ã€ŠThe Unchainedã€‹


 Another Failure

    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¡ªa 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¡ª"

    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?"

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    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¡ªyet only a single life had been in the room the entire time.

    On the surgical table lay Xander¡ªor 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¡ªhis 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¡ªkeeping 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¡ª"

    "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¡ªit 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¡ªjust 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 react before I leave. Guess not. Welp¡ªgood luck with the next guy, Old Doc. Hope he¡¯s a little more fun than me."

    The stylus in the doctor¡¯s hand halted for a fraction of a second. Barely noticeable¡ªbut 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.

 Making A Move

    A thick, suffocating silence filled the laboratory. The Old Doc stood frozen, his sharp mind struggling to comprehend what his eyes were seeing.

    ''What am I looking at?''

    Xander sat on the surgical table, his thin, scar-ridden frame barely capable of supporting itself. His hands¡ªdislocated at unnatural angles¡ªhung limply at his sides, yet there was no sign of pain on his face.

    Instead, his dull, brown eyes studied them with something closer to mild intrigue as he pressed them to the table he was on and put them back in place.

    The Old Doc inwardly cursed. ''This shouldn''t be possible.''

    Test Subject XA-777 was a failure among all the other Test Subjects due to how weak it was. Its body was below average in every measurable category, and after the last experiment, it should have been too drained to even sit up, let alone... move freely. Not to mention the restraints. Those should have kept him locked in place with no room to so much as twitch.

    ''So why is it free?'' his scientific mind couldn''t help but ponder.

    As if reading his thoughts, Xander chuckled. "C''mon, Doc, don''t think too hard about it. At your age, it might be the thing that finally makes you croak."

    Immediately, something snapped in the Old Doc''s head. His instinct finally roared to him about the danger he was in. He swiftly moved to tap on his pad¡ª

    But Xander had already expected that.

    A blur of frail limbs and weight slammed into him, sending both of them crashing to the floor. The impact knocked the pad from the Old Doc''s grasp, sending it skidding across the bloodstained tiles.

    For a moment, the two struggled. Xander''s fingers, long and bone-thin, wrapped around the Old Doc''s throat, pressing down with all the strength his emaciated body could muster. The Old Doc, despite being a scientist and not a fighter, instinctively fought back. He clawed at Xander''s wrists, his nails digging into malnourished flesh, but Xander didn''t loosen his grip.

    "Ahhh, you have no idea how long I''ve waited for this," Xander sighed, as if reminiscing about an old memory rather than strangling a man. "For years, I wasn''t sure if I''d ever get the chance. But thank the gods¡ªactually, no, fuck the gods¡ªseems like you fucks finally let their guard down. Took you long enough."

    The Old Doc gurgled, his breath wheezing as he fought for air. His eyes bulged slightly, but Xander wasn''t paying attention to him anymore. He was too busy talking, taking advantage of the moment to let out years of pent-up frustration.

    "For my entire fucking life, you fuck have ripped me apart from the inside out just to find whatever success you''re looking for, and to be honest you almost got to me really," Xander said, still relishing the moment he was in.

    "I just wished that one day, you fucks would actually get tired and stop but after the first 5000 experiments¡ªyes I did keep count. It wasn''t that hard when you kept mentioning the numbers of each fucking one! But what was I saying, Ah yes!"

    Xayn tightened his grip around the old man''s throat, "I realised that you would stop. So did you know what I did. I decided that I would make you fucks stop. Not by pleading, or by achieving whatever you are trying to achieve¡ªNo, I would make you stop by killing every single one of you."

    "And you know, I almost thought about waiting longer. Maybe kill you later, after I take care of Fat Doc and Ugly Doc first. But when you didn''t notice my restraints loosening from the constant chest explosions, well, I just had to take the chance" he said with a grin, tightening his fingers.

    "Don''t worry, though Old Doc. I''ll make sure to send those cretins down to meet you real soon. Consider it my final courtesy."

    The Old Doc''s vision blurred. He had minutes, maybe even seconds left before his body shut down. Desperation clawed at his failing mind as he forced his trembling hand toward the pad on the floor. If he could just¡ª

    Xander''s eyes flicked downward. "Oh, no you don''t."

    With a grunt, he used every ounce of his dwindling strength to slam the Old Doc''s head against the cold floor. Once. Twice. The scientist''s body convulsed as his head cracked before finally going limp, his arms falling to the ground lifelessly.

    Xander took a deep breath, feeling his pulse steady as he sat back on his heels. His fingers ached, his muscles screamed, but he didn''t care. The Old Doc was dead.

    "Damn," he muttered, shaking out his sore hands. "You really didn''t wanna go, huh? It''s common courtesy to let the younger generation have their turn, y''know."

    He chuckled to himself as he patted down the Old Doc''s coat, rummaging through the pockets. His fingers brushed against cold metal, but it was just a pen. A few other miscellaneous tools. And... some old photos. Xander squinted at them.

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    A woman, a child. Family?

    "Tch." He shoved them back. "Don''t care."

    That was when the voice rang out.

    "Dr. Veran? You''ve gone silent. Has something occurred?"

    Xander froze for only a second before exhaling.

    He knew he was in trouble. If he made a sound, they''d know something was wrong. But if he stayed quiet for too long, they''d figure it out anyway.

    Well... it was a dilemma.

    Or it would be if he gave a damn about caution.

    A slow grin spread across Xander''s face. His golden eyes gleamed with something new. Something dangerous.

    "Let''s get this over with," he muttered, stepping towards the digital pad. "I never liked dragging things out anyway."

    Xander grabbed the pad from the floor and stared at its screen, momentarily dazed. This was the first time he had ever held technology before. The only reason he even knew what it was came from years of observation¡ªwatching the Old Doc use them, hearing Ugly Doc drone on about how a "lowlife failure" like him would never get to experience even the most basic of pleasures of life and shit like that.

