In the heart of a bustling city, where the night was alive with the distant hum of car engines and the faint glimmer of stars, the world seemed ordinary—at least to those who lived above ground. But deep beneath the surface, hidden away from the neon lights and the everyday lives of the city's inhabitants, there was a place where nothing was ordinary. For some, these sounds might have been familiar, but for others—especially those too young to remember—this life was nothing but a fleeting dream, a memory too distant to grasp.
Meet our protagonist. He doesn't have a name. In this underground labyrinth, he is known only as Test Subject 0202, the future immortal soldier. His past is a haze, a fog of fragmented memories—his parents, a fire, the orphanage, and then the cold, merciless hands of a gang that stole him away and delivered him to this hell. Today, after years of unimaginable suffering, his time in this accursed lab was supposed to end. But instead of relief, there was only dread, a gnawing fear that whatever lay beyond these walls would be even worse than the experiments that had become his life.
The final experiment. A phrase that should have brought hope, but all it brought was despair. He had heard the stories—whispers among the other children—that those who survived were destined to become nothing more than war machines. The balloon experiment, they called it, something that could grant immortality. But what was immortality to a child who had known nothing but pain?
As he walked through the cold, sterile halls of the lab, he heard the distant cheers of the scientists celebrating another success—Experiment 0101, something they called "Pinocchio." They spoke of C.S. in hushed, reverent tones, whatever that meant. But for 0202, none of it mattered. All that mattered was surviving the next few minutes, hours—however long it would take for this last nightmare to end.
He arrived at the designated testing room, a place he had come to know too well over the years. The memories here were a blur of agony and darkness, and the only thing he knew for certain was his age—10 years old, or so the scientists claimed. Today, they had something special planned.
The scientist entered the room, a metal bat in hand, its surface gleaming with a sickly green glow—plutonium. Without a word, they began. The blows rained down on him, each one a symphony of pain. His ribs shattered, his skull cracked open, and the blood flowed freely. But he didn't die. He couldn't die. That was the curse of the balloon experiment.
They broke his leg, took a pencil, and in a swift, cruel motion, blinded him. The pain was excruciating, but within seconds, his vision returned, his injuries healed, and the cycle began anew. There was no remorse in their eyes, no hesitation in their actions. For them, he was just a test subject, a vessel to be pushed to its limits.
And so he endured, knowing that even if he survived this, there was no escape from the nightmare that his life had become. Immortality was not a gift—it was a sentence. And as the final experiment dragged on, Test Subject 0202 realized that even in survival, there was no freedom, no release from the torment that defined his existence.
He endured it, as he always did. The blows from the bat finally ceased, leaving him broken but far from dead. They exchanged the bat for a knife, its edge gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Without hesitation, they began stabbing him—over and over again. Each thrust of the blade tore through his flesh, piercing organs, slicing through muscle and bone. He counted every single one, his mind grasping onto numbers as if they could anchor him to some semblance of reality. 1, 2, 3… 1090 times.
By the time they were done, his body was a bloody, mangled mess. But still, he didn't die. His flesh knitted itself back together with unnatural speed, the wounds sealing shut as if they had never been there. The scientists seemed almost disappointed at how quickly his body repaired itself. They didn't care about his suffering—only about the results.
Next, they tied him down. The restraints were tight, cutting into his skin, but he found the gesture almost laughable. What was the point of tying him up when he couldn't escape, even if he wanted to? But they didn't care about his thoughts or his pain. They had their procedures, their protocols.
A huge device was wheeled into the room, its purpose unknown to him, but the sight of it filled him with a fresh wave of dread. It was a monstrous contraption, bristling with wires and needles, cold steel glinting ominously in the dim light. They positioned it above his head, aligning it with his skull, and without a word, they fired.
Agony exploded in his mind as a metal spike shot directly into his brain. For a moment, everything went dark. Then, just as quickly, it was over. His head healed in less than a second, the spike ejected from his skull, clattering to the floor with a metallic thud. The scientists murmured to each other, taking notes, recording data. To them, he was just a subject, a thing to be studied, poked, and prodded.
But they weren't done. They never were.
They brought out a blowtorch next, the flame roaring to life with a whoosh. They applied it to his skin, holding it there until his flesh bubbled and charred, the stench of burning meat filling the room. His screams were involuntary, ripped from his throat by the sheer intensity of the pain. But even as his skin blackened and peeled away, new flesh grew beneath it, fresh and unscathed.
Then they took a hammer, smashing his fingers one by one, reducing them to shattered bone and pulp. They pulled out his teeth with pliers, each one wrenched from his gums with a sickening crack. They sliced off his ears, then his nose, only to watch in clinical fascination as they regrew, perfect replicas of what had been destroyed.
