uniform half on, shirt hanging open. He can't help noticing how different it feels now—heavier somehow. As he buttons up his jacket, he thinks back to that night again with Crowe, how everything changed after that damn test.

He had me answer those questions, Santos thinks, fingers pausing over a button. Said it was an opportunity, a way out of the gutter I'd crawled into. A dry chuckle escapes his lips. And look at me now. All this time, I've been grateful to him… and yet here I am, an inconvenience for someone else all over again.

He swallows hard and presses his uniform flat, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. The dim light in the room casts shadows under his eyes, making him look older than he is.

On a small metal desk, there's a slip of paper. He knows what it says without looking, but he picks it up anyway.

"Fine...," he mutters aloud. He clutches the paper, his knuckles whitening.

"Fine, Carlos. I'll fucking do it."