    He scoffed inwardly. That ugly bastard. Xander might have looked like a patchwork of mismatched flesh, but he still had a higher chance of getting some than that grotesque, self-important son of a bitch.

    Shaking off his train of thought, Xander turned his focus back to the pad in his hands. He didn''t have the faintest clue how to use it, so he simply started pressing buttons at random. The screen flickered with incomprehensible data and security logs.

    Then, he saw it¡ªa big, red button.

    A wicked grin curled his lips.

    Now, Xander wasn''t exactly the most educated individual when it came to technology, but he knew one universal truth. Big red buttons were meant to be pushed.

    So he did.

    Instantly, the pristine white lights of the lab shifted into a deep, pulsating crimson. A deafening alarm wailed through the corridors, a relentless, shrill blaring that screamed emergency.

    "What the hell¡ª?!" A voice crackled through the intercom, startled. "What''s going on?" The panic in the speaker''s voice was evident, and Xander could practically hear the frantic scrambling on the other end as they pieced together what was happening.

    Then came the dreaded realization: "ALERT! Subject XA-777 has breached containment! I repeat, the test subject is loose! All units, report to the experimentation lab immediately!"

    Xander tilted his head, amusement flickering in his brown eyes as he glanced down at the dead Old Doc. "Well, looks like you got me the welcoming party after all, Doc. How thoughtful of you."

    ***

    The clanking of boots against cold, steel floors echoed through the facility as a squad of six guards rushed down the dimly lit corridor. Their stun batons hummed with energy, rifles clutched tightly in their hands.

    "Why the hell is this happening?" one of them muttered, panic lacing his voice. "They told us this was impossible! The subject is supposed to be extremely weak!"

    "Maybe the experiments turned it into some kind of monster..." another whispered, the paranoia already sinking in.

    That suggestion did nothing to ease their nerves. If anything, it made the situation worse.

    When they had been stationed in this facility, they had all considered it a blessing. Not only did they have to look over only one Test Subject, but this one had nothing dangerous or special about it compared to the more dangerous ones like OP-123 or VL-001.

    Now they were being told this supposed failure experiment had some how breached containment. They were quite rightfully paranoid and fearful.

    The supposed leader of the group, a slightly braver soul, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Get a grip! There''s six of us and one of it. No way in hell it''s going to survive an attack from all of us. Stay sharp, and don''t let your guard down."

    They reached the steel door, standing before it as tension filled the air. No one wanted to be the first to go in, but orders were orders. Swallowing their nerves, they unlocked the door, their weapons at the ready, and burst inside.

    Their senses were immediately assaulted by the overwhelming stench of iron. The room was painted in horror¡ªblood, shredded flesh, and unidentifiable organs splattered across the walls and floor.

    And in the center of the grotesque scene, sitting eerily still atop the surgical bed, was a lone figure.

    Pale, skeletal, and covered in fresh scars, ''XA-777'' sat motionless, his head tilted down just enough to cast a shadow over his features.

    He resembled a living corpse with how still he was and the cold temperature of the laboratory did nothing to ease that.

    "M-MONSTER!" one of the guards shrieked, and in sheer terror, they opened fire.

    Their weapons clattered to the ground as they hurled whatever they had at him¡ªbatons, rifles, even a helmet. The idiots had some how forgotten it was possible to shoot.

    The ''monster'' before them didn''t even move, simply toppling over like a lifeless corpse.

    A beat of silence passed. Then another.

    One of the guards cautiously stepped forward. "Did... did we get it?"

    And as they approached the body, they realised something. Since when was XA-777 wearing a lab coat, and when did it have so many wrinkles.

    As if on cue, a loud metallic slam echoed through the chamber.

    The guards spun around in horror to see the heavy steel door behind them shut tight. Their breath hitched.

    "No..."

    Realization hit them all at once.

    "NO! OPEN THE DOOR!"

    Panic ensued as they banged on the steel, screaming for someone¡ªanyone¡ªto let them out. Their cries were desperate, their fear palpable.

    The only thing they could hear on the other side was a menacing cackle, like some sort of witch or demon laughing at them.

    Meanwhile, just outside the room, Xander stood casually, stretching his limbs as he admired his handiwork.

    "Well... that was easier than expected," he muttered. He had anticipated some resistance, maybe even a struggle. But those idiots had just strolled right into the cage.

    He scratched his head, slightly disappointed. Was this divine intervention? Some miracle of fate?

    ...Nah. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that the gods weren''t on his side. Never had been, never would be.

    Those guards were just plain stupid. Very poor design in his opinion.

    If the gods did actually do something other than be worshipped, they should be very disappointed in the low-grade mental activities of their creations.

    But no matter. He had more pressing concerns.

    His eyes flickered toward the dimly lit corridors ahead. To his knowledge, there were way more guards in this facility than just those six.

    And to be honest?

    He had no clue where the hell he was and how big this facility was.

    But he knew exactly where he needed to go to find out.

    With a sharp, predatory grin, Xander began make his move.

 My Luck Is Looking Pretty Good

    The guard room buzzed with tension as several guards scrambled to equip themselves, checking their weapons and fastening their gear with swift, practiced movements. A low murmur of voices filled the space, laced with uncertainty and suspicion.

    "This whole thing is weird as hell," one guard muttered as he loaded a cartridge into his stun baton. "Why were only six of us sent to the lab? If it was an actual security breach, shouldn''t we have all been mobilized from the start?"

    "Maybe they didn''t think it was serious at first?" another suggested. "XA-777 is supposed to be one of the weakest test subjects. Wouldn''t need a full squad to handle something that''s barely stronger than a sickly rat."

