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Bishop's hands trembled as he studied the latest reattachment trial data. Noting how the nerve endings successfully reconnected even after extended separation.
Critical data, considering how his own clone bodies degraded - nerve pathways dying off piece by piece, forcing him to transfer consciousness before total system failure.
Might stop each clone from failing faster than the last, stop the memory loss and cognitive decline that threatened to strip away everything he was.
The cognitive stress tests were equally vital - tracking how the mind adapted to systematic trauma, rebuilt pathways around damaged areas.
Bishop had learned the hard way that consciousness transfer came with risks beyond simple physical degradation. Each new body lasted shorter than the last, memories fragmenting.
He needed to understand how a mind could stay intact through that kind of trauma, adapt and heal instead of shattering. Military subjects helped, their mental discipline providing useful baseline data.
But not enough. Never enough.
Another migraine pulse threatened at the edges of his vision.
The episodes were getting worse.
This body was failing faster than the last – they all did, each transfer burning through clone tissue like paper. But he was getting closer.
Learning from each failure, each dead subject, each scattered piece of his own fracturing mind.
He could only hope that this mutant held the key.
Through the observation window, Leonardo lay strapped to the exam table, muscles twitching involuntarily as the first sequence of electrical pulses mapped his nervous system.
Each jolt precisely calibrated, building a baseline for what was to come.
Sweat beaded on too-pale skin, jaw clenched against the pain.
Bishop recognized that controlled breathing pattern, the slight tremor in clenched fists that betrayed just how much effort that control cost.
He'd perfected those same techniques centuries ago, learned them piece by piece while alien hands stripped away everything else.
"Double the current," Bishop ordered, satisfaction curling in his gut as Leonardo's muscles seized.
A grunt escaped through gritted teeth - the first sound he'd made in hours.
Still holding back. Still fighting the inevitable.
God, he hated him. Needed him. Wanted to break him. Had to understand him.
Bishop's own hand shook as he adjusted the voltage, sending a tray of instruments clattering across the lab bench.
The tremors were getting worse – they always did near the end. Neural pathways degrading at an accelerating rate.
Soon he'd need another transfer, another desperate race to preserve what remained of his fractured consciousness before total system failure.
Yesterday's military subject had provided fascinating data before his conditioning finally broke. Decorated Special Forces, trained to withstand extensive interrogation.
Yet after eighteen hours of nerve induction, he'd been reduced to begging for death. The one before that had gnawed through his own tongue, drowning in his own blood.
But this one... this worthless mutant who had destroyed years of critical research…
He survived.
Forming new pathways. Learning to process trauma in ways that strengthened neural architecture instead of destroying it. Adapting in ways that might finally explain why Bishop's own transfers kept failing faster.
Even his resistance was strategic - knowing exactly when to fight and when to conserve energy.
When to push back and when to let his mind retreat and heal.
Like Bishop had, strapped to alien tables. But his adaptation had come at the cost of burning through bodies, of losing pieces of himself with each transfer.
He adjusted another setting, watching as the mutant's vitals responded.
Such a perfect test subject - strong enough to survive what broke others, disciplined enough to stay aware through it all. To provide the data Bishop desperately needed.
Even if he had to tear it from him piece by screaming piece.
His hand shook as he adjusted the display. Yesterday he'd lost four hours, coming to in his private lab with bloody knuckles and no memory of what had triggered the episode.
The gaps were getting longer. The rages more frequent.
He didn’t have time to waste.
"Increase amplitude to the peripheral nerves," Bishop instructed, watching the mutant’s fingers spasm and curl.
The first raw sound finally tore from his throat as electricity hit. He arched against his shell, pulling at restraints, metal cutting into flesh.
Bishop leaned closer to the glass, watching drops of sweat and blood track down too-pale skin.
Even now, that measured breathing continued.
In for four. Hold. Out for eight.
The same pattern Bishop had used on alien tables, counting seconds between screams.
Fury sparked hot in his chest. How dare he.
How dare he survive. How dare he stay sane. How dare he offer hope, a potential solution.
"Begin the cortical sequence," he snarled, hands steady now despite the darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.
