The rhythmic pounding of a heart reverberated through the suffocating darkness that had been his world for decades. It pulsed closer, the presence of its associated body growing stronger. In his sensory deprivation, he sharpened his remaining faculties, straining to comprehend the intrusion.

A faint rustle of fabric reached his ears, not the soft whisper of normal cloth, but a brittle crackle, like stiff paper. A surgical suit, perhaps? A barely perceptible breeze caressed the sensitive skin of his face as the person abruptly turned away. Then came the delicate taps and clicks of keys, followed by the whir of a machine. A computer. He’d never understood their point, these human contraptions. Why waste precious life gathering data that yielded nothing new? Why squander their miserable existences on unraveling secrets that, even if solved, only brought more questions?

If he could have, he would have shaken his head in exasperation. But that was the crux of his unwanted predicament, his imprisonment: he was utterly immobile. Only his thoughts were free. They couldn’t shackle his mind, they knew that. No, their method was far more insidious: chemistry. Each day, a hellishly painful injection of a silver compound, against which he was powerless. They’d discovered his weakness – the precious metal was corrosive to him, paralyzing him. A minor negligence, all those years ago, for which he now paid the price.

Compared to this, what they had done to him before was nothing. He couldn’t defend himself from their scalpels; he couldn't even scream as they dissected him alive. And the cruellest irony of all? Their complete ignorance. They believed him unconscious. They were wrong.