You were really going to die, huh?
That's all that you could think of, all that raced through your mind as you stared up at the sun. That stupid Biograft. Cut you straight across the chest. You could feel your heart stutter as the midday sun beat down on your prone form.
You were gonna die.
Out here, in the middle of nowhere. Who was gonna rescue you? Everyone in this lab consisted of those soulless robots and equally heartless scientists. And you'd been dragged to the back like trash on a curb.
Oh god, you didn't want to die. It couldn't end like this, could it? The smell of warm raw meat filled the air, flies already staring to cloud around you. A wave of agony broke over you, unable to do anything but lay there and cry. Cry until your throat was raw, until the tears bled into the ground as a permanent reminder of the lives Blackrock took so casually.
The last thing you registered was the blare of an alarm and the crunch of metal before everything faded to black.
You woke up in a bed.
A nice bed, at that. Definitely not yours. A king-sized, with a weighted black blanket up to your chest. Your chest was bandaged and stitched, your dirty clothes still on.
The bedroom was unfamiliar. Posters of boxing matches were plastered on the walls, a coil resting on a shelf next to a pair of teal and orange boxing gloves. Dog toys littered the floor.
Sunlight filtered through the window. By the looks of it, whoever owned this place was rich. Not only were the sheets silken and the bedroom huge, but the window took up nearly the entire wall. You could see the entire city from up here.
As you gathered the strength to get up and move around, ignoring the dull ache in your side, you heard a loud bark from across the house and rapidly increasing clicks of claws on wooden floor. A faint curse from someone who sounded like a man was barely audible.
The dog reached the room before he could. A huge doberman burst through the door, poised to tackle. A hit from that dog would reopen your stitches no doubt.
You stepped back, bracing for impact when the dog was tackled to the ground. A man, about your age, held the dog by its collar, clearly annoyed. "Biker, stop. This is a guest," he snarled, his teal and orange horns glinting under the beams from the window.
He looked up at you, still struggling with the dog. "Sorry about him."