The dimly lit cavern corridor echoed with the heavy footfalls of two armored guards. Between them, a frail figure was dragged across the rough, cold ground, his weak frame barely able to resist. His body was marred with scars, open wounds, and dried blood—a silent testimony to the countless horrors he had endured. His long, unkempt hair clung to his face, damp with sweat and remnants of crimson.
"Please..." The voice that escaped his cracked lips was barely above a whisper, trembling with desperation. "I don't... I don't want to feel it again. Please, I'm begging you... I'll do anything... just not again... please..."
His hands twitched feebly, trying to grip onto anything that might slow their advance, but the guards paid him no mind. Their grips remained ironclad, their gazes fixed forward, ignoring his sobs and pleas that grew weaker with every passing second. The flickering torches on the cavern walls cast long shadows, each movement of the boy's struggling form only accentuating his pitiful state.
"You're wasting your breath, runt," one of the guards muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. The pleading was getting to him. He kept his eyes forward, refusing to look at the boy he and his partner dragged through the corridor like a sack of discarded meat.
Soon, they reached a massive steel door, standing as an impassable barrier to whatever lay beyond. One of the guards banged his fist against it twice. As they waited, the frail figure's pleas intensified, his voice laced with terror.
"Please! Please! Don't do this! You don't have to do this! Just let me go! I swear I won't run! I swear! I—"
For the first time, the guard holding him hesitated. His hardened expression cracked ever so slightly, guilt flickering in his eyes. He swallowed, his grip loosening just a fraction as he looked down.
And then, a wad of spit smacked him square in the face.
The guard flinched, his open-face headgear offering no protection from the warm saliva dripping down his cheek. A second of stunned silence passed before a sharp, mocking laugh filled the corridor.
"You idiot," the frail boy sneered, his cracked lips pulling into a smirk despite the dried blood staining them. "Fell for it again, huh?"
The guard's face contorted with rage. His free hand balled into a fist, trembling with the desire to strike the boy down then and there. But just as he raised his hand, a loud metallic groan signaled the steel door opening. A voice, clinical and devoid of emotion, echoed from within.
"Throw the test subject inside."
Grinding his teeth, the furious guard wasted no time. With a single, forceful motion, he hurled the frail boy through the doorway. The teen hit the ground hard, his body making a sickening thud against the cold floor. Yet, even as pain wracked his fragile frame, he merely chuckled, looking up at the enraged guard with mischievous eyes.
"Aw, don't be mad," he taunted, his grin widening. "What? Gonna cry over a little bit of spit?"
The door slammed shut before him.
Outside, the spittle-covered guard stood fuming, wiping his face in disgust. His partner merely sighed, shaking his head in exasperation.
"How the hell are you falling for that every time?" he muttered.
The angry guard scowled. "How am I supposed to just ignore it? He begs like he really means it."
His colleague's face remained cold. "It's easy when you remember what that thing is. It's not like us, it's just an experiment. Nothing more, nothing less."
Without another word, he turned and began walking down the corridor, the other guard trailing behind him, still grumbling under his breath.
Inside the chamber, sterile white lights illuminated a spacious laboratory, lined with various medical equipment, monitoring devices, and tools of experimentation. Yet the boy who had been thrown inside paid no mind to the surroundings. Instead, he lay on the cold floor for a few moments before, with a weak groan, he pushed himself up.
Despite his frailty, he moved with a sort of casual ease, as if this routine had long become second nature to him. His dull brown eyes flickered toward the lone figure standing on the opposite side of the room.
An older man, clad in a pristine white coat, held a data pad in his wrinkled hands. His face bore no emotion as he observed the frail boy before him.
The boy grinned despite the pain lacing his every movement. "Ah, Old Doc," he greeted, his voice hoarse yet carrying an undeniable mirth. "Man, I never get tired of seeing that wrinkly old face of yours."
The doctor did not respond. His eyes remained fixed on the data pad, flipping through records with an unbothered air.
"No? Nothing?" The boy scratched his head, pretending to ponder. "Guess I wouldn't be laughing either if I had to deal with bratty teenagers yapping in my ear everyday, huh? Am I right?"
Again, no reaction. Just a slow, deliberate step to the side, revealing the cold, metallic surgical table behind him.
The boy's smirk faltered slightly as he let out an exaggerated sigh. "Geez, fifteen years and you're still a killjoy." Without further protest, he walked over and laid himself onto the table. The metal was frigid against his skin, sending a shiver up his spine.
The doctor moved methodically, securing restraints around the boy's wrists and ankles. The boy chuckled weakly. "Come on, Old Doc. You know you don't need those. Not like I'm going anywhere."
The restraints locked into place without a single word in response.
A moment later, the doctor's eyes flicked back to his data pad, his voice carrying the same detached professionalism as always.
"Trial No. 9999. Test subject XA-777."
The boy's grin returned, his eyes glinting with mischief. "You can just call me Xander, y'know. It's a much cooler name than whatever mumbo jumbo you keep recording."
The doctor did not reply. Instead, he pressed a button on the pad, and the machinery around them whirred to life.
Xander let his head fall back against the cold table, exhaling softly. "Well then... Let's get this party started."
