Ding
Mark jolts. When the doors slide open, he steps out into a corridor lit by muted overhead lights. Each footstep echoes softly, his shoulders tense.
Eventually, he reaches his assigned room. With a sigh, Mark pushes it open and steps inside. The space is bare-bones: a narrow cot, a small metal desk, and a tall locker where his belongings wait. He sets his bag down, unzipping it to unpack. His fingers brush over the dark camouflage uniform he's supposed to wear, its fabric stiff...
... and unfamiliar.
He pauses, the uniform half-pulled from the bag, his mind drifting. That call with Carlos, he reminds himself, heart pounding at the memory
Earlier...
Mark grips his phone so tightly his knuckles ache. Standing in the shadows beside his porch, he listens to Carlos's smug laughter crackle over the line.
"Not much to say," Carlos had drawled. "Write down this number: 62317. Call it. When they pick up, they'll ask: 'As we are above, so we are below.'"
Mark remembers frowning, the words making no sense. "Who's 'they'?" he had demanded.
A faint chuckle answered him. "They're the ones who know it all, brother. The original keepers of human history… or something like that." Carlos paused, letting the silence thicken before continuing. "You wonder why those pigs you work for are so hungry for results? It's because those people—these keepers—have the real power—or know what's coming."
Mark had swallowed hard, his tongue suddenly dry. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. "So what do I say back?" he'd pressed, voice cracking slightly.
Carlos's voice dropped to a near whisper. "For we are chosen by those above and those below," he said, almost singing the phrase. Then he laughed again, the sound sharp and mocking. "Good luck… brother."
The line had gone dead, leaving Mark shaking under the starlight, the night suddenly feeling colder.
Back in the small room...
Mark snaps out of his reverie. He's still holding the uniform, its camouflage pattern dark and mottled. He shoves it back into the locker. His heart races, and sweat beads at his temples.
"No time," he mutters aloud to the empty room, raking a hand through his hair. "The kid… he can barely hold on. And the others… already at death's door."
He reaches for the door handle, then hesitates, his forehead nearly touching the cool metal surface. What if I'm wrong? he asks himself, the silence offering no reassurance.
He takes a long, trembling breath, then forces a nervous smirk. "That could work," he says quietly.
**
Dr. Briggs lets out a frustrated groan, adjusting his glasses as he peers at the screen. "Some data isn't matching up," he mutters under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He tosses the stylus onto the counter and straightens. "I'll have to check with the analysts in the back," he announces.
Before stepping out, he glances over at Dr. Chen, who's leaning slightly over a microscope, coughing into his elbow. Briggs's eyebrow arches, his expression turning from annoyance to mild concern. "Dr. Chen," he says, voice low but firm, "if your immune system is failing you should really take leave. We can't afford errors."
Dr. Chen waves a trembling hand dismissively, not even turning his head. "I'm fine," he croaks, but his voice breaks at the last syllable, sending him into another fit of coughs.
Briggs clicks his tongue, clearly dissatisfied, then strides through the door, letting it hiss shut behind him.
A few more minutes seep by, each second punctuated by Dr. Chen's shaky breaths and the gentle beep of monitoring equipment. He coughs again, deeper this time, his throat starting to burn, but forces himself to focus on the data. His fingers clack over the keyboard, trying to keep pace with the flickering lines of code and measurements on the screen.
Suddenly, a light tap lands on his shoulder. Dr. Chen jerks upright, nearly sending a precarious stack of petri dishes tumbling. He whirls around, eyes narrowed.
"Santos again!" Dr. Chen exclaims. Another cough claws its way out of his throat, leaving him grimacing. "What is it?" he demands, voice rasping.
Santos stands rigidly, out of uniform in casual clothes, but sweat beads at his hairline. "Dr. Chen, Crowe took notice of your condition…" Santos begins, voice low, "He sent me to… well, to inform you that I'll be taking your place for the experiments today."
Dr. Chen's frown deepens, his brows knitting together. "Taking my place?" he echoes, baffled."But why? Is there a problem?" Another coughing fit overtakes him, and he clutches at his chest.
Santos's gaze drops to the floor. "He didn't give details," he mumbles. "Just that it's necessary. He thinks it's for the best."
Dr. Chen studies Santos, his irritation tempered by a flicker of worry. He takes a shaky breath, grimacing as it turns into another coughing fit. His voice emerges hoarse, each word pushed through clenched teeth. "I don't agree with this," he says, trying to maintain some composure. "We're in the middle of crucial documentation. Any delay or change could lead to gaps in the data." Another cough escapes him, eyes watering as the strain intensifies. "But… you're right. If I contaminate anything, it's all for nothing."
His shoulders sag, the fight draining from him. He moves slowly, gathering his notes and stacking folders with trembling fingers. "Alright then," he concedes, voice subdued. "We can't afford contamination. Just make sure all the instruments are properly sterilized. Everything must be pristine, understand?"