    "Then why are we all being called in now?" a third guard countered. "If it was so weak, how did it get out of the lab? And if it didn''t, why the hell are we mobilizing at full force?"

    The room fell into an uneasy silence. Paranoia crept into their expressions.

    "Actually," one of the more jittery guards began, rubbing his gloved hand over his shaved head, "XA-777 was always kinda¡­ weird. You ever wonder why it had an entire facility to itself? Even Specimen OP-123 has to share a containment cell with others. XA-777 is supposed to be weak, but then why does it get its own space? Why keep a low-level failure locked up like some kind of world-ending threat?"

    The unease in the room thickened.

    "Enough with the damn theories," a gruff, older guard barked, his voice slicing through the tension. "This isn''t some cafeteria gossip session. You''re all getting paid to do a job, so do it. Questions are for lunch breaks. This is not a lunch break."

    The room snapped back into order as the guards tightened their grips on their weapons, gathered their nerve, and began filing out in formation. But as the last two prepared to leave, the older guard raised a hand, stopping them.

    "One of you stays behind," he ordered. "Guard the room in case the test subject circles back. Can''t leave this place completely unmanned."

    The two remaining guards exchanged uneasy glances before one finally nodded and stepped back. "Fine. I''ll stay. Just don''t forget about me when the action''s over."

    The older guard grunted in response before disappearing down the hallway with the rest of the squad. The lone guard exhaled, closing the heavy door behind them. The sudden quiet was unnerving, leaving only the dull hum of overhead lights and the distant wail of the facility''s alarm system echoing through the corridors.

    He made his way to the storage room, glancing over the empty weapon racks. All the ranged weaponry had been cleared out¡ªonly a few stray stun batons remained. He picked one up, feeling the weight of it in his hand, and sighed. "Great. If it really is a breach, I get stuck with the damn nightstick."

    His thoughts wandered to his family¡ªhis wife, his kids¡ªwaiting for him back home. This was just another shift, another paycheck, another night of standing around guarding things that, in truth, he didn''t really understand. The less he questioned, the easier it was to get through the day.

    A sudden knock on the door made him jump.

    His heart pounded as he turned toward the sound. Who the hell¡ª?

    His colleagues had already just left. He hesitated before stepping closer, gripping the baton tightly.

    "Who is it?" he called out.

    "It''s me," came a familiar, gruff voice from the other side. "Need a few more stun batons."

    The older guard.

    Something about the request didn''t sit right. The entire squad had just left¡ªwhy would they suddenly need more weapons? He distinctly remembered everyone grabbing their share, even the six that had initially gone to the lab.

    "Thought you guys took enough," he said, narrowing his eyes at the door.

    "Turns out we didn''t. Open up."

    A flicker of doubt ran through him, but he shook it off. He couldn''t afford to overthink things. He exhaled, unlocked the door, and pulled it open¡ª

    And was met with a nightmare.

    Standing in the doorway, a twisted grin on his face, was Test Subject XA-777.

    The moment the lone guard saw the twisted grin of XA-777, his instincts kicked in. With a startled grunt and an unsteady step back, he swung the stun baton in a wide arc, aiming straight for Xander¡¯s skull. But Xander was already moving, his frail, malnourished body lunging forward instead of dodging.

    His bony shoulder slammed into the guard¡¯s midsection. It shouldn''t have been enough¡ªhis sickly frame should have crumpled against the muscular man¡ªbut the sheer shock of seeing the supposedly weak test subject standing in front of him had already thrown the guard off balance. He stumbled backward, his feet fumbling against the floor, and fell hard onto his back with a grunt.

    Xander wasted no time. He was on the guard in an instant, hands clawing at the baton, trying to wrestle it from his grasp. The guard, still dazed, recovered quickly and reasserted his grip. He twisted his wrist, pressing a hidden switch on the baton. A sharp, crackling buzz filled the air as electricity surged through the weapon, and he slammed it against Xander¡¯s ribs.

    Pain exploded through Xander¡¯s nerves, his entire body seizing for a brief moment. The guard expected him to convulse, to scream, to lose all control¡ªbut instead, Xander only grit his teeth, his breath hitching, his muscles twitching in resistance.

    The pain was familiar. Expected. He¡¯d been electrocuted so many times in that wretched lab that his body almost welcomed it now, like an old enemy he knew too well as it only made his mouth fill with a bit of blood.

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    Then an idea struck him.

    With a crazed grin, Xander snapped his head forward and spit a mouthful of blood directly into the guard¡¯s face. The warm, sticky fluid splattered into the guard¡¯s eyes and mouth, blinding him, disorienting him. The guard coughed and gagged in sheer disgust, momentarily losing focus.

    "You¡¯re making this too easy," Xander rasped, his voice filled with cruel amusement.

    Seizing the moment, he slammed his bony, trembling hand directly into the guard¡¯s mouth, forcing his fingers past his lips. The guard''s eyes bulged in horror as Xander shifted the still-active stun baton towards his own forearm, sending the crackling electricity straight through his arm and into the guard¡¯s mouth.

    The effect was instantaneous. The guard convulsed violently as electricity surged through the soft tissue of his mouth, frying his nerves. His body spasmed, jerking uncontrollably as muffled, garbled screams erupted from his throat. Xander, despite his own pain, grinned wildly, his lips curling like a mad man.

    The guard, driven purely by survival instinct, released the baton and shoved Xander away with every ounce of strength he had left. Both of them fell back, gasping. Xander¡¯s entire body twitched, his muscles rebelling from the repeated shocks, but he still forced himself to move.

    "Fucking hells¡­" Xander spat, tasting more blood. "I swear, if I wasn''t so used to this shit, I''d be a corpse by now."

