Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

Since he had been recaptured these verses had become his mantra. That he might give thanks in his present situation, chained, beaten up and naked save for the heavy hood which separated him from the rest of the world, was a laughable idea. That he might give thanks for his unconquerable soul, precisely the reason why he had been recaptured, even more so. Yet his determination not to give in was all he had left. As long as he resisted, he was still himself.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

It seemed that everyone at the Centre had tried to persuade him that cooperation was the only way. (Lyle) That he must abandon his prideful ways. (Raines) That resisting would only give them more fun. (Sam. Willie. Sam and Willie.) That even geniuses had to compromise sometimes. (God, even Miss Parker!) Oh his head was bloody, alright. Still he had defied them. For months or years, he didn't know.

Until they grew tired of his stubborness and some clerk in Africa declared that Project Pretender was a tremendous waste of ressources. He was to be permanently incapacitated to exclude any possibilities of escape, then left in isolation until he was ready to complete sims again. A pretender didn't need his legs to work, after all. Sam had almost looked disgusted when they smashed his knees and ankles. Willie had been smiling.

After a short spell at the infirmary to make sure he would survive his wounds, he had been thrown in a tiny cell. No clothes, no bed, not even a blanket. No visitors, save for a sweeper, a different one each day, who came with the same question. When Jarod shook his head in disgust, the sweeper left and Jarod was left alone again. Slop and water were pushed through a hole in the door from time to time.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

Sydney had come to him once, to plead with him. Jarod had listened to his voice, the warm tones of his mentor's voice like drops of rain on his parched soul. When the psychiatrist had been finished, he had simply said "I love you too, Sydney... Don't come back. " Then he had turned his eyes away and retreated into his mind.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

He hadn't had the energy to explain that he was merely trying to do Sydney proud by using one last time the strength of his intelligence, honed by decades of skillful training. He was going to use all the concentrated power of his formidable mind, find within him the point where body and soul connected and switch everything off. A final act of free will.

He only hoped with time the older man would understand.