After an hour, my tired mind drifts away from scouting bomb sites and killing things, so as Lisa continues to mash away at the controller, I recline back on my bed with one of my books. Even escaping into stories doesn't seem enough any more, once the book closes, I'm Dana locked up in a facility in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by friends who will die if I even thinks about giving up. I'm not a hero though. Being a hero would be giving more blood and not being so moody with the junior doctors. Being a hero would be choosing this rather than having this life because of a random genetic mutation. Even if I died dried up in a hospital bed surrounded by people scratching away on clipboards -a martyr to my belief that everybody needs a good life more than me - I still wouldn't be a hero.
"Dana!" I look up and see that the game is paused and Lisa is looking at me patiently. I wonder how long she's been calling me.
"I said," she tuts, "how did check-up go?"
I shrug. "Oh, same-old same-old. Dr Connor still wants to put some internal electrode in me, but Dr Seymour keeps saying no," I mumble. Check-up is never anything special, but Lisa's new, so she would wonder. It's just her third month, but I'm approaching year two. She still has a lot to learn.
"They didn't probe you, did they?" she asks, grinning mischievously. There's a light in Lisa that I'm determined not to let fade, a part of her that still finds everything that's happening to her strange and exciting and good. So I don't bore her with my hatred of anybody in a lab-coat, and I don't tell her what I sometimes think about why she spends so much time with me. The thought that somewhere, in the back of her mind, she's only here because she knows what I can do for her.