The first time they came for her, she was too young to understand what was happening. She barely had the strength to lift her head, her tiny body swaddled in rough, scratchy cloth. The cultists loomed over her, their masked faces expressionless, their voices cold and clinical. They lifted her from the cold stone floor, their hands rough and unfeeling, and carried her to a room she would come to know all too well.
The room was small and windowless, lit by the same flickering candles that filled the rest of the cult's underground lair. The walls were lined with strange symbols, carved deep into the stone and painted with something dark and viscous that smelled faintly of iron. In the center of the room was a table, its surface stained with old blood and etched with more of the same symbols. They laid her on the table, their movements efficient and impersonal, and began their work.
She didn't understand what they were doing at first. She was too young, too inexperienced, to comprehend the horror of it. But as the first needle pierced her skin, she felt it—a sharp, searing pain that shot through her tiny body like a bolt of lightning. She screamed, a high-pitched, guttural sound that echoed off the stone walls, but the cultists didn't stop. They never stopped.
The experiments became a routine, a twisted ritual that marked the passage of time in her otherwise monotonous existence. They would come for her at irregular intervals, sometimes daily, sometimes weekly, always without warning. They would strap her to the table, their hands cold and unyielding, and subject her to a new form of torture. Needles, blades, fire, electricity—they used it all, each method more painful than the last.
As she grew older, she began to understand the purpose behind the experiments. They were testing her, probing her limits, trying to unlock the eldritch power they believed lay dormant within her. They would inject her with strange substances, their formulas a closely guarded secret, and observe her reactions. Sometimes, she would convulse violently, her tiny body wracked with pain as the foreign substances coursed through her veins. Other times, she would fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to wake up hours later with no memory of what had happened.
The pain was constant, a relentless companion that never left her side. It was in her bones, her muscles, her very soul. It was the first thing she felt when she woke up and the last thing she felt before she fell asleep. It was her reality, her existence, and she had no choice but to endure it.
As the years passed, she began to notice changes in her body. Her skin, once smooth and unblemished, was now covered in scars—thin, white lines that crisscrossed her arms, legs, and torso like a macabre map of her suffering. Her hair, once a soft, silvery blonde, had darkened to a dull, ashen gray. And her eyes—her once bright, curious eyes—had taken on a hollow, haunted look, as if they had seen too much and could no longer bear to look at the world.
But the most significant change came when she was five years old. The cultists had been particularly brutal that day, subjecting her to a series of injections that left her writhing in agony. As she lay on the table, her body trembling and drenched in sweat, one of the cultists leaned over her and said, "She's strong. Stronger than the others. She might actually survive."
The words sent a chill through her, but it wasn't until later, when she was back in her cell, that she fully understood their meaning. She had always known she was different, that she wasn't like the other children in the cult. But now, she realized just how different she was. She was a girl.
The realization hit her like a thunderclap. She had never thought about her gender before, never had a reason to. But now, as she looked down at her small, scarred body, she saw the truth. She was a girl. Number 93, the vessel, the experiment—she was a girl.
The knowledge changed everything. It gave her a sense of identity, a small, fragile piece of herself that the cultists couldn't take away. But it also made her more aware of her vulnerability, of the fact that she was just a child, a little girl trapped in a nightmare.
The experiments continued, each one more painful than the last. They would cut her open, exposing her fragile organs to the cold, sterile air, and inject her with substances that made her scream until her voice gave out. They would burn her skin with hot irons, leaving behind angry, red welts that took weeks to heal. They would shock her with electricity, sending jolts of pain through her body that left her trembling and weak.
But through it all, she endured. She had no choice. She was Number 93, the vessel, the experiment. And she would survive.
By the time she was eight years old, she had become a shadow of her former self. Her body was thin and frail, her skin pale and sickly. Her hair hung in limp, greasy strands around her face, and her eyes were sunken and hollow. But despite her physical deterioration, her mind remained sharp. She had learned to block out the pain, to retreat into a corner of her mind where the cultists couldn't reach her. It was her only defense, her only escape.
But even that wasn't enough to prepare her for what came next.
It started like any other day. She was lying on the cold stone floor of her cell, her body aching from the latest round of experiments, when the door creaked open. She didn't bother to look up. She knew who it was.
The head cultist stepped into the room, his presence filling the small space with an oppressive, suffocating energy. He was tall and gaunt, his face hidden behind a mask that bore the same eldritch symbols that adorned the walls. His robes were black and flowing, and his voice was low and gravelly, like the growl of a predator.
"Number 93," he said, his tone cold and clinical. "Today, we begin a new phase of your training."
She didn't respond. She had learned long ago that resistance was futile. The cultists didn't care about her thoughts or feelings. She was nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.
The head cultist stepped closer, his shadow falling over her like a shroud. He reached into his robes and pulled out a syringe filled with a dark, viscous liquid that seemed to pulse and writhe as if it were alive.
"This," he said, holding up the syringe, "is the culmination of years of research. It will unlock the true potential of the eldritch within you. But be warned—it will be the most painful experience of your life."
She felt a surge of fear, but she didn't let it show. She had endured so much already. What was one more experiment?
The head cultist knelt beside her, his movements slow and deliberate. He grabbed her arm, his grip like iron, and pressed the needle to her skin. She didn't flinch. She had learned to accept the pain, to embrace it as part of her existence.
But as the needle pierced her skin and the dark liquid entered her veins, she realized that this was different. This wasn't just pain—it was agony. It was as if her very soul was being torn apart, shredded into a thousand pieces and then stitched back together with fire and ice. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the stone walls, but the head cultist didn't stop. He injected the entire contents of the syringe, his expression hidden behind the mask but his eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of satisfaction.
When it was over, she lay on the floor, her body trembling and drenched in sweat. The pain was still there, a constant, burning presence that threatened to consume her. But beneath the pain, she felt something else—something dark and powerful, stirring deep within her.
The head cultist stood over her, his shadow looming like a specter. "You have done well, Number 93," he said, his voice cold and clinical. "But this is only the beginning."
And with that, he turned and left, leaving her alone in the darkness with the eldritch power now awakening within her.