    The guard, now on all fours, was struggling to regain himself. He coughed, saliva and remnants of blood dripping from his lips, his breath ragged and panicked. His vision was swimming, the world around him reduced to blurred shapes and painful ringing. But he had to get up¡ª

    Xander wasn''t about to give him the chance.

    Lurching forward, he snatched the stun baton from the ground and, instead of activating it again, looped it under the guard¡¯s throat like a bar. Then, pressing his foot against the back of the man¡¯s neck, he pulled back with all his strength.

    The guard¡¯s body jolted in realization, his fingers scratching desperately at the baton as his airflow was completely cut off. His arms flailed, his muscles bulging as he struggled, but Xander had leverage on his side. With his foot pinning the back of the guard¡¯s neck and his bony arms pulling the baton deeper into his throat, the poor bastard had nowhere to go.

    "You guys¡­ you really like making me work for it, huh?" Xander grunted, sweat dripping from his brow as his arms burned from the effort. "You could just die quicker and save me the trouble, but nooo¡ª" He gave an extra pull, forcing the baton deeper. "¡ªyou just have to drag it out."

    The guard''s face turned deep red, veins bulging across his forehead. His hands grasped wildly, fingers digging into Xander¡¯s arm in a final desperate attempt to pry himself free, but his movements were slowing. His body was betraying him.

    His mind screamed. I can¡¯t die! I still have my family¡ªI still have¡­

    His vision dimmed. The last thing his conscious mind saw was the twisted grin of the XA-777 looming over him, those wild eyes filled with something between hatred and amusement. A demon¡ªno an abomination in human skin.

    Then darkness.

    Xander finally let go, panting heavily as he let the body slump to the floor. His arms were trembling, the weight of exhaustion crashing onto him like a tidal wave. He dropped back, breathing deeply, staring at the ceiling.

    "Damn¡­" he muttered between breaths. "I swear, this shit is more exhausting than getting tortured."

    He let himself lie there for just a few moments before forcing himself up. There was no time to rest. He still had things to do.

    If something as simple as this was going to put him down for long, he might as well hand himself over now.

    Xander took a moment to survey the guard room now that the pesky obstacle was dealt with. He let out a breath, the slight tremor in his limbs betraying the toll that last fight had taken on him. Not that he¡¯d let something as mundane as pain slow him down. He had more pressing matters to deal with.

    The room itself was nothing special¡ªa sterile, lifeless space with cold metal lockers lining the walls and a desk cluttered with various junk. It was familiar to him, in a way. Out of all the places in this facility, he only really knew three: the laboratory where he was cut open and violated daily, his containment cell which served as his personal piss-and-shit bucket, and this very guard room. He had spent years memorizing every corridor they dragged him through, every turn, every step¡ªbecause what else was there for him to do? Dream of freedom? No, that was foolishness. But now¡­ now he had a reason to put that knowledge to use.

    He had considered going back to his cell, if only to make some kind of final statement. Maybe burn it down, piss on the ashes. But there was nothing of value there¡ªno hidden mementos, no secret caches, just a testament to his suffering. Hell, even his drinking water came from the same bucket he pissed in. And food? Hah. He hadn¡¯t eaten in over ten years. The bastards running this place realized early on that feeding him was a waste of resources when the recovery fluid they injected into him repaired the damage starvation should have caused. He didn¡¯t even remember what food tasted like. But why was he even thinking about that? He was getting sidetracked.

    His goal was simple: find a way out. The guards weren¡¯t permanent residents of this hellhole¡ªthey came and went. Which meant there was an exit, and where there was an exit, there had to be a way to locate it.

    He needed a map, or at the very least, some kind of direction. Weapons would be nice too, though all he saw left in the storage were those damn stun batons, which were about as appealing as licking a live wire at this point.

    Rummaging through the room, he came across another digital pad. His initial reaction was to curse his luck¡ªanother useless piece of tech he had no idea how to operate.

    But then he noticed something¡ªan image displaying what looked like a layout of the facility. His eyes widened slightly.

    Could it really be that easy?

    He snatched up the pad and studied the screen with intense focus.

    Then his grin faltered.

    "I can''t read for fucking shit!"

    A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. Out of all the things those bastard doctors could have taught him¡ªhow to endure pain, how to stay alive despite being torn apart¡ªthey never thought to give him something as simple as literacy. He clenched his teeth in frustration, but then he caught sight of something familiar.

    A red symbol, marked prominently on one section of the screen. His mind clicked into gear.

    Red.

    Red was his lucky color today. First the big red button, and now this symbol. He grinned. Maybe it was a sign. Though if he had to pick, he still preferred brown¡ªhis hair color, after all.

    Comparing the symbol¡¯s location to the surrounding layout, he realized that must be where he was right now. If he could follow the lines leading away from it, he could find the exit. He traced the paths with his finger, committing them to memory as best as he could.

    Now that he had what he needed, it was time to get the hell out of here.

    Grabbing one of the stun batons¡ªbetter to have something than nothing¡ªhe turned towards the door, ready to leave. But as he moved, his gaze landed on the guard¡¯s body.

    And then his brow furrowed.

    Now that he looked at him properly, he recognized the bastard. It was the same guard he had spat on earlier when they were dragging him to the lab. And, more surprisingly, the guy was still breathing.

    Xander tilted his head, considering this development. Was the bastard lucky or unlucky? Getting spat on twice¡ªonce with actual blood this time¡ªgetting left behind while his colleagues marched to their doom, then surviving all the shit Xander just pulled¡­ He couldn¡¯t tell if this man had the worst luck in existence or the best.

