PROJECT: CAYRO

1st Lieutenant Clark:

July 01, 2012

06:00 EST

Langley Airforce Base Medical Lab

“It’s time,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, as I looked over at Zaraki. He sat beside his daughter’s medical gurney, his hand wrapped around her tiny one, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. The worried furrow in his brow seemed permanently etched, a reflection of the turmoil churning within him. The little girl was already deep in a coma, teetering on the edge of life as we prepared for the procedure that might either save her or steal her away forever.

“Uncle Andy!” a small, bright voice chimed from the other side of the gurney.

“Cayro, what are you doing here? You should be in your bed, waiting,” I said gently, forcing a patient tone into my voice despite the lump forming in my throat.

“I was looking for Daddy. I wanted to tell him goodnight, but I found Tabbi instead. Is she going to be fixed too?” the little boy asked, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush. My heart clenched painfully at his innocent question, the answer lodged somewhere deep, where I dared not reach.

“Yes, buddy, Tabbi is going to be fixed just like you,” I managed to say, extending my hand to him. “Come on, let’s go find your father.”

I led him out of the private room, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a heavy stone. I escorted Cayro back to his gurney and lifted him onto it, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m going to find your dad and tell him you want to see him, okay?”

“Okay, Uncle Andy. See you when I wake up,” he replied, a cheerful smile lighting up his face, completely unaware of the dark cloud looming over him.

“See you when you wake up, buddy,” I replied, my voice strained. Walking away from him felt like leaving a piece of my soul behind.

I found Cayro’s father standing by the observation window overlooking the operating room, his back rigid, his posture a clear sign of the burden he carried. I grabbed the stack of medical records off the counter, flipping through them as I slowly approached.

“Lieutenant Clark, are they ready?” Captain Jacob Bracton’s voice was sharp, devoid of warmth, a stark contrast to the man I once called my friend. He wasn’t here as the man I knew; he was here as the cold, calculating commander he had become. My gut twisted at the grim reality of what was about to unfold.

“All charts, except the two in my hand, have been reviewed and cleared, Sir,” I reported, lifting the two remaining charts to show him. The names, black against the manila folders, seemed to glow ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Get them reviewed. We’re starting within the hour,” Captain Bracton ordered, his tone brooking no argument as he turned back to the window.

“Your son wants to see you,” I ventured quietly, hoping to break through the icy exterior.

“I don’t have time to see him,” he replied, his words as cold as steel. I clenched my teeth, fighting back the urge to argue.

“Sir,” I began again, my voice tentative, “considering the recent loss of your wife, is this really the right decision? You could potentially lose—”

“Lieutenant,” he cut me off, his voice a low, menacing growl. “If I wanted commentary from the goddamn peanut gallery, I’d ask the janitor. You’re not paid to question my decisions. Do your job.”

Swallowing the retort that burned at the back of my throat, I snapped to attention and gathered the files. This was not the man I remembered from our years of friendship, and though I could understand the strain on his mental state, it was still heartbreaking to witness. A year’s time wasn’t enough to heal from losing your wife. I would know… The memory of my own loss surged forward, unbidden—the crash, the sheet covering Bracton’s wife as she was wheeled away, the frantic efforts of the EMTs to save my wife and unborn child, the dark stain of blood on the pavement. They tell you therapy helps after trauma, but no amount of therapy prepares you for the way these memories replay every time you pause to take a breath.

As the memories flooded my mind, I was transported back to that cold, unforgiving night—the night everything changed. The image of the crumpled SUV in the ditch, twisted metal glinting under the harsh beams of emergency lights, played on a relentless loop. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood as Bracton and I arrived at the scene, our hearts already heavy with dread. A fully loaded semi-truck had obliterated the driver’s side of the vehicle on impact. The cold air bit into my skin, each gust of wind carrying the scent of death as we watched the fire and rescue teams struggle to extract Bracton’s wife from the wreckage. There was no saving her; she had died instantly. The look on my old friend’s face was something I’ll never forget—utter, soul-crushing anguish. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face, a broken man in the face of unbearable loss. That night, I knew I had lost him forever.

In the aftermath, he threw himself into investigating the accident, driven by a need that bordered on desperation. He wanted—no, he needed—to know every detail, to find some explanation that could make sense of the senseless. The official report was clear: the wreck was caused by a catastrophic brake failure in Bracton’s SUV. She had blown through a red light at the intersection, and the resulting collision was unavoidable. But the conclusion made no sense—the vehicle was practically brand new. The investigators were left baffled, unable to determine what had actually failed due to the extensive damage. Months passed, and eventually, Bracton let go of the investigation, but what replaced it was far worse.