Santos nods, swallowing hard. "Of course, Dr. Chen. I'll ensure everything is ready." There's a quiver beneath his words, betraying his unease.
Chen lifts his gaze, his reddened eyes narrowing as he gives Santos a once-over. "And what's with your attire?" he asks, his tone catching on a cough. "Why are you out of uniform?"
Santos flinches slightly. He opens his mouth, but the words stumble over each other. "I—um—got an assignment as soon as I got back, sir," he manages, his cheeks flushing. "I didn't have time to change yet."
Dr. Chen eyes him critically for a long moment, his breath wheezing slightly. Then, with a curt nod, he coughs again. "Hurry up and get changed," he says, voice rasping. "I don't want you written up for insubordination. We have enough complications as it is."
Santos's spine straightens, and he gives a quick, respectful nod. "Yes, Dr. Chen. I'm on it right now."
As Dr. Chen moves to the door, notes and folders in hand, he spares Santos one last look.
"Don't disappoint, soldier," he manages.
With that, Chen steps out, leaving Santos alone.
**
Obinai stirs, awakened by the familiar metallic click of the door's lock disengaging. He tries to lift his head, the motion sending a wave of vertigo through him. His eyes half-lidded and dry, he scans the small cell. He's still in the same place—the same chair, the same restraints, the same nauseating smell of sweat, old blood clinging to his garments.
The door swings open, revealing Crowe and the two damned scientists in hazmat suits. Dr. Briggs steps forward, but Obinai notices the other figure's posture—unusually rigid, as though fighting to stand upright. Crowe narrows his eyes slightly.
"Dr. Chen," Crowe addresses the stiff scientist, "what's going on?"
The scientist hesitates, their shoulders twitching ever so slightly. Before they can respond, Dr. Briggs interjects, holding up a hand. "Apologies, sir," he says, voice steady but rushed. "Dr. Chen isn't feeling well today. He's been coughing all morning." Briggs casts a glance at the stiff scientist, then back to Crowe. "I even tried to get him to leave, but, well… dedication is something else, isn't it?"
Crowe takes a moment, his gaze lingering on the scientist. The figure nods awkwardly, offering no words. Crowe's jaw tightens, but he says nothing further. Instead, he waves a hand, signaling them to proceed with their work.
As Dr. Briggs and the stiff scientist begin setting up their equipment, the low hum of machinery fills the cramped space. Electrodes, sensors, and all manner of instruments are attached to Obinai's trembling body. He can feel every strap tighten, every wire tug at his skin. His heart beats faster, each thump echoing in his ears.
Crowe steps back to watch, his boots scraping lightly on the concrete floor. He crosses his arms over his chest. "We've been reviewing the footage, Obinai," he begins, his tone disturbingly casual, "and we saw something quite fascinating. Your hair, changing color on the screen—quite the show."
Obinai's brows knit together, his voice barely a rasp. "My hair? What… what happened?"
Crowe chuckles, a light, airy sound that sends a chill down Obinai's spine. "Oh, don't worry about that. We'll figure it out. In time." He waves the question away. "You've given us quite a spectacle so far."
Dr. Briggs leans in, adjusting a dial on one of the machines. The stiff scientist hovers, head tilting awkwardly now and then. Obinai can't help but feel something is off about that one—too silent, too rigid—hesitant.
Crowe paces the length of the cell, his footsteps echoing. "You've been shot, dissected, examined," he says, counting each torment off on his fingers. "We even have discarded limbs of yours somewhere in storage." He smiles thinly. "Truly something, isn't it, kid?"
Obinai swallows hard, throat too dry to speak. He tries to form words, to protest, but no sound comes.
Crowe stops pacing, standing just out of Obinai's reach. "Now, it's the last day of your experimentation," he announces. His tone is almost cheerful. "You can't leave, of course, but… you'll join the others in their recreation. A grand finale, you might say."
A faint hum rises in the background, different from the usual buzz of machinery. It's higher. Obinai's breathing quickens, panic seizing his chest. Crowe cocks his head, observing him closely.
"This device," Crowe says, gesturing to the apparatus the scientists put into place near Obinai's head, "was used in the past for death row prisoners. Now they have more refined methods, like the needle." He gives a crooked smile. "We'll see if your brain can recover from what's coming."
Obinai's eyes widen, tears finally squeezing from their corners despite the dryness. He glances from Crowe to Dr. Briggs, then to the stiff scientist. Dr. Briggs' suit rustles quietly as he steps forward, a remote in hand. Obinai wants to scream, wants to beg, but the lump in his throat prevents him. He can feel his heart pounding, every beat like a hammer blow.
"Don't worry," Crowe says softly, almost too kindly.
"This won't take long."
Obinai tries to form words—some plea, some desperate protest. But before he can, he hears a sharp, electric crack.
BZZRRTTT.
A surge of pain explodes behind his eyes, and the world dissolves into blinding white noise...
**