“Hello, Mr. Cobb,” says Browning, leaning over me.

I’m on my back, being strapped down to a surgical table with my arms stretched out.

I clear my throat. “You seem chipper today, Browning. It's been a while, did you miss me?”

“Greatly,” he says, a creepy smile on his face.

The room is your typical operating room. There’s a couple nurses over there, robotics equipment attached to the ceiling. The army boys finish strapping my head, wrists, and ankles down good and tight.

Browning says, “After much debate and consideration, today, Mr. Cobb, we’ve decided to remove your arm.”

My eyebrows shoot up and I feel my body tense. “Uh, no you’re not.”

The scar on my palm twitches.

“Oh, yes we are,” he says, and two white lab coats pry my right hand open while wearing thick rubber gloves. They start strapping each finger down to a small platform with velcro straps.

“We’ve learned all we can at this point, and need to take it to the next level of exploration,” says Browning, as if giving an inspirational sermon. “You do remember doctor Cruz-Santos, don’t you? I believe you once had a discussion with him about mental telepathy while he removed tissue samples.”

“Yes,” says Doctor Cruz-Santos, answering for me, seemingly appearing out of nowhere above me. He has a thick Tagalog accent. “He said he could crush my testicles with his mind.” There was a glimmer in his eye, like he was excited for something.

“Oh, hey, yeah I, uh, I remember you,” I say. I can feel my breath catch in my throat, sweat beading on my forehead. I struggle a bit more at the ankles and wrists, but no joy. I’m locked down good and tight. “No hard feelings, right?” I say. “All in good fun, of course. Plus, you still have your testicles, I assume? No need to—”

“Of course,” says Doctor Cruz-Santos, slapping on gloves and a medical face mask. Browning puts a face mask on as well.

“Do you know what I like about this room, Doctor,” says Browning to Cruz-Santos.

Cruz-Santos grunts with curiosity.

“It’s the one room in the entire complex that has no video surveillance. No sound recording either—nothing at all.”

“Really?” says Cruz-Santos, with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Really,” says Browning. “There originally were, of course, but we decided that there should be at least one room down here where we can perform very necessary, very crucial yet undocumented science. Even the white house has a dark room designed specifically for the same purpose. Did you know that?”

“I did not,” says Cruz-Santos with a, “huh, you learn something new everyday.”

I can’t turn my head, but I see a glimmer out of the corner of my eye and it looks like someone is walking over with a needle. Oh, yep, that’s definitely a needle.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Cobb, I’ve done this before,” says Cruz-Santos. “There are rarely ever any fatalities. Better stop struggling, though. You don’t want me to slip and cut your scrotum or something like that.”

“Since, you know, my arm is so close to my balls,” I say, through gritted teeth. And I don’t know if it’s just the panic setting in, but I swear I hear Browning chuckling to himself.

Sweat drips into my eyes. I can’t move my head. I strain them to look at my right hand. My fingers are stretched out to the max and I feel the skin on my palm stretch further open.

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“I think right about now would be a good time for one of your plans, buddy,” I say.

I get a raised eyebrow from Browning at the comment. The two doctors look at each other and Cruz-Santos shrugs.

I feel someone rubbing my shoulder with a cold, sterile pad in preparation for a shot.

“Oh, jeez, now, Xeno! They’re going to knock me out. Do it now!”

The next few moments are a wild blur. I feel and hear Xeno burst out of my hand with a gooey splat. A man screams and something sprays my face. I can’t see what’s happening but it tastes like blood. There’s more shrieks, the sound of a drill. A body hits something and a robotic arm above my head wobbles. One of the fluorescent lights overhead sparks and the room goes dim. I feel my hand being tugged this way and that, still strapped down. A severed human arm flies across my vision and lands on the floor on the other side out of view. At first I think it’s my own arm until I see Xeno’s sinuous form spin around lighting fast, then snap out of sight like a whip. More blood peppers my face. Glass shatters, and something like a tray clatters to the floor. More screams, male and female. Something heavy thumps on my stomach, knocks the wind out of me, then slides off. Adrenaline rushes through me and once I get my breath back I’m breathing so hard it hurts.

Then it all stops.

There’s a final thud somewhere then it all goes quiet.

I hear and feel the sound of velcro tearing. My fingers, Xeno is prying them free one by one.

My wrist is next.

“Xeno …” I say, in a whisper. Not sure why I’m whispering but it hurts to breathe. “Hey, what happened? Did you just—” there's a slurping sound that ends in a pop and I feel Xeno snap back into my hand.

I feel my arm become free of its restraints. I lift my hand to my face. It’s doused in blood.

“I can’t talk to you with my appendage out,” says Xeno, “Give me a minute … and yes, yes I did, Jack.”

He slither’s back out and tears through a metal restraint near my neck like it’s paper mâché. My other arm is next. Snap, crackle, pop and I’m free.

I sit up as Xeno yanks my hand towards my feet. He goes to work tearing my legs free as I take in the sight around me. There are bodies everywhere. Some of them are not even recognizable as humans anymore, with their flesh torn so completely. Half of Browning is hanging from a robot arm above, while his other half is slumped against the far wall.

I’m speechless, and not just because I had the wind knocked out of me.

I hold down the urge to puke and say, “I thought you said … said we needed to keep human casualties to a—”

“It was either us or them, Jack. Gotta slaughter some chickens to make an omelet.”

“No, I’m not criticizing, I’m just … wait, that’s not how that phrase goes.”

I feel dizzy. Did they end up sticking me with that needle afterall? No, no, I don’t see or feel a hole, I just … I’m just woozy.

The ankle straps split open and my legs pop apart. I stand, slip on a pool of blood, then pull myself to my feet.

“Hurry, Jack. Change clothes with that tech over there. No, no, no, not that one. No, not the army guy, Jack, come on! Focus. The one in the corner that’s not covered in blood.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, as I stumble to the corner of the room. A man in his mid-thirties—at least I think it’s a man, without a face it’s hard to tell—is slumped over an office chair. I roll him over and he flumps to the floor. There’s surprisingly minimal blood on his jacket.

“What are you waiting for?” says Xeno.

“Xeno, I don’t know if I can do this, I mean—”

“You want to stay down here forever? Or do you want to go save humanity. Omelets, Jack!”

“Gotta … make an omelet,” I say, gulping, nodding. I pry the man’s shoes off, then his pants. I pull off his white lab coat, which is considerably difficult to do without getting blood on it. I take off my jumpsuit, and reluctantly, hesitantly make the swap.

“Oh man,” I say, grabbing the tag off the man’s shirt.

“What?”

“It’s Fartgun,” I say. “I’m wearing Fargunugan’s clothes.”

“Yes, you are, now pull yourself together. Let’s get out of here.”

I suck in a breath and head for the door, trying desperately to keep my eyes up and away from the gore. Just before I reach the handle, Cruz-Santo’s lower half catches my eye. Or, at least what I think is Cruz-Santos. It’s just enough to send me over the edge. I turn and puke all over a computer monitor.

Then I puke again.

“Ah, man,” I say, wiping my chin. “That sandwich does not taste near as good coming back up.”

“Gah, you humans are weak,” says Xeno.

I shush him, sniff a few times, then nod. I grab a few surgical face masks on my way out, strap one to my face, and stuff the others in my pocket.

“Okay, let’s go,” I say. Then I open the door.