Deep inside Conner, fear curled with insidious strength. Those black eyes where filled with a roiling madness and thick claws were ripping at the skin of his forearms. How did one defeat an enemy who had no mind?

"Captain!"

Connor didn't look up. He rolled onto his back again and extended his arm full-length, holding his attacker aloft by the throat. A glaive whistled through the air and sliced off the top of the man's skull. Gore splattered everywhere.

"What the fuck was that?" Trent cried, standing just above Connor's head with the killing blade in his hands.

"Hell if I know." Connor tossed the body off to the side. He looked down at himself in disgust, touching the gunk that coated him with a tentative finger. It was thick and black, resembling old blood and reeking like it, too. His gaze moved to the corpse whose face from the eyebrows down was still intact. Brown hair grew overly long around the man's ears and nape. The skin had an unhealthy pallor and the flesh was clinging to bones. The hands and feet were both capped with long, thick, reptilian claws. But it was the inky black, sightless eyes and gaping maw that were so frightening. They turned a gaunt, sickly looking man into a formidable predator.

It wore only loose white pants that were stained and torn. On the back of its hand was a seared brand-"HB-12." A quick look at the cell from which it escaped revealed a thick metal interior liberally gouged.

"Your room is definitely more interesting than mine," Trent said. The levity of his statement was ruined by the crack in his voice.