Eli's days settled into a weird routine of gentle questions. The "empaths" and "bio-counselors" showed up, their faces radiating a calm, non-judgmental vibe that just grated on his nerves. They spoke in soothing tones, asking about his "feelings during war," his "ways to cope," his "take on conflict". They just didn't get the brutal reality of his world. His raw stories of combat – the smell of ozone and burnt flesh, the sheer terror – were met with polite, puzzled looks.
"Fascinating," one counselor would hum, tapping on a glowing pad. "Your brain's alarm system, your amygdala, is super-charged for perceived threats. You've got a consistent, aggressive outlook".
Aggressive? What, seriously? He was a soldier. He was trained to be aggressive. Trained to survive.
Flashbacks hammered him, sharp, unwanted guests in the quiet, sterile room. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, feeling the phantom weight of his rifle, hearing gunfire, only to open his eyes to the room's soft glow. No alarms, no panicked shouts, just the facility's gentle hum. He'd snap at the automated food machines, breaking utensils in his frustration, or jump violently when a harmless drone flew too close. These "incidents," as the staff called them, were written down with detached concern.
Dr. Aris Thorne, his main contact, had endless patience. Her pale eyes scanned his face like he was some complicated math problem she just had to solve. She showed him more of their history, using holographic light shards that projected clean, animated scenes from the past. He saw armies as geometric shapes, battles as fluid lines of energy. It was all sanitized, bloodless. Like a kid's history lesson, not the real hell.
"This is the Conflagration," Aris explained, pointing to a shimmering projection that looked like abstract art. "The last, big war. The one that led to the Great Peace".
Eli watched the sterile, perfectly shaped energy lines clash. He scoffed. "That's not war. That's a damn light show. War is mud and screams and hearing your buddy gargle his last breath".
Aris paused, a tiny flicker of something beyond just curiosity in her eyes. "Our records indicate… many died. Extreme suffering".
"Records don't feel it," Eli shot back, his voice raw. He hated these clean, bloodless simulations. They made everything he'd lost, everything he'd fought for, seem small. They made his pain feel pointless. He was a relic, a living museum piece, and they were studying him with the same detached curiosity they'd use for some ancient, extinct animal. He was alone with his unseen scars.