The electrodes along the mutant’s skull delivered their first devastating pulse.
This time the scream wasn't held back - something primal and wounded that echoed through the observation room.
"Sir." A tech's voice, careful and distant, "The results from Subject J9523's autopsy..."
Bishop waved him away, transfixed by the monitors. Leonardo's vitals spiked chaotically as another surge tore through him.
A twist in his own chest, something like desperation. Like hope. Maybe. Just maybe.
The mutant’s body thrashed against the restraints, muscles seizing beyond control.
The measured breathing fractured into ragged gasps between screams.
But still trying. Still counting between the waves of agony. In for four-
The next pulse hit before he could finish. His back arched off the table, teeth cracking against each other as electricity coursed through abused nerves.
Tears tracked freely now, mixing with blood and sweat.
Bishop pressed his trembling fingers against the cool surface, watching the subject who had cost him so much. Who had destroyed years of research that might have solved the degradation problem sooner.
Who now held the key to saving Bishop's fractured consciousness, if he could just understand how that mind kept adapting.
Kept healing. Kept surviving.
The next wave of vertigo hit without warning. Bishop's sense of up and down deserted him as the room spun wildly. His hands caught the edge of the console as memory loss yawned black and hungry at the edges of his mind.
When his vision cleared, he found himself staring at his hands. Imagining old scars. He blinked and they were gone. There were no scars on his hands - this clone's hands. Virgin flesh that had never known alien scalpels.
But the memory of that pain lived in his consciousness. Transferred from body to body, refusing to fade even as newer memories slipped away.
Anger flashed through Bishop's skin like fever. Something savage beneath his skin. He hadn’t been confronted with his own past for decades.
He’d buried it at Roswell. Along with the aliens who had made his life a waking nightmare.
But now…this mutant…
"Maximum voltage to the prefrontal cortex," he ordered. The sound that tore from Leonardo's throat wasn't human anymore.
Of course. He had never been human to begin with.
Fresh blood welled around the restraints as his body convulsed, consciousness visibly flickering at the edges.
But somewhere behind those pain-glazed eyes...
Bishop's fist struck the glass, splitting his knuckles.
His own eyes looked back at him. Survivor's eyes. Of someone who had lived through the worst and come back stronger.
Blood smeared across his fractured reflection as memories threatened to surface. Alien hands holding him down. His own hands continuing their work.
Consciousness scattering between borrowed bodies as he fought to save humanity from horrors they couldn't begin to comprehend.
And when his eyes cleared, he was left staring at a subject, still clinging to his sanity.
Just like Bishop had.
Because they were the same in this way.
Both unmade piece by piece. Both intimately familiar with reality of survival.
Both learning exactly how much of themselves they could lose before there was nothing left to save.
The only difference was that Bishop had learned these lessons protecting humanity from extinction.
This worthless creature was learning them because he'd dared to interfere with that mission.
Through broken glass, Bishop watched another convulsion tear through Leonardo's body.
Watched him struggle for breath between screams.
Watched consciousness flicker and resurge in waves.
Evidence of a mind pushed to its limits.
But not beyond them. Not yet.
Mind still holding together. The way Bishop’s own mind couldn't quite manage anymore as the transfers burned through bodies faster and faster.
It wasn't fair.
The thought rose unbidden, bitter and sharp. Because this worthless mutant somehow maintained what Bishop kept losing piece by piece.
Through the splintered glass, the mutant’s tears mixed with blood on the exam table. But those eyes... those damned survivor's eyes...
Bishop turned away, focusing on the data.
On the science.
On the desperate race to preserve what humanity would need to survive the horrors waiting in the dark between stars.
For humanity. For survival. For...
Bishop turned away, focusing on the data. On the science. On the desperate race to preserve what remained of his fracturing consciousness.
Someone had to survive long enough to protect humanity.
Even if it meant breaking mind after mind, in all the ways his own had. And searching for answers in the wreckage.
But mostly... mostly for the desperate hope that somewhere in the mutant's unbreakable will, Bishop might finally find a way to stop his own mind from fracturing.
Before there was nothing left of him to save.