    A part of him entertained the idea of finishing the job. A quick stab, a bash to the skull¡ªend it cleanly. But he dismissed the thought. Compared to the other scum in this place, this one was tolerable. He was gullible. Every time Xander faked those pitiful pleas, this guy fell for it.

    Every. Single. Time.

    It was stupid. It was funny. He kind of respected it in a weird way.

    ¡°Guess I¡¯ll let you have this one,¡± Xander muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

    With that decision made, he stepped over the unconscious guard and moved towards the door. He was done here. Time to find that exit.

    And maybe, just maybe, get a taste of the outside world for the first time in his miserable life.

 A Very Ugly Man And The Night Sky

    Xander moved through the dark corridor at an unhurried pace, his bare feet making almost no sound against the cold, metallic floor. He wasn''t particularly worried about being caught, nor was he in any particular rush. Every now and then, he stopped, looking at his surroundings, trying to gauge whether he was still heading in the right direction.

    In hindsight, maybe he should have taken that digital pad with the map on it. But that thought was fleeting. Instead, he focused on something far more interesting¡ªwhat exactly he would do once he got out.

    The sheer number of possibilities was amusing to him. His stomach clenched at the thought of eating real food for the first time in over a decade. What did it even taste like? He tried to recall the meals the guards sometimes mentioned in their idle chatter¡ªsomething called ''steak'' and ''beer,'' whatever those were.

    Then there were clothes. He''d seen the Ugly Doc and Fat Doc wear different ones under their coats every day. Did people just... own different sets of them? Was it something you just picked up somewhere? He wasn''t sure since the Old Doc always wore the same thing.

    But then, the most thrilling thought of all struck him¡ªassaulting people.

    The struggle, the rush, the uncertainty of who would come out on top. A grin crept onto his face as he recalled the feeling of his hands around that guard''s throat, the way the man had begged, the way his strength had meant nothing in the end. Xander had struggled, sure, but that only made it more exhilarating. He had taken a life with nothing but his own two hands. If fighting felt that good, he needed more. Maybe he''d just start picking fights when he got outside. It wasn''t like he had anything better to do.

    Lost in his musings, he nearly slammed into a wall. A dead end. He stared at it blankly before clicking his tongue. "Well, that''s annoying," he muttered before turning on his heel. Maybe reading was something he should prioritize once he got out. The map would have been more useful if he could actually understand it.

    That was when something caught his eye¡ªred arrows painted onto the walls, all pointing away from the dead end. He raised a brow. Why the hell were there arrows? Did the guards get lost often enough to need directions? That was pathetic. But what bothered him more was the color. Red. That color had been lucky for him so far, but this? This felt like a warning.

    He clicked his tongue again, shaking off the unease. It didn''t matter. What mattered was finding his way out of this damn facility. The world outside was waiting for him.

    ***

    Meanwhile, at the laboratory,

    The guards stood tense in front of the steel door, weapons ready. The lead guard, an older, battle-worn man, raised his hand, signaling them to remain on high alert. He exhaled slowly, then moved forward, pressing a code into the panel beside the door. With a heavy hiss, it slid open.

    The scene inside was nothing short of horrifying.

    Blood splattered the walls, pooling on the floor in grotesque smears. The once sterile laboratory now resembled a slaughterhouse. The six guards who had been sent in earlier were all present, huddled together, their bodies shaking as if they''d been left in freezing temperatures. Their weapons lay forgotten on the ground, their eyes were filled with terror.

    The older guard''s voice was sharp. "Eyes up! Watch the walls!"

    The guards tensed, raising their weapons, sweeping the room for any signs of movement. Silence reigned. The only sound was the ragged breathing of the shivering men. Minutes passed, but nothing happened.

    Finally, one of the guards spoke. "Sir, it''s just them. No sign of Subject XA-777."

    The lead guard frowned, stepping further into the room. His boots squelched against something wet. He looked down. A corpse. A body crumpled beside the surgical bed. He crouched down, his fingers brushing over the pristine white lab coat. The Old Researcher.

    Stolen story; please report.

    "Strangled to death," he muttered to himself, noting the telltale bruising around the man''s throat. His brows furrowed. He had expected the blood in the room to belong to him, but from what he saw that was not the case. The researcher had been strangled to death, whatever had caused all that bloodshed and trails on the wall definitely did not go through something nice.

    "Sir!" One of the guards called, holding up a digital pad. "We found this near the operating table. The screen''s still on."

    The lead guard stood and took the pad, glancing at the screen. His frown deepened. It was still displaying the security alarm panel.

    The elder guard narrowed his eyes at the screen, his gut twisting in suspicion. The idea that XA-777 had triggered the alarm himself gnawed at him. It didn¡¯t make sense. None of the Test Subjects were ever taught how to operate basic machinery¡ªthis was a strict protocol, ensuring they couldn¡¯t manipulate the facility¡¯s systems if they ever attempted escape. And XA-777? That pathetic wretch? He shouldn¡¯t have even known what the button was for.

    Before he could voice his thoughts, a nervous voice crackled over the intercom, startling the guards. It was the new hire¡ªthe one who had first raised the alarm when the security siren blared through the facility.

    ¡°Uhm¡­ Sir? Is everything alright? I¡ªI mean, I heard shouting earlier. I wasn¡¯t sure if I should¡ªuh¡ªcontact the director or¡ª¡±

    ¡°Just tell me what the hell happened,¡± the elder guard snapped impatiently.

    The young voice fumbled, clearly rattled. ¡°R-Right! After we got the request for XA-777¡¯s recovery fluid, there was a long silence from inside the lab. At first, I thought the Doctor was just¡ªuh¡ªdoing tests or something. But then, we picked up faint voices. It wasn¡¯t clear, and there was no visual inside, so we tried calling in to confirm the status. No response. And then, the next thing we knew, the alarm went off. We immediately sent out the alert for all guards to deploy.¡±

    The elder guard¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line as realization dawned on him. That cunning little bastard. It wasn¡¯t the Doctor who called them. It was XA-777¡¯s own doing. It must have forced the Old Researcher to trigger the alarm for him somehow, that could be the only explanation.

