[That's all I need from you, Scotch. You'll see soon enough.]
Suddenly, a rush of cold shot through him, like the wind of a storm, and then—
Light.
It pierced down on him from above, cold and unrelenting, cutting through his eyelids. Scotch grunted, instinctively raising a hand to shield his face, but his limbs felt heavy, sluggish, like they weren't fully his yet. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the brightness.
The ceiling was stark white, smooth and sterile, lit by fluorescent panels that buzzed faintly. It was nothing like the gritty, dusty skies he was used to. Scotch blinked, trying to focus, his mind struggling to piece together where he was.
He slowly pushed himself upright, feeling the soft resistance of a bed beneath him. The mattress was firm, too clean, with white sheets that stretched tight, barely creased by his weight. He glanced around, his head still swimming from the disorienting rush of... whatever had brought him here.
The room was bare, clinical. No windows, just four white walls, a single metal bed with a thin blanket, and a toilet tucked into the corner. The only other features were a large mirror that spanned nearly an entire wall and a door—sleek, metallic, with no handle, just a narrow seam running down the middle where it might slide open.
Scotch's muscles tensed as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his boots hitting the cold floor with a dull thud. He blinked again, staring down at himself. His clothes were unfamiliar—a tight-fitting, white material that hugged his torso and legs, like something from a prison jumpsuit. His old gear, his boots, his guns, all gone.
Panic flickered at the edge of his mind.
'Where the hell am I?' he muttered under his breath, glancing around the sterile room. He turned his attention to the large mirror.
Scotch's eyes caught his reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him. His breath hitched. His face, once rugged and weathered from years of gunfights and desert winds, was now smooth—almost too smooth—his skin drained of all colour. It was stark white, like pure raw white glowing faintly under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"What the hell..."
His gaze darted to his eyes—deep, unsettling red, The irises were sharp, intense, giving him a predatory look. He leaned closer to the mirror, his pulse quickening. The white hair—pure, stark, falling messily around his face—was the final shock. His hands trembled slightly as he raised them to his head, feeling the texture of the unfamiliar hair. The contrast between the ghostly white strands and his red eyes was jarring, unnatural.
Then he noticed the mark.
On his right palm, embedded deep into his now pale skin, was a tattoo—a black sun, its jagged rays reaching out toward the edges of his hand. It looked ancient, ominous. He rubbed his fingers over it, but the skin was smooth, as if the symbol had always been there. It wasn't inked like a tattoo. It felt like part of him now, like a brand.
"What happened to me?"
His voice was barely a whisper, his mind reeling. He hadn't just been brought back from death—he had been transformed. He turned his hands over, examining the veins beneath his skin. Everything about him felt... altered. Stronger, more resilient, but also wrong. There was a raw energy pulsing inside him that hadn't been there before.
Scotch's breath quickened as he backed away from the mirror, the fluorescent light above casting a sharp glow across his unfamiliar form. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the red irises staring back at him, filled with a cold, predatory gleam that hadn't been there before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the realization crashing into him.
"Wha- why am i...?"
His voice sounded distant, as if it wasn't his own. He clenched his fists, staring at the black sun on his palm, its jagged rays pulsing faintly. The tattoo seemed to hum with an energy he couldn't understand—an energy that felt both powerful and deeply wrong. He pressed his palm against the cold metal of the bed frame, half-hoping the mark would disappear, but it didn't. It was part of him now.
With a sudden burst of anger, he swung his arm toward the mirror. His fist connected with a sharp crack, sending spiderweb cracks across the glass. His reflection splintered, distorting the ghostly white skin and blood-red eyes into something even more monstrous. He stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the broken mirror.
"No… this ain't real. That's not me, I'm Not some... albino rat!"
Before he could dwell on his rage, the sound of mechanical whirring caught his attention. The sliding door on the far side of the room hissed open, revealing a corridor lit by the same harsh, sterile lights. Beyond it, figures moved—cold, emotionless, and clad in white lab coats. Two of them entered the room, their faces masked, eyes hidden behind dark goggles. They carried a pistol like weapon on there hip along with metal devices strapped to their wrists that hummed with ominous power.
