Bruce went down first.

The turrets started firing in ever-slowing rhythms until they were drilling bursts of bullets into the floor only every fifteen seconds. It wasn’t long before the goons started to find gaps in the danger and scurry onto our side of the room. And Campbell was swinging wide, but even he couldn’t stop each assailant from getting by.

All it took was one orderly slipping around Campbell’s bulging forearms to rupture our faux advantage. A single swing of his electrified baton was enough to decimate Bruce’s laptop. Another couple swings and Bruce lay bloodied on the floor.

By the time we’d even noticed what had happened Campbell was slowing down. His muscles waxed and waned, shrinking him down then bulking him up again. Still, it took twelve of the orderlies piling on him to eventually bring him down. They beat him the worst, until his unconscious body lay tiny and broken where a behemoth had just stood.

I got off easy. When I knew I could do no more and my fellow mutants lay beaten, I used what little strength I had left to flee the body I’d possessed and re-enter my own on the other side of the room. As soon as I was within my shell again I passed into a deep sleep.

It’s been three days now since our attempted breakout. Rachel is up again, still somewhat spooked, but she seems most upset that she missed out on the worst of the fighting. Campbell recovered miraculously after a day or so of sleep and some intense muscle flexing to massage away the hurt.

I, with only some exhaustion and minor scrapes to care for, woke up with an awful hangover and some bruises I won’t be losing anytime soon.

I’m happy to say that Sara is doing well too. About a day ago she awoke and she’s now fully alert.

But with Bruce still unconscious, she spends all her time staring listlessly at him, crying, or sleeping when the tears will no longer fall.

And there’s nothing we can do. For him or for her. After the escape attempt they brought us to a new wing of the Augmented Industries facility, or maybe a new building all together. We each have a cell of clear walls with a gurney and just enough space to make it feel like a prison. All medical supplies and food is brought in from the outside and only administered after we’ve been gassed into submission from the vents in the ceiling. No one will tell us if Bruce will live and I’m not even sure if the doctors know. We can see each other, but do nothing. The only request they’ve acquiesced to was allowing me a laptop to continue my journal of my experiences here. No doubt they read every word.

And they will pay.