He became consumed, obsessed with his work, burying himself in the bioengineering and cybernetics research he had once shared with his wife. The project that had once been a labor of love between them became his sole focus, a lifeline he clung to in the darkness. But as the project progressed, I watched my friend deteriorate. He seemed to age a decade in the span of a year. His temper grew short, his patience wore thin, and he became irritable, volatile—a far cry from the man I had once known.

More and more, I found myself stepping in to care for his son, Cayro, as Bracton disappeared deeper into his work. The boy was all he had left, the last fragile thread tying him to humanity. Yet, he insisted on making Cayro a candidate for the project. Out of the ten children selected, Cayro showed the best genetic markers, the greatest potential for success in the radical procedure they were about to undergo. But it wasn’t potential I saw when I looked at the boy; it was the risk, the horrifying possibility that this project could fail and cost him his life. He was like a son to me, the only thing that kept me grounded in reality, and I couldn’t fathom why Bracton would gamble with his child’s life.

The arguments we had over this were fierce, but in the end, Bracton won. The upper brass approved his request, and that was the day something inside me broke. The man I had once called my friend was gone, replaced by someone driven by a desperate obsession. As I walked down the hallway toward the operating room, my footsteps echoed like a requiem of sorrows, bouncing off the sterile walls. A tear slipped free, tracing a warm path down my cheek as another crack formed in the armor around my heart.

When I reached the doors to the operating room, I paused, drawing in a deep breath to steady myself. This would be the day these children would either remember as a nightmare or never remember at all. Pushing through the doors, I was greeted by the sight of the medical teams, their faces grim as they prepared the necessary instruments and equipment. Ten beds lined one side of the custom medical bay, each occupied by a small, five-year-old child lying in a medically induced coma. The sight was almost too much to bear. The glass of the observation room had dulled the reality of what was about to happen, but now, standing here, the full weight of it sank in. Each bed was flanked by monitors displaying the children’s vital signs, the steady beeping cutting through the silence like a death knell. This was the terrible symphony of science and sacrifice, and I could only hope we wouldn’t lose more than we stood to gain.

“Gods… forgive me for what I am about to do,” I thought, staring down at my trembling hands. They were the hands of a man on the brink, about to cross a line that could never be uncrossed. Eight of these children were orphans, handpicked for their genetic potential—the key to the project’s success, according to Bracton’s relentless research. The final child was Star, the daughter of our friend, Dr. H.M. Zaraki. Unlike the others, Star was doomed regardless; a rare, devastating disease was slowly killing her. This experiment was her last, desperate chance at life. If she survived the nightmare we were about to unleash, she would emerge forever changed, a shadow of the little girl she once was.

I found Zaraki seated between his daughter and Bracton’s son, Cayro, his eyes flitting between the two as if his sheer will alone could shield them from what was coming. Zaraki had poured every ounce of his being into this project, driven by the need to save his daughter, just as Bracton had been driven by his obsession to complete what he and his wife had started. Together, they had formed the backbone of the genetic research, their combined determination forging ahead where others would have faltered. Yet, as I looked at them now, I saw only two fathers on the edge of losing everything.

I forced my gaze down to the cold, sterile ground, trying to steady myself as I approached the console that linked every station beside the children’s beds. Each step felt like a march toward doom. My hands shook violently as I typed in my passcode, the simple act feeling like a betrayal of everything I had ever believed in.

“Lieutenant, are we ready to begin?” Bracton’s voice crackled over the intercom, colder than the steel that surrounded us. The console’s flashing indicator seemed to sear the word ENTER into my soul.

“Yes, Sir,” I replied, my voice barely more than a whisper, weak and frail compared to the thunderous beating of my heart. My hand hovered over the enter key, paralyzed by the enormity of what it meant. I looked up, seeking some sign of hesitation in Bracton’s gaze, but found none. His eyes were devoid of mercy, his order a death sentence for the innocence we were about to destroy.

“Then begin…” His command was icy, final.

I closed my eyes, unable to hold back the flood of tears any longer. They spilled down my face, each drop a testament to the lives we were about to gamble with. My hand trembled as it descended toward the key, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a vise. The click of the key resonated through my finger, reverberating up my arm, and shattering what remained of my soul. It was done. The process had begun. My blood ran cold, as if the life I had just condemned had drained the warmth from my very veins.

In that moment, I knew there was no redemption for what we had just set in motion. The horror of it all crashed over me like a wave, threatening to drag me down into the abyss. I had followed orders, but the cost was more than I could bear. As the machines whirred to life around me, I felt the last vestiges of my humanity slipping away, leaving behind a hollow shell of the man I once was.