"Subject 13," one of them said in a flat, robotic tone. "It's time."
"Time for what?" Scotch growled, instinctively balling his fists, his eyes flicking to the black sun on his palm.
"Clean-up duty," the other one answered, his voice equally devoid of emotion.
Before Scotch could react, they gestured toward the corridor, where a third figure appeared, dragging something behind him. The limp body of another experiment—pale, lifeless, and twisted in unnatural ways—was thrown at his feet.
"Your ability," the first one continued, "will do the rest."
Scotch's eyes widened in disbelief. The hell did they mean by that? He looked down at the corpse, its vacant eyes staring up at him, and a sick but familiar feeling churned in his gut.
Scotch stared at the twisted corpse lying at his feet, his stomach turning with disgust. The lifeless eyes, the contorted limbs—it was like looking at a nightmare made real. He glanced back at the two figures in lab coats, their faces hidden behind masks, their eyes emotionless behind dark goggles. They stood there, waiting, as if what they had just thrown in front of him was nothing more than garbage.
"Your ability," the first figure repeated. "Touch it."
Scotch's jaw clenched. His mind raced as he took a step back from the body, instinctively repulsed by the demand. "Touch it? You're outta your damn minds," he snarled. "I ain't some tool for you freaks."
But before he could react further, one of the figures raised his arm, revealing a small device on his wrist that emitted a sharp, electric buzz. Pain shot through Scotch's body like lightning, causing his muscles to spasm violently. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees, barely able to stay upright.
"Do it now," the second figure commanded, the voice calm but cold. "Or we'll make it worse."
The shock faded, leaving Scotch gasping for breath, his limbs still tingling with residual pain. He glared up at the lifeless body before him, a sickening realization creeping over him. These bastards were serious. He had no choice. Slowly, with a trembling hand, he reached out toward the corpse, the black sun on his palm glowing faintly as he neared it.
The moment his fingers brushed the cold, dead skin, something horrifying happened.
The tattoo on his palm flared to life, pulsing with a dark energy that felt alive, ravenous. It sucked the corpse toward him, like it had been waiting for this moment. The body contorted unnaturally, twisting and curling as it dissolved into shadow, being absorbed into Scotch's hand with a grotesque, slurping sound. He felt the essence of the corpse—its death, its decay—flow into him like ice-cold water, spreading through his veins, coiling around his core.
The corpse was gone. All that remained was the lingering chill in his bones, and a strange, dark energy pulsing within him, stronger than before.
Scotch staggered to his feet, his breath ragged, the weight of what had just happened crashing over him. "What… the hell… just happened?"
"You absorbed their soul," the first figure said matter-of-factly. "And in return, you expanded your own, It's your job now, 'Thirteen' You clean up after our failed experiments."
"Failed experiments?" Scotch spat, his voice low and dangerous. He stared at his palm, where the black sun tattoo pulsed faintly, His mind reeled, trying to process what he had just experienced. "This is some kinda sick joke, right?"
"It's not a joke," the second figure replied, adjusting his goggles. "You are useful to us in this form. You greatly reduce clean-up cost. I userstand that you were created a week ago but you should be used to being a tool by now"
Scotch clenched his fist, the black sun dimming as he tried to suppress the dark energy swirling inside him. His chest heaved with anger, disgust, and fear. He had been brought back to life, but at what cost?
He glared at the figures in front of him, the rage in his blood rising.
"I ain't your tool," he growled, his voice filled with venom. "And I sure as hell ain't done with you bastards yet."
One of the masked figures stepped forward, his tone unbothered. "You'll do as you're told. Or you'll be disposed of like the rest."
As they turned to leave, Scotch's eyes narrowed. He wasn't just going to survive this place—he was going to burn it to the ground. But first, he needed to understand this new power, this curse that had been forced upon him.