***
Twelve hours had passed.
The once sterile laboratory was now a grotesque scene of horror, painted in shades of red and the sickly hue of exposed organs. Flesh clung to the walls in tattered chunks, and viscera dripped from the surgical instruments that hung ominously overhead. The floor was slick with blood, its scent thick and suffocating, an iron tang that would churn the stomach of any ordinary person. A fresh massacre—yet only a single life had been in the room the entire time.
On the surgical table lay Xander—or at least, what was left of him.
His body was a shredded husk, his chest cavity nothing more than a hollow, gaping wound. Most of his digestive system had been obliterated, and his lungs were reduced to unrecognizable lumps of meat. Only a single organ remained intact—his heart, an ashen, pale white, still pulsing faintly in the center of his chest, unnaturally positioned yet continuing its rhythm as though defying logic itself.
Despite the sheer horror of his state, Xander's face was one of absolute... boredom.
He lay there, barely alive, his head tilted slightly as he peered down at his ruined torso. Medical tubes and monitoring wires snaked from his body, plugged into his neck, brain, and heart—keeping him from crossing the threshold of death.
He had tossed and turned from the sheer gruesomeness of events and yet the rather normal restraints still held him as the doctor only documented without care.
Yet, the searing pain that should have covered his face in pain was absent. Instead, all that filled his expression was a dull, uninterested stare.
Across from him, the Old Doc stood, as he always did, studying Xander's chest with an impassive gaze while recording notes on his pad.
"Yet another failure," the doctor muttered to himself, tapping a few times on his device.
Xander let out a tired sigh. "What did you think was gonna happen?" His voice was hoarse yet carried its usual lilt of amusement. "You've electrocuted me, dunked me in acid, even burned me alive, and none of that did anything you wanted it to do. Did you really think blowing out my chest would be any different?"
The Old Doc didn't even spare him a glance. His voice remained clinical, detached. "Trial No. 9999 has resulted in yet another failure," he stated aloud, ensuring it was recorded. "The test subject cannot withstand sudden expulsion of force either on outer flesh or internal organs. Subject's heart reacted with no physical changes. Signs of any recovery remain nonexistent."
A mechanical buzz signaled feedback from the other end of the communication line. A voice, just as devoid of emotion as the Old Doc's, responded:
"Results recorded. Permission granted to administer the recovery fluid. Use of pain reducers and mental refreshers are optional."
At this, Xander's lips curled into a smirk, a look of exaggerated shock flashing across his face. "Oh? Finally deciding to be nice people and give me painkillers? What's next? A pillow? A bedtime story? Maybe—"
"Declining administration of pain reducers and mental refreshers," the Old Doc interrupted without hesitation. "Proceeding with recovery fluid only."
Xander groaned loudly, his smirk vanishing. "Yep. Just as I thought. You lot wouldn't be nice even if you were paid to be."
Without further exchange, the medical equipment embedded in his body whirred to life. Thick red and green liquid began to pump through the tubes, flowing directly into his ravaged form.
Pain erupted in an instant.
Though Xander's expression barely flickered, a sharp scowl twisted his features for just a second. The sensation was unlike normal healing—it wasn't a natural regeneration. No, it felt forced, as if his body was being shoved through a process it was never meant to endure.
Organs began to reappear, but not smoothly. Flesh stretched and twisted unnaturally, fitting together in ways that seemed mismatched, as if a puzzle had been solved incorrectly. Scar tissue formed erratically, creating a grotesque patchwork of past wounds and new ones alike.
The process was slow, agonizing, every fiber of his being screaming in protest as he tossed his limbs out unconsciously.
But even through all the grotesque reconstruction, one thing remained unchanged.
The large X scar on his chest.
Xander's gaze locked onto it the moment his body was whole again, and despite everything, a small, amused chuckle left his lips. "Hah... Still there."
As the final remnants of the recovery fluid did their work, the Old Doc swiftly removed the tubes and monitoring equipment, tapping a few final notes into his pad.
Xander, now lying there in full but utterly drained, let his head loll to the side, his energy spent. The pain was excruciating, numbing his limbs, yet his mind remained sharp—just enough to be insufferable.
"So... how does it feel, huh?" he asked, smirking up at the doctor. "Another failure under your belt. Must be real fun being wrong all the time."
The Old Doc did not respond. He merely continued his notes, unfazed as always.
The Old Doc, as always, paid Xander's words no mind, continuing to scribble down notes with the same detached efficiency. Xander exhaled through his nose, watching him for a moment before letting out a small, exaggerated sigh.
"Well, that's a damn shame."
The Doc didn't react.
"Really thought I'd make you actually react before I leave. Guess not. Welp—good luck with the next guy, Old Doc. Hope he's a little more fun than me."
"Oh wait, you'll be too dead to do that huh? Then ignore what I just said."
The stylus in the doctor's hand halted for a fraction of a second. Barely noticeable—but Xander noticed.
Finally, for the first time in forever, the Old Doc turned his head and looked at him.
Not with cold indifference. Not with disgust.
With confusion.
Then, his eyes lowered.
And he saw it.
The restraints had no longer held Xander.