Classified: The X-5 Valkyrie Project

[dried up screams]

I remember pink.

It was the color of the oxygenated liquid they would put in the "feeding" tubes. A pastel sort of pink. The type of color you see in those soap dispensers at cheap restaurants, or even maybe a mild cotton candy pigment. It was always warm, I remember that too. Dr. Williams used to say it was to offer a cause of comfort, like the ease of being in your mothers womb. A sub conscience type of deal.

And I'll give it to him: It was oddly peaceful. Weightless and safe. There were plenty of differences between being in the womb, and being in one of the "feeding" tubes. Actually, now that I think about it, it was more like being a fucking fetus in a jar of lukewarm water. Of course, being eight years old in one of these containments, you don't tend to think about the morbid side of it.

I remember tasting stale, cold air. The mask that they would fit around my face was a perfect fit, sealed up so none of the liquid around me would seep inside. The tubes fed me plenty of air, and as I got older I realized there were sedatives patrolling through them as well. It's what made you sleep an entire month in these things. I don't know how Dr. Williams did it, but I would never leave those tanks with prune feet or toes. Wish I could say the same for when I take a fucking ten minute bath.

Sometimes I could sliver my eyes open and catch people watching me. Lab coats, clip boards, those thick fucking rim glasses you see dorky scientists wear. These voyeurs would watch for hours. Make sure my vitals were secure through the constant beeping of the EKG machine. Little suckers glued to my chest and back, around my skull. These bastards would sit and pretend not to be perverted while watching my naked ass float around in this thick, pink liquid.

When it first happened, I was scared to death. Every moment of that day has been etched into my brain. Dr. Williams started to explain to me what was going to happen. Remember, at eight, your mind doesn't function on a level of intelligence adults usually think it should. So, his explanation was a crock of "blahblahblah" in my book. Something about acting like I was scuba diving, to just breathe in deep. That's when they began to prep my arm for the IV's. Needles to a child have to be worse than the boogie man. I freaked. Screamed. Cried. Acted like a little bitch and tore myself away from the mess of hands grabbing at me from all directions. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in this tank. Imagine that. You are fine and dandy on land one minute, the next, you like you could drown at any moment. I almost died that day from hyperventilating.

I could at times, catch Mia out of the corner of my eye. Same type of tube, same type of funky electronics hooked up to her. We looked like fucking puppets on cable wire strings. At first, it would make me furious. Angry. The instinct to protect your sister, your lover, anything that meant you gave a shit. Though as time progressed, it was an every day occurrence. We got used to this. We got used to being test subjects.

You could feel pain, at times, in these tubes. The shock of having chemicals forced into your blood stream. Trauma of the body being suspended for far too long. Sedatives or not, as I got older and began my growth spurts through that fish tank I could remember what they did. Immunity to all of this even though, deep inside, you knew it was wrong. Knew it wasn't how it was supposed to be.

There were other kids within the program. Each one given a specific code, a specific name. I was brought in as Beatrice Ann Binx and renamed as the X-5 Valkyrie Project. I remember a boy being 89-A Testing. Another girl, Ophelia Project. Though, neither of them made it far. Far all I know, Valentine had a furnace beneath the ground where bodies were burned. You could smell their charred remains in the air when you crept closer to the tunnel doors. I was just always thankful that I was never taken down there, dead or alive.

Out of hundreds of children, ages two to ten, Mia and myself were the only one's that seemed to make it. Every day, the cafeteria would get less crowded. Every day, you would notice familiar faces gone, but you never, ever asked where they went. And suddenly, it was Mia and myself, staring right into the eyes of the other, eating our red jell-o and talking about the history of war.

Remembering all of this isn't a hard thing to do. It doesn't phase me, or make me go into seizures. Appreciation for surviving, that's what it fucking does. And no one can take that away from me. I've done what I've had to do. Anyone would have done the same.

<font color="#000002" size="1">[ November 10, 2005 08:02 PM: Message edited by: catcall of a sin machine ]</font>

[dried up screams]

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Name: Beatrice Ann Binx

Alias: "Cara"

Programs: X-5 Valkyrie Project; Caramia Code

DOB: May 14, 1980

Birthplace: Soho, London

Parents: Classified

Siblings: None.

Date of Orientation: January 20, 1984

Cell Number: 210-99

District: East Wing

Description of Testing: Beatrice will be going through the developement of the new Valkyrie program. Splicing of genetics will proceed. Working on strength, stamina, speed. Juggernaut opportunities. Mode of intelligence will be heightened. If survives, will go into the Deadzone program along with the upcoming Hecate Theory.

Personality: So far, Beatrice shows signs of stubborn aggression. Strict rules have been broken. Two gaurds have been taken to Dr. Williams for sutchers from bite wounds. Her silence is rare. Rarely cries, though. Has a very push and pull attitude. Wary of a chemical imbalance in her at an early age.