Of Fire And Ice

Whoever told you this is sick? Its FUBAR

With Sean leading the team, he stepped into the room. 'Holy shit' he thought. Every inch of the room is wet. Water puddled onto the floor. Droplets of water dripped onto the keyboards. What the hell happened here?

Suddenly Dylan sharply barked out. "Check if everyone's still alive. Hurry."

He didn’t notice the bodies sprawled out across the room until Dylan called out to them. All were women except for the security. Two guards stationed at each exit, both wore black shirts and matching black pants. He was sure, given by the paleness of their skin and those glazed, empty eyes that they were already dead.

He crouched down on the body that was closest to him. His gun, an M-16 rifle, was still hanging from his shoulder. It didn’t appear that he was about to use it. Something was odd he thought. His brows shot up He realized that they were caught off guard by someone or something.

The man's clothes were soaked wet. He glanced over at the body. The skin is wrinkled, like when what happens when you took your time in the showers

.

"Holy hell. This one’s alive but barely." Spencer shouted. Heads turned towards his direction. He was crouching down at a scientist who was near at the chair in the middle of the room.

Sean left the guards body and strode towards Spencer. He noticed a splotch of dried blood on the floor, where the scientist head was lying. He glanced at the chair. It was metal with wrist cuffs attached at its arms, similar cuffs were placed at the leg part.

He was familiar with this chair. He was tied up to one not so long ago. Memories bubbled up in his mind, the torture, the experiments and those cursed drugs all hovering in his head.

He was slowly being consumed by rage. He knew it wasn’t good losing control, but at that minute, it didn’t really matter to him. He felt, no, he wanted to destroy something, anything really. Fisting his hand, his nails digging into his skin, the pain it created helped a little in controlling his rage.

Dylan must have noticed that he was staring intently at the chair. He felt him approach slowly. Easy measured steps. He knew that that was the only way so that he wouldn’t snap at them.

When he was within reach, he gently grasped his shoulder and whispered. "Control. You must ground yourself"

He closed his eyes and counted to ten. A calming technique taught to him to slowly regain his calmness. Being blinded by rage wouldn’t help them, losing control wouldn’t get them out of trouble.

8...9...10. After he finished counting, he was still angry but he could work it off. He opened his eyes, uncurled his fist and muttered "control"

"Status?" He croaked.

"Bad" Spencer's hand felt around the woman’s neck. "Her pulse is weak" he gently flipped the woman around. He looked at the laceration at her head. "Her cut's pretty deep, judging by the amount of blood on the floor and.." He glanced towards the chair, checking for something. Sean followed his friend’s line of sight and at the edge of the armrest was a splotch of dark blood.

"Probably bashed her head on the chair" Spencer bent his head onto the woman’s chest. "Wheezing. Maybe even some fluid in her lungs. Barely breathing"