And then he'd make them all pay.
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Week one
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In the sterile corridors of the laboratory, a low hum of machinery filled the air, accompanied by the sharp clacking of shoes on polished floors. Two researchers walked side by side, their white lab coats swishing with each step. One of them, a woman with sharp features and a clipboard clutched to her chest, glanced at her colleague—a tall man with dark circles under his eyes, his face gaunt from sleepless nights.
"How's Subject Thirteen doing?" she asked, her voice hushed but curious.
The man sighed, rubbing his temple as if the mere mention of Thirteen gave him a headache. "He's... an anomaly, to say the least. We've never seen anything like it."
The woman arched an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. "You mean the powers?"
"Yes, the powers," he replied, shaking his head in disbelief. "You know how the experiment went. We started with a hundred human adults. None of them made it past Stage 1—except for him. Subject Thirteen survived all the way to stage fifty. It's unheard of."
The woman nodded thoughtfully. "And that's what gave him two abilities, right? I thought normal people are meant to have one"
"That was the intention," the man confirmed, his brow furrowing. "Everyone else either died in the early stages or their bodies couldn't handle the stress. But Thirteen... somehow, he adapted. The first power was expected—the soul absorption. He can absorb the essence of a corpse, taking its energy and... well, whatever memories or fragments of the soul it had left."
The woman frowned. "That explains why they're using him for clean-up. But what's the second power?"
"'Push,'" the man said, the word heavy with implication. "It's still in development, but from what we've observed, he can project energy outward in a concentrated burst—enough force to send objects or even people flying. It's like a telekinetic shove, but far more destructive."
The woman scribbled notes on her clipboard, her expression hardening. "Two powers in one subject. The first of his kind. That could be revolutionary—if we can figure out how he did it. It's a breakthrough for sure."
"Breakthrough? Probably," the man muttered, looking over his shoulder as if someone might be listening. "But you know what this place does. They're pushing him beyond his limits. They'll use him until he's nothing but a shell."
She nodded slowly, her lips pressed into a thin line. "What do you think his mental state is like?"
The man gave a humourless laugh. "He's got no self awareness. He's like the rest who forget their pasts or who break completely. But he's got a mind like a steel trap. That's going to be a problem for us down the line."
"A problem?" The woman paused in her steps, glancing at him. "You think he'll resist?"
"He already does," the man said, his voice low. "He doesn't know the full extent of his power yet, but he's not going to stay compliant forever. He wasn't meant to last this long. That's why they're keeping such a tight leash on him—trying to control him completely before he becomes too much to handle."
The woman's eyes narrowed as she considered this. "And if he does figure out how strong he is?"
The man's face darkened. "If that happens, then we will just cut our losses and use the kill switch on his wrist"
They walked in silence for a few moments, the gravity of their conversation hanging in the air. Finally, the woman spoke again, her tone more clinical.
"Then we'll just have to make sure he doesn't find out, won't we?"
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Thirteen sat on the cold floor of his cell, back against the wall, his eyes staring blankly ahead. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the white room. The only sound was his own breathing, steady but shallow, as he flexed his fingers, the black sun on his palm faintly pulsing with energy. It felt like a curse, burning with the memories of the souls he had already absorbed.
"So... Its already been a week since that disembodied voice sent me to this shit-hole."
The door hissed open, and two guards entered. Both wore the standard issue black uniforms—body armor, helmets with tinted visors, and armed with rifles slung over their shoulders and knives strapped to their thighs. They looked at him as though he were more a weapon than a person.
"Time for clean-up," one of them grunted.
Thirteen stood without a word. He had learned to keep his silence, at least for now. With each day, the oppressive weight of this place grew heavier on his mind. They had him locked down, watched, controlled—but they didn't know what he was learning. He'd already started piecing together his limits, and each time they made him absorb another body, his power grew.
The guards motioned for him to step into the hallway. Thirteen complied, keeping his expression neutral, but his mind was racing. His body moved automatically, the routine now embedded in him after a week of forced compliance. The corridor outside his cell was narrow, lined with cold metal walls that stretched endlessly in either direction.