But still, it wasn't enough. They sliced open his abdomen, reaching in to pull out his intestines, stretching them out across the floor like some gruesome display. They crushed his windpipe, filled his lungs with water until he drowned, only to resuscitate him seconds later, his body betraying him by dragging him back from the brink of death every single time.
There was no end to their cruelty, no limit to the suffering they could inflict. And through it all, Test Subject 0202 could do nothing but endure. His body healed, his mind shattered and rebuilt itself, but the pain never stopped.
The scientists didn't stop until they were satisfied—until they had recorded every reaction, every scream, every moment of agony. And when they finally stepped back, their work done for the day, they left him there, broken but whole, alive but dead inside.
Test Subject 0202 lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, knowing that this was his life. This was his eternity. There was no escape, no death to save him. Only pain, forever.
For two hours straight, they killed him over and over again—100 billion times. Each death was unique, a masterpiece of pain and suffering crafted by the cruelest minds. He was drowned, burned, electrocuted, torn apart by machines, and shredded by blades. Each time, his consciousness was ripped from the abyss of death only to be thrown back into the clutches of unending agony. Time lost all meaning; his existence became a cycle of torment, death, and rebirth—a hellish loop from which there was no escape.
As the seconds bled into minutes and the minutes into hours, he lost count of how many times he had died, his mind fracturing under the weight of it all. But the scientists didn't care. To them, he was a perfect specimen, a marvel of modern science—a tool to be used until it was broken beyond repair. And then, as if to add insult to the unimaginable torment he had endured, they began to clap.
The sound of applause filled the room, a hollow echo of mockery that rang in his ears. He lay there, his body whole once more but his mind shattered, barely clinging to the edge of sanity. Then, the clapping stopped, replaced by a voice, smooth and cold.
A man stepped forward from the shadows, his presence both commanding and terrifying. He wore a twisted smile that seemed too wide for his face, his eyes gleaming with a malevolent light. "I am the Cheshire Cat," he said, his voice dripping with dark amusement. He looked down at 0202, his grin widening as he spoke. "I can offer you freedom, but only under one condition—become my slave."
0202 didn't respond. He couldn't. His mind was too far gone, too consumed by the endless cycle of pain. But the Cheshire Cat didn't seem to mind. He simply laughed, a sound that sent shivers down 0202's spine. It was a laugh that held no joy, only the promise of more suffering.
The head scientist, who had been watching with an air of superiority, stepped forward, eager to claim his success. "Test Subject 0202 was a great—" he began, but he never finished.
In an instant, the Cheshire Cat's hand shot out, and with a flick of his wrist, he slit the head scientist's throat. But the death was far from instant. The scientist's scream filled the room, a raw, primal sound of terror and pain. Blood gushed from the wound, but instead of dying, the scientist found himself trapped in the same nightmare he had inflicted on so many others. His flesh began to melt, sloughing off his bones in grotesque, bubbling sheets. He clawed at his own skin, trying to tear it away, but his fingers melted too, fusing together in a mess of tissue and bone.
His eyes boiled in their sockets, bursting with a sickening pop, yet he continued to scream, his mouth stretching impossibly wide as if trying to release the agony that consumed him. His bones twisted and snapped, breaking apart only to reform in unnatural angles, forcing him to endure the agony of his own body betraying him over and over again. The Cheshire Cat watched, his smile never faltering as the scientist's body convulsed and writhed, every nerve alight with the pain that now defined his existence.
The scientist's tongue swelled in his mouth, choking him, yet refusing to allow him the mercy of suffocation. His flesh began to harden, turning to stone, trapping him in a state of living death—a statue forever screaming, forever in pain, but never able to die. And still, the Cheshire Cat's grin remained, as if this display of horror was nothing more than a delightful game.
Finally, the Cheshire Cat turned to 0202, his voice almost tender. "Do you want me to kill them all?" he asked, as if offering a simple gift. His eyes gleamed with anticipation, waiting for an answer.
But 0202 could only stare, his mind unable to process the reality before him. The Cheshire Cat's offer was both a blessing and a curse—a chance to end the suffering of those who had tormented him, but at what cost? The room was silent now, save for the faint, echoing screams of the head scientist—a reminder of the fate that awaited anyone who crossed the Cheshire Cat.
0202 didn't have the strength to respond, but deep inside, a tiny spark of defiance flared—a desperate, silent scream that yearned for freedom, for an end to this endless torment. Whether or not the Cheshire Cat heard it, he didn't say. He only smiled wider, his eyes glinting with dark promise as he waited for the inevitable answer.