Over the next few days, Violet nearly lost her mind. She felt the ship dock, and then nothing. No one came to feed her, yell at her, nothing.

With every passing second, the dread that was at first a whisper in the back of her mind began to overwhelm her brain until it was all she could dwell on.

Was what she had done really that big of a deal? Had they forgotten all about her? Or were they watching her right now, analyzing her behavior like a lab rat, laughing at her as she slowly went insane and starved to death.

The worst part was the thirst. If another day went by without water, she didn’t know what would happen to her, improved genetics or not.

Despite her newfound strength, she was no match for the cell’s force field.

By the end of the first day, the pain in her ribs and chest from slamming into the wall chasing Porter had subsided—her body’s rapid healing ability at work. By the end of the second day, she’d re-injured (or newly-injured, she couldn’t tell) herself, ramming into the force field, attempting to break out of her cell, convinced that she’d been forgotten and left for dead.

Now, on day three, she paced like a caged animal, filled with a ravenous thirst. Her throat was dry and hoarse from screaming at the walls. If someone was watching her, they were the worst sort of human.

She was considering how she might go about drinking her own urine when she heard a noise from out in the corridor.

It was the lift door whooshing open.

“Thank god!” she croaked. Relief flooded her body and she felt as though she might cry. “What the hell took you guys so long? I know I wasn’t supposed to be on the bridge, but can you bla—”

She stopped mid-sentence when she saw who it was. Two men and one woman. They were definitely not members of the military. At least, no military she’d ever seen. They all wore tactical gear, but no two matched. Some had dark pants, black or navy, she couldn’t tell in the dim light, and some had tan. Same for the shirts and vests they wore.

The piece-meal uniforms bore no insignia that she could discern. They all carried compact rifles, slung around their necks, and they gave off the impression that they were not afraid to use them.

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The woman looked to be a few inches taller than Violet’s five-foot-eight, but she was still several inches shorter than the two men who accompanied her. Her dark, straight hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail.

“This her, then?” she asked her companions. “Don’t see what all the fuss is about. Looks like standard station raver trash to me. Probably straight out of high school.”

The stockier of the two men shrugged and pulled a pistol from his thigh holster, cocking it. “The old man said she’s the one we’re here for. And she’s got plenty of bite, so we stick to the plan.”

Ponytail nodded her compliance and moved to side of the door. The man with the pistol gave her a subtle nod which she returned before palming the control to deactivate the force field on Violet’s cell.

Still trying to piece together what the hell was happening, Violet missed the small window of opportunity she had to attempt escape.

The man’s pistol came up and Violet’s eyes went wide as she realized he was going to fire.

Expecting a bright muzzle flash, Violet was surprised when all she heard was a muffled spitting from the weapon followed by a stinging sensation in her neck. Her hand drifted up to find a small dart sticking out of her skin. She ripped it out. The dart’s small barbs tore her skin as she pulled.

Violet’s instincts took over as the adrenaline flooded her body, and she bull-rushed the man with the gun.

Ponytail stepped in to intercept her and took the full brunt of Violet’s panicked attack. With a surprised grunt, Ponytail’s body abruptly reversed course, her feet leaving the ground as she flew into the wall opposite Violet’s cell.

Violet’s head grew cloudy as she desperately tried to figure out what was happening. This was not a good sign.

“Hit her again!” the second man cried, throwing himself at Violet to buy his partner the time and distance he needed to fire again.

Violet swiped angrily at the larger man as he attempted to grapple with her. She heard a satisfying crack as she connected with the man’s left arm, smack dab in the center of his humerus.

As the man with the now broken arm flew out of her way, Violet realized she’d made a mistake. She should have used him as a shield.

The tranq gun fired two more times and Violet heard a cry escape her lips that sounded like it belonged more to a wounded animal than her own voice. And then she was falling, she put her hands out to catch herself, but they didn’t obey.

The impact only registered from the shaking of her vision, she didn’t feel it at all. But then, even her vision gave out on her, and she slid into darkness, unconscious.