Mass Effect: The Forgotten Soul

Chapter two, Komak Undan

"Where a wolf's ears are, the wolf's teeth are near."

Martin lay on the cold, metal slab that passed for a bed, exhaustion weighing down every part of him. His body was a map of bruises and scars, each breath dragging against the ache in his ribs. The platform was shoved into the corner of the cell, offering little comfort. "At least there's a toilet," he thought bitterly, trying to find some twisted silver lining. The room was steeped in darkness, with only a sliver of light slipping through the small, five-inch window in the door and a narrow gap along the bottom edge.

Pain throbbed through his body, a souvenir from the torturer's relentless work. His abdomen felt raw, and each inhale scraped against his bruised lungs. Time blurred in the stillness until the scrape of metal on metal yanked him from his stupor. A slot in the door opened, spilling faint light into the cell. A small, dented tube and a cup of water clattered onto the flap. From the window, a four-eyed face loomed, momentarily eclipsing the light. "Eat," it ordered and then vanished without waiting for a response.

Martin eyed the tube suspiciously. The water was tempting, the thought of it already soothing his parched throat, but the paste inside the tube... less so. Still, he retrieved both, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth. Inside, a pinkish substance glistened, sticky and unappetizing. He dabbed his tongue into it cautiously. His face twisted in disgust. "Like wet cardboard," he muttered to himself, spitting out the taste. He washed the bitterness down with a sip of water and slumped back onto the hard slab.

Minutes ticked by in the silence, his stomach gnawing at itself. Hunger clawed at him, but his gaze drifted warily back to the tube. It sat there on the floor, mocking him. He knew he'd have to eat it eventually, but the thought of forcing it down turned his stomach. He stared at it, weighing his options. As time dragged on, fatigue wrapped around him, and a slow, creeping dizziness set in. His hands tingled, and his legs grew weak, a sickly reminder that hunger didn't wait for pride.

"Fuck it"

Martin stumbled toward the tube, moving as fast as his battered body allowed, and squeezed the paste into his mouth in one quick motion. He gulped it down, chasing it with the water. The moment it hit his stomach, a violent wave of nausea rolled over him. He doubled over, gagging and dry-heaving.

"What the..." He coughed, trying to suppress another dry heave. "Fuck was that?" His throat burned as he gasped for air, hoping the foul taste would dissolve, but it clung to his mouth like damp rot. Desperate to banish it, he shoved his fingers into his mouth and scrubbed his tongue, only succeeding in making himself gag again.

Collapsing onto the metal slab, he hunched over with his head in his hands, waiting for his body to settle. "I've eaten some questionable MREs before," he muttered to himself, "but that... that was on another level."

Time slipped by, though he wasn't sure how long. Gradually, the memory of the paste faded, and to his surprise, the sick feeling in his gut lifted. His stomach, once a twisting knot, now rested quietly. Even more unexpected was the subtle surge of energy that crept into his limbs, as if someone had reset a circuit in his body. For the first time in hours, maybe longer, his mind felt sharp, every thought lining up with strange, unfamiliar clarity.

With his immediate needs met, his thoughts drifted back to the grim reality of his situation. His hands traced the bruises on his ribs absentmindedly as his mind circled the same unanswerable questions: Where the hell am I? How did I get here? Was I just abducted?

What do I remember last? The thought gnawed at Martin as he forced himself to focus, his mind racing through his fragments. He remembered the cold, gray walls of the prison, the stench of sweat and metal, and the distant echoes of a fight that seemed far away but still haunted his senses. Gunfire, shouting, those sounds clung to the edges of his memory like smoke from a fire he couldn't put out. Was it real? He pressed harder, sifting through the chaotic blur.