    And judging by the time that had already passed, the subject could be anywhere by now.

    Just as he opened his mouth to give new orders, a voice interrupted him from behind.

    ¡°No need to worry.¡±

    The elder guard turned sharply, immediately recognizing the figure standing at the entrance to the lab. A tall man in a pristine white lab coat similar to the Old Researcher''s, his presence demanding immediate attention. The moment their eyes met, the elder guard¡¯s spine stiffened.

    The man smirked, stepping forward with an air of absolute confidence. ¡°XA-777 won¡¯t get far.¡±

    ***

    Meanwhile on our protagonist''s end,

    Xander had continued to roam through the corridors for a while and soon he had to accept that he would need to follow those arrows if he wanted to get anywhere.

    "Damn, those doctor freaks! I''m sure my memory would be better if they had stuck so many needles inside all the time," he said as he made his way around a corner.

    The moment Xander stepped through the next corridor, he felt it¡ªa subtle shift in the air. A whisper of something unfamiliar brushed against his skin. His feet slowed. His fingers twitched. What was that?

    Wind.

    For the first time in his life, Xander was feeling real, open air.

    A strange thrill shot through his veins, and he picked up his pace. As he walked, the air grew cooler, fresher. Then, suddenly, the walls opened up into a vast, dark expanse.

    Xander stepped out¡ªand froze.

    The world stretched out before him, endless and breathtaking. A cliffside beneath the vast night sky, the land sprawling far below in dark shapes¡ªforests, hills, distant lights flickering faintly in the depths of the horizon. The sky above was littered with countless stars, each one shining like an unclaimed jewel, far beyond his reach. The air was cold, crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant trees.

    For the first time in his life, he was seeing it.

    The outside world.

    A sharp breath left his lips as he took a shaky step forward, his eyes darting across every inch of the view before him. He had imagined it so many times. Dreamed of it. And yet¡­ somehow, it was still more than he had ever expected. His fingers clenched at his sides. His body trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer overwhelming weight of it all.

    It was real.

    He was free.

    A breathless laugh bubbled up from his throat, and he leaned forward, placing his foot right at the edge of the cliff. He peered down, taking in the vast drop beneath him, the land stretching out into unknown possibilities.

    ¡°¡­Hah.¡± He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. ¡°That¡¯s it? That¡¯s the whole world? Kinda unimpressive.¡±

    He knew it was a lie. It was far more than anything he had ever known.

    But as he stood there, drinking it all in, a voice shattered his moment of peace.

    ¡°I expected you would be more enthusiastic about being outside, XA-777?¡±

    Xander¡¯s body tensed, his head snapping around.

    Standing at the entrance of the cave, a large group of guards aimed their rifles at him, their expressions cold and unmoving. But in front of them all, one figure stood out. A man in a white coat.

    A very ugly man in a white coat.

    The Ugly Doc.

 No Escape

    The night air was crisp, the world before Xander a vast, uncharted mystery, yet here he stood, cornered by the very people who had tormented him his entire life. A moment of silence stretched between them, a tension so thick it could be sliced apart, yet neither side moved. It was the Ugly Doc who finally broke the silence.

    "Did you not hear me?" the grotesque man asked, his voice laced with arrogance.

    Xander chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "Sorry, I got caught off guard by your ugly face. Took me a second to recover."

    Some of the guards shifted uncomfortably, but the Ugly Doc remained unfazed, merely shaking his head in feigned amusement. "It sure does like to joke," he mused, using that degrading ''it'' rather than acknowledging Xander as a person. "Tell me, did you truly think escape would be so simple?"

    Xander shrugged, unconcerned. "Not really. But, to be fair, the security and guards here are pretty shit." He smirked, enjoying the slight twitch of irritation in some of the guards. "Whoever runs this place should seriously consider fixing that."

    The Ugly Doc merely chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, but that would defeat the purpose," he replied.

    Xander narrowed his eyes, his amusement flickering for a moment. "The purpose?"

    Raising a brow in mock surprise, the Ugly Doc grinned. "Oh? Did you not know?" His voice dripped with condescension as he took a step forward, delighting in the opportunity to monologue. "This entire scenario was designed to make escape easy."

    Xander blinked, the guards behind the Ugly Doc stirring at the strange revelation. Even they had no idea what the hell he was talking about. But Xander''s confusion only deepened as he scoffed. "The hell is your ugly ass on about?"

    The Ugly Doc''s face contorted into a twisted grin. "Think about it. No surveillance in any of the rooms. The vast distance between the laboratory and the guard room. The oh-so-convenient control panels that even a rodent could operate. The red arrows leading you straight to an exit." He spread his arms as though revealing some grand trick. "It was all designed for you to leave."

    The guards exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves, their previous assumptions about the facility''s questionable design suddenly thrown into chaos. It was true that many of them had wondered why the security in certain areas was so lax, but to think that it had all been intentional was absurd.

    Xander, on the other hand, was less enthused. "And why the hell would you want me to escape?" he asked flatly, a strange lack of his usual sarcasm in his tone.

    The Ugly Doc''s laughter burst forth again, his pockmarked face contorting as some of his boils ruptured, causing the guards closest to him to grimace in disgust. Yet, he ignored them, his focus solely on Xander. "Because, XA-777, this was the ten thousandth," he stated simply.

    "...The what?" Xander deadpanned, unimpressed with the lack of context.

