I didn't want to forget. As horrendous and debilitating as it had all been, I never wanted to forget and they couldn't make me. Though I could not see them, I could hear them and I could feel them as they toyed around in consternation, uncertain as to why all their efforts in doing so were failing. The scrambled about, pulling files after files, resorting to methods longs since abandoned and, yet, there I was, still fully aware as to who I was and what they had done to me. I, myself, wasn't even totally sure as to why they were failing, but I was glad they were. Though, at one time, I might have, I didn't want to forget. The moment I found out what they were trying to do, I locked myself inside my mind and waited for the trials to begin. How I discovered what they were doing and how they'd go about it, I wasn't entirely sure. The knowledge just came to my head like it had been there all along and, when the first attempt came, I knew what to do. I felt the waves upon waves of energy pound against my head. To their touch, I coiled into myself and repeated the same thoughts over and over.

"My name is Redd Abraham Jankowski. I was born on April 20, 2002. My older brother's name is Spencer Kyle Jankowski. He was born August 11, 1995. My squad's name is Dark Signal. My squad members are Manuel Morales, Harold Keegan, Cedric Griffin, James Fox, and Michael Becket." With every swing of the hammer, I retaliated with those thoughts. I focused only on those thoughts and I refused any other permeation through my mind. At one point, they even sedated me, thinking that my resistance would dissolve without consciousness. They were wrong. Something in my mind broke through the blackness and spread my thoughts about before me once more. I said the phrase verbatim to my previous retaliations and, when I awoke, I felt almost smug, tossing the researcher before me a sick smile as he asked me the questions on his little clip-board.

"What is your name?"

"Redd Abraham Jankowski."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three." Unlike the previous times, I heard the man sigh and felt the swish of air from his lab-coat as he swung around. From across the room, I heard the door slide open and then closed. He gave up. I lifted my head and scanned the room, feeling a strong vibration when my face crossed paths with the viewing window. Once I pin-pointed the head researcher, a woman with an extremely authoritative aura, I smirked. I knew this behavior was unlike me, but I couldn't help be feel amused after the longest time. I assumed that I'd been trapped there for a few days, maybe a week. If not so, it was close to it. over that time, I had found out many things. I made a mental list of them and often reminded myself of them when I felt my anger beginning to ebb.

"The city was destroyed by a nuclear level explosion. Most of my team is dead. I am believed to be dead. Armacham are the ones holding me hostage." How did I know these things? The voice told me. From day one, I had been hearing a voice in my head that gave me information. Each day, I assumed, it added a little more to my mental library. At first, I didn't know how to take it, but I soon came to accept it as apart of me and gladly took in what it fed me. According to it, I was a psychic and one of decent strength. Prior to the events at Valkyrie Tower, I would have more than scoffed at the idea, but I had already seen so much, heard so much... Seen so much. I might've been blind, but the voice did more than just talk to me. In the endless black that now consumed my vision, it showed me things. It showed me premonitions, the past and the present. It was the deaths of my squad that I tended to think on the most, as much as it pained me. I watched Fox and Griffin be eviscerated in short, violent strokes. I watched Stokes take a bullet defending Becket from Genevieve Aristide. I wanted Keegan vanish and become but a puppet phantom... I watched Becket endure things no man alive ever should. Manny was the only ray of hope in that mess of images. He managed to get away, leaving Becket grudgingly at still island. Michael's words were so filled with disgust and horror. He sounded sick, even coming through the com-line on the APC.

"Manny... You need to leave... Stokes is dead and I'm not getting out of here. They'll be coming soon..."

"I'll tell you what I told Stokes: I'm not leaving you."

"You didn't. I'm dead. There is no sense in waiting for a dead man. Go. Now."

"Becket-"

"It was an honor serving with you, no matter how short the time was. You're all that's left and you need to go. If you don't, no one will ever put Armacham in the dirt where they belong. You have the data and the APC. Please go." Perhaps it was the very sound of the man that eventually got Manny to leave, but he did and wasn't heard from since. I could only hope that he was well and hope I did. I tried to ask the voice on many occasions to show him to me, to tell me if he was alright, but the subject was avoided and passed off to make way for a different memory. As I sat in that cold chamber, bound in chains and wires, I waited day after day and, each day, after I had been shown and told all that the voice had brought me, I would ask again and, again, I was denied. I'd keep asking, however. I'd never stop asking.

And I'd never Forget.