The man groaned again, his massive chest heaving. His face twitched in pain, his lips bleeding slightly as they cracked further.
Dia stared at him.
Annoying, unscientific memories from her past life began to bubble up.
She remembered being strapped to a metal table, severely dehydrated after a grueling 48-hour endurance test, begging the men in hazmat suits for just a single drop of water to soothe her burning throat. They had ignored her, noting her suffering on a clipboard as "expected physiological deterioration." Dia scowled.
She hated those men. She hated that feeling.
She looked back at the transport unit on the floor.
He was a meat-shield, yes. But a dehydrated meat-shield would be sluggish.
A sluggish meat-shield would fail to intercept zombie attacks. A failed meat-shield meant Dia would have to run again, and she absolutely despised running.
This is purely a logistical decision, Dia told herself firmly, suppressing the strange, warm tug of empathy in her chest.
She hugged the bottle a little tighter.
Proper maintenance of equipment ensures optimal performance.
She stared at him for another few seconds.
I am investing in my infrastructure.
With a heavy, dramatic sigh that sounded far too weary for a child, Dia knelt back down.
"Open your intake valve," she ordered in her flat monotone.
The man obviously didn’t comply, remaining unconscious.
Dia reached out with her small hand, pinched his jaw, and squeezed.
His mouth popped open.
With a look of agony, as if she were cutting off her own limb, Dia carefully tilted the bottle of Premium Strawberry Milk and let a small stream of the pink liquid flow into his mouth.
Back in Adrian’s fading consciousness, he had expected the cold embrace of death.
He had expected the angels, or the demons, or whatever waited for warlords who had too much blood on their hands.
What he did not expect was a cold piece of synthetic fabric slapping him across the face, followed by something sticking to his forehead.
Before his dying brain could even formulate a question, an explosion of pure power detonated in his skull.
The pain vanished.
Not slowly, but instantly.
The agonizing burn of the neurotoxin was obliterated, washed away by a surge of warmth that felt like standing under the summer sun. The zombie pathogen in his veins shrieked and evaporated into nothingness.
His shattered ribs snapped back into place with a series of loud, internal cracks that he felt but didn’t hurt.
The raging, uncontrollable lightning storm in his chest was suddenly corralled, compressed, and stabilized into a humming core of infinite energy.
He was healing.
He was healing at a rate that defied all known medical science, biological laws, and common sense.
He was alive.
But he was still trapped in the dark void behind his eyelids, his body rebooting like a supercomputer that had just been plugged into a nuclear reactor.
He couldn’t open his eyes or move yet.
He was floating in a bizarre state of hyper-awareness and physical paralysis.
His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.
The healing process required immense hydration, and his body was desperately pulling moisture from wherever it could.
He tried to speak, to demand to know who had healed him, but all that came out was a pathetic groan.
His lips cracked as he smacked them together.
Water. I need water...
Suddenly, a small, vice-like grip pinched his jaw. It wasn’t a strong grip, but it hit the precise pressure points to force his mouth open.
An enemy?
Adrian’s instincts flared again.
Are they interrogating me?
Force-feeding me truth serum? Or mutant blood to trigger a forced evolution?
A cold liquid poured past his lips.
Adrian braced himself for the bitter taste of chemical concoctions, or the foul, coppery tang of beast blood.
Instead...
Sweet?
Adrian’s mental processes stuttered and crashed.
It was thick, creamy, and overwhelmingly sweet, with a distinct, chemical fruit flavor that transported him backward through time, past the apocalypse, past the military academies, straight back to the elementary school cafeteria.
Is this... is this artificially flavored strawberry milk?!
The dissonance of lying in a blood-soaked, zombie-infested garage while being force-fed a children’s beverage by an unknown entity nearly sent Adrian into shock.
But his body didn’t care about the absurdity of the situation. His parched cells screamed in gratitude, absorbing the sugary liquid like a sponge.
The cold milk coated his raw throat, sliding down into his stomach and radiating a bizarre, soothing warmth.
The flow stopped.
The small hand released his jaw.
Adrian swallowed the last drop.
He felt his motor functions rapidly coming back online. The paralysis was breaking. He could feel his fingers. He could feel the cold concrete beneath him.
The S-Rank Lightning Core in his chest pulsed with terrifying power, ready to be unleashed at his command.
He was back. And he was stronger than ever.
Whoever, or whatever, had saved him was about to face the wrath of the Thunder God.
He would demand answers.
He would establish dominance.
He would show this entity that Adrian Pendleton was not a man to be trifled with.
With a surge of willpower, Adrian commanded his heavy eyelids to open.
His eyes snapped wide open, flashing with terrifying, bright blue electrical energy. He prepared to unleash a devastating aura of intimidation, to rise to his feet and cast a shadow of doom over his savior.
Instead, his field of vision was immediately completely obstructed by an object resting heavily over the bridge of his nose and his left eye.
It was small, encased in a heavily scuffed, pink canvas sneaker that was at least two sizes too big. The rubber sole was worn down, and the laces were frayed and tied in a chaotic double knot.
And it smelled overwhelmingly of Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo, sweat, and the distinct, sugary aroma of strawberry milk.
Adrian lay perfectly still, the terrifying electrical aura fizzling out into a few pathetic blue sparks that popped harmlessly in the air.