Mike didn't move. He remained on all fours, eyes locked on the door, feral rage still burning behind them. The voices meant nothing to him—just noise.

"He's not responding to verbal cues," said a man behind the glass. "We need to retrieve the body and find a way to communicate with him."

"We'll have to sedate him and run tests once he's secured," Dr. Matthews replied. "If he can't understand us, we'll have to work with him until he's no longer a threat—or until he shows signs of comprehension."

"I'll have a team tranq him and reinforce the restraints when we bring him out," the man said.
A squad in tactical gear assembled at the door, shields raised. Two more men stood behind them with tranquilizer rifles aimed forward.

The door opened.

Mike lunged, slamming into the shields and knocking the front line backward. Darts pierced his shoulder and chest.
Landing hard on all fours, he growled and prepared to leap again—but the drugs overtook him. His limbs wobbled. A wave of drowsiness hit. He collapsed to the floor.
When Mike awoke, he couldn't move.
Heavy restraints locked his arms and legs. Thick metal devices gripped his forearms, ankles, and torso, holding him immobile.
He growled low in his throat, straining against the bindings. Across from him stood a man in uniform.

"My name is Colonel Gaines," the man said calmly. "I'm here to ask you about what happened during the fifteen days you were unconscious."

Mike didn't respond—only stared, his eyes burning with intensity.

Gaines studied him for a moment. "Do you understand me, Mr. Reed?"

Still nothing.

"Would you like to hear what happened to your wife, Kelsey?" he asked, locking eyes with Mike.

Not a blink. Not a twitch.

"Hm. Either he doesn't understand… or he doesn't remember," Gaines muttered. He stood and walked toward the exit, where Dr. Matthews waited.

"Anything?" Matthews asked.

"No. Just growling," Gaines replied. "Have someone else try to reach him. See if he'll eat without removing the restraints."

"Yes, sir."

"This will take time," Gaines added as he walked down the hall. "We still don't know what his trial was."

That afternoon, an older woman entered the room. She wore a knitted blouse and carried a clipboard.

"Hello, Mr. Reed. My name is Debbie," she said gently. "I'll be helping with your recovery and some speech therapy."

Mike didn't react. He stared at her with blank, burning eyes.

"Let's start with something simple. Can you blink twice if you understand me?"

Nothing.

Undeterred, she continued asking simple questions, but he remained silent.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Reed. I'll see you tomorrow," she said kindly and left.
Two nurses arrived shortly after with a tray of food. They tried feeding him a spoonful of stew. He didn't open his mouth. Didn't react.

Outside the observation window, a tall, slender man approached. His golden hair gleamed under the overhead lights, and his golden eyes glowed faintly.
He stared through the glass, watching Mike with unblinking interest.

"Fifteen days… Who are you, Michael Reed?" he murmured to himself.

Then, inside Mike's mind, the voice returned.
Deep. Cold. Familiar.
"Ugly feathered bat."

Mike's head turned slowly toward the window, though he couldn't see through the reflective glass. His reddish-yellow eyes burned with awareness.

The golden-haired man smiled.
So he is aware of some things.
Interesting.
He turned and walked away.

Over the next week, Debbie returned each day. She brought pictures of people, animals, food—objects from Earth. She spoke gently and patiently. Mike began to eat, slowly, out of necessity. He growled less. He started recognizing some of the words and images.

The rage didn't vanish.
But something human began to surface again.

Over the next week, Debbie returned daily. She brought pictures of people, animals, food—familiar things from Earth. She spoke gently. Patiently. Mike began to eat, out of necessity. He growled less. He started recognizing words and images.

The rage didn’t vanish.
But something human began to surface again.

One morning, Mike opened his eyes and stared at the restraints. He noticed familiar scars beginning to return—memories from his battles as the lizard slowly rising to the surface. His joints ached. His skin felt tougher. His body... denser.

As Debbie continued her visits, the memories returned in fragments. Words made sense again. And with each memory came something else: hunger.

A hunger that never left.

Driven by instinct, he devoured every meal placed in front of him. As the last spoon left his mouth one afternoon, Mike muttered a single word.

“More.”
The guttural sound startled him.

He flinched. Overwhelmed by the sound of his own voice.
Faces flickered through his mind—people he didn’t recognize. Emotions surged: despair, rage, confusion. His shoulders began to sway, calming at first, but the sensation grew—foreign, primal, addictive.

Then the pressure.
It crept up his spine like a snake up a tree, wrapping itself around the base of his brain.  His heart pounded with anxiety and panic as he felt the pressure press against the back of his eyes.

His eyes ached—ready to burst.

Mike clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tight against the sensation.

Then everything went dark.