    With exaggerated patience, the Ugly Doc continued, his grin widening. "For over fifteen years, among the nearly one hundred thousand test subjects, only you have survived this long. And what a disappointment that has been." His tone took on an almost theatrical lilt. "You see, even the failures who perished before you were more interesting. They screamed, they fought, they showed promise! And yet you, our dear XA-777, did nothing."

    Xander remained silent as the Ugly Doc continued his self-indulgent speech.

    "We put you through tests, basic ones at first¡ªrunning, holding your breath, simple things. And then we moved on to the real fun: burning, acidification, mutilation. And yet, you failed to produce anything extraordinary. You weren''t strong, you weren''t fast, you weren''t smart or tough." He sneered. "Hell, you weren''t even lucky. You just refused to die. Always lingering at death''s door but never stepping through. It felt like that was your power but it became...annoying."

    Some of the guards shifted uneasily at the casual way he spoke about the tests, but none dared interrupt.

    "After ten years of fruitless experiments, we ran out of ideas. So, we decided to entertain ourselves with new games like testing how much force could your skeleton sustain before being crushed but that soon grew old."

    He chuckled darkly. "Finally at one point, we even considered just terminating you and using your remains to feed the others, at least until I came up with a rather amusing notion." He gestured around them. "What if, after everything, we tested the one thing we never had before? Your ability to escape."

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Xander remained expressionless as the truth sunk in. This entire farce had been orchestrated. The lack of obstacles, the ease of navigation¡ªevery step of his ''escape'' had been planned for him. And the worst part? It wasn''t even about testing him. It was about entertaining them.

    The Ugly Doc let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "And yet, you failed even in that. You simply followed the path given to you. You didn''t try to find another way out. You didn''t stage a grand explosion. You didn''t cut through our ranks with ruthless efficiency. No, you just followed the arrows like a lab rat in a maze." He tsked in disappointment. "We expected more from our little cockroach."

    The guards behind him were still processing the revelations, unsure whether to feel relieved or insulted that they had just been set dressing in some elaborate test. One of them, the same elder guard from before, clenched his fists. "Then what the hell are we even doing here?" he muttered under his breath.

    Xander, still wearing his blank expression, broke his silence. "So what now?" His voice lacked emotion, his earlier amusement completely drained.

    The Ugly Doc smiled, pulling a digital pad from his coat. "Now? Well, there''s only one thing left to do." His fingers tapped across the screen as he spoke. "Trial No. 10000, Test Subject XA-777¡ª"

    He pressed the final key.

    "¡ªFailure."

    The Ugly Doc stood tall, basking in the moment as he declared the trial a failure. A short silence stretched between them, the wind whistling over the cliff¡¯s edge. Xander tilted his head, his expression unreadable before finally speaking.

    "So, what would you have done if I actually escaped?"

    The Ugly Doc raised an eyebrow, then tilted his head as if amused by the question. "Even if you passed the trial, you would never have escaped."

    Xander¡¯s eyes narrowed in confusion. "What?"

    The Ugly Doc''s smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth, some chipped, others rotting. "Since it wouldn¡¯t hurt for you to know now that this is the end, I might as well tell you. Everything you did, we knew. Every thought, every action, every breath you took, we knew it all."

    Xander¡¯s confusion deepened. "You¡¯re lying. There¡¯s no surveillance in the corridors, I checked. The facility security is a joke¡ª"

    "No surveillance, no prediction." The Ugly Doc chuckled, his voice oozing with pride. "We simply knew because I knew. That¡¯s the biggest failsafe. Every thought you ever had, we could see and hear. When you cursed us inwardly, we knew. When you had your first ever thoughts of escape, we knew. When you strangled the Old Geezer and every word you said to him, we knew. When you held the pad and saw the alarm button, we knew. When you looked at the map and chose not to kill that guard, when you saw the red arrows, when you saw the night sky for the first time, and even now, as you process this revelation, we know exactly what you¡¯re thinking."

    Xander clenched his jaw. He wasn¡¯t just being watched¡ªhis mind itself was compromised. He had never had autonomy, never had control. His entire existence had been dictated without his knowledge.

    The Ugly Doc smirked, reveling in his turmoil. "How could we call ourselves researchers if we didn¡¯t ensure our specimens didn¡¯t cause... unwanted problems? You have no autonomy because you were never meant to. You were born in a test tube, a creation to be used and controlled, fulfilling your creator¡¯s will."

    "And now, you¡¯ve amounted to nothing but a waste of resources."

    A few of the guards behind him shifted uneasily. Even for them, this was a lot to take in.

    "Honestly, even if you had been a success, you¡¯d still be terminated. The higher-ups want to downsize, and you¡¯re not worth keeping around. At least we got some amusement out of you." The Ugly Doc sighed, then smirked. "And how poetic, isn¡¯t it? Exactly sixteen years ago today, you were created. And today will be the day you¡¯re terminated."

    A chilling silence stretched between them.

    The Ugly Doc''s smile widened as if indulging in his own generosity. "I feel a bit generous today. Why not make it official? Happy birthday, XA-777." He spread his arms as if expecting applause. "If only the other two were here to witness it. But alas, the Old Geezer is dead, and the Fat One is too busy wasting his life on harlots in whatever cesspool he''s lazing around in. At least you have me, standing here with you on this special day."

    The wind carried the weight of his words, but Xander remained silent. The Ugly Doc, expecting a reaction, waited. Surely the subject understood what an honor this was? Even the most successful test subjects never received this level of attention.

    "What? Nothing? No gratitude?" The Ugly Doc scoffed. "Didn¡¯t anyone teach you manners?"

    Xander finally spoke, his tone light. "No, they didn¡¯t. But if I did say anything, it¡¯d be me asking for an apology."

    The Ugly Doc blinked. "An apology?"

    "Yeah. An apology for someone so ugly to be ranting for so long in front of me." Xander exhaled dramatically. "The air that felt nice a few seconds ago literally fell in quality just from your existence."

    A deep frown marred the Ugly Doc¡¯s face.

    "Even now, you prove to be utterly nonsensical. We must have made an error when designing your brain."

    Xander shrugged. "Even if I didn¡¯t have one, my words wouldn¡¯t change. Even a dumbass could tell you¡¯re that ugly."

    The Ugly Doc shook his head, lamenting, "Tch. Letting that fat imbecile handle your speech development was a mistake. You picked up his vulgarity instead of proper language."

    His moment of amusement over, he sighed. "Enough of this. Guards. Terminate it."

    The guards, tense and ready, raised their weapons, fingers curling around the triggers.

    But before they could fire, Xander swiftly raised his hands. "Wait."

    A pause. The guards hesitated, glancing at the Ugly Doc for confirmation. The scientist¡¯s brow furrowed as he studied the subject curiously.

    "What?"

    Xander smirked. "I have something I want to say first."

    Silence fell over the cliffside as everyone waited for his next words.

 Cataclysms Descent

    The Ugly Doc hesitated for just a second, an unreadable look flashing across his grotesque face before he finally spoke.

    "What is it?" he asked, voice laced with amusement and condescension, like a man humoring the last words of a dying rat.

    Xander raised his brows, playing up his surprise. "Huh. Didn''t even think that would work."

    The Ugly Doc snorted. "It doesn''t matter what a failure like you says. But I don''t have anywhere better to be, so I might as well spare a minute or two to hear your death throes."

    Xander chuckled, the sarcasm dripping off his voice like venom. "How generous of you."

    He took a breath and then started. "I gotta admit, this whole thing you guys designed? Pretty damn impressive. Right down to knowing my thoughts. Gotta give you credit for that."

    The Ugly Doc arched a brow, genuinely surprised. Was XA-777 having a moment of functional thought? How amusing. Not that it would change the outcome.

    Xander, however, cut off his musings before they could go further. "But honestly, you should''ve put that amount of planning into getting yourself a new face. Though I don''t even know if you guys can do something like that. You''re just too damn ugly."

    The Ugly Doc scowled, his hand twitching upward as if preparing to give the order to shoot. But Xander didn''t scramble. He just kept going.

    "Look, I know you''d know if I lied and said I expected this. And yeah, finding out kinda pisses me off. But not for the reasons you think. I always knew you guys had some way into my head. Figured it was mind control or some other bullshit. Didn''t think it was something like this." He gestured vaguely to the air, as if referring to the revelation of his lack of autonomy. "Despite how much of an absolutely phenomenal comedian I am, I do take time to think, y''know. And it just didn''t add up if you had no plans."

    The Ugly Doc stayed silent, listening, and so Xander continued.

    "But that''s not even what I wanted to say. What really pisses me off is how condescending you all are. Setting up goddamn red arrows like I''m some lost idiot. Every single one of you, from the Old Doc to the Fat Doc to you¡ªhell, even these guards pointing their little toys at me¡ªyou all just look at me like I''m some broken thing you have to deal with." His eyes flickered as he spare them a glance, instantly scanning every face. "And yeah, that stings. At first. But I got over that sentimental bullshit when I was, what? Five? Six? I don''t even know how you bastards calculate days, I just counted up to four hundred and called it a year."

    He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Instead, I figured something else out. People like you? You''re the problem. I don''t know much about the world beyond these dark, stupid halls, but I know that much. Even if there are worse people out there, they''re just bigger problems. And you know what I do with problems I see, Uggo?"

    His voice dropped, the humor vanishing like a candle snuffed out.

    "I solve them."

    He tilted his head slightly. "I started with my problem of pain. It was hindering so I dealt with it. When hunger became a problem, I dealt with. When you fucks showed your selves to be problems. I dealt with you."

    "I started with Old Doc. And I''m not planning to stop."

    The Ugly Doc stared at him, incredulous. Then he let out a short, barking laugh. "You do realize where you are, don''t you? You''re standing in front of your termination, and you''re ranting about some future you''ll never have."

    Xander finally turned to look at the guards directly. His face was unreadable. "Oh, I haven''t forgotten them. They''re a different kind of problem."

    He looked back at the Ugly Doc, tilting his head. "But you called me something, didn''t you? A failure. And what are failures good at?"

    A smirk curled his lips.

    "Failing."

    The air at the cliff''s edge shifted. A strange, uneasy feeling crept into the guards'' bodies as they gripped their weapons tighter. The Ugly Doc furrowed his brow, a twinge of something resembling unease creeping into his expression.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    "And even among failures," Xander continued, "I''m the biggest one. So don''t worry, Ugly Doc. I''ll fail to die, too. But you?" He lifted his hand slightly, just enough to show an oddly arranged patch of crimson across his forearm. "You''re all about to have a grand success."

    The Ugly Doc''s breath hitched. His eyes widened, locking onto the pattern of blood smudged onto Xander''s skin. It was not just some random blood.

    Those were words.

    On his skin.

    There were words on his skin.

    "Th-That''s impossible. He can''t read. He shouldn''t even know what the letters look like. Why did he..."

    Recognition dawned on his face, and for the first time since he walked into this room, true panic gripped him.

    "No," he whispered.

    Xander grinned, teeth glinting like a predator about to pounce. As he raised his arm higher to convey what words were written in blood on his forearm.

    ''FUCK YOU UGLY BASTARD!''

    "And wouldn''t it be dreadfully Cataclysmic if someone decided this moment was worth writing about?"

    "Shoot! SHOOT!" the Ugly