They led him deeper into the facility, and soon, the sound of distant machinery and voices reached his ears. The walls widened into the vast expanse of the experimentation hall. Thirteen felt a tight knot form in his stomach every time he entered this place.
The hall was enormous, its size overwhelming. Various experiment tables and machines dotted the space, some filled with groaning, half-conscious subjects still mid-process. Mechanical arms and syringes hovered over their bodies, injecting, slicing, testing. The scene was grotesque, an assembly line of human suffering.
A large, bulletproof glass wall spanned one entire side of the room, giving a perfect view into the hall for the observers above. Behind the glass, Thirteen could see the shadowed outlines of researchers, their clipboards in hand, faces devoid of emotion. They watched every experiment like cold gods, safe and detached from the horrors below.
Thirteen's eyes lingered on the glass for a second too long. He wanted nothing more than to shatter it, to bring them down from their comfortable perch and make them feel what he felt.
"Move," one of the guards barked, shoving him forward.
He clenched his teeth, his hands flexing into fists, but he kept walking. They led him through the chaos of the hall, past tables filled with dying experiments and bodies that hadn't survived the night. It smelled of antiseptic, blood, and decay.
At the far end of the hall, there was a smaller room, sectioned off from the rest of the chaos. The guards stopped him in front of the door, one pressing a keycard to the scanner as it beeped and slid open with a quiet hiss.
Inside, the room was small and bare. With just three bodies on the floor—each one cold, lifeless, and contorted in the aftermath of their failed transformations. The guards stepped in behind him, their rifles at the ready, as if they expected him to fight.
One of them nodded toward the bodies, his voice flat. "Do your thing."
Thirteen looked down at the corpses. Three failed experiments. He didn't know who they had been or what they had tried to become. But he knew what he had to do. The black sun on his palm pulsed again, stronger this time, hungry. Each soul absorbed made the tattoo burn hotter, and each time, he felt more power coursing through him.
He knelt beside the first body, his expression hardening. Without hesitation, he pressed his palm to its chest. The moment his skin made contact, a dark energy surged between them, a ripple of cold that shot up his arm and into his core. The corpse's body twitched once before going completely still. In a matter of seconds, the flesh turned to ash, disintegrating beneath his touch as the essence of its soul flowed into him.
The second body went the same way. As the dark energy filled him, he felt the familiar rush—strength, clarity, a deeper sense of control over his powers. But with it came something else. Memories. Echoes of pain, fear, and desperation. Each soul brought a piece of the person with it, fragments that flickered in the back of his mind.
By the time he absorbed the third, his vision swam for a moment, a faint dizziness washing over him as the dark energy settled into his body.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Thirteen stood slowly, his hand still glowing faintly, the tattoo on his palm thrumming with power.
"Let's go," the guard said, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.
Thirteen straightened, his red eyes locking onto the guard for a moment longer than necessary. He was plotting something, and they all knew it. The question was—how long until they lost control?
He followed them out of the room, back into the experimentation hall, but this time, his steps felt lighter. Each body, each soul brought him closer to breaking free.
Soon.
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{Blender here!, anyway if you are a new reader, then welcome to the post credits scene! Its not needed to read this but I will sometimes do votes here. In my old book I did donations and votes every chapter, but it will be different here. Probably I might do votes every chapter}
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{also I'm thick skinned, if there's something you don't like you can tell me in this paragraph here!(or anywhere I guess, but ill be checking here)}
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{also remember to use you power stones blah blah blah}
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Vote here: What will the MC's main weapon be to escape
1) Stolen Gun
2) Push Ability
3) A combination of the two, maybe even enhancing the gun by pushing bullets out at a faster speed
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discord.gg/fzgaHb4J - we do a lot more polls here, if you join ill start a poll in your honour
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{pls send me more comments and gifs since it makes my brain give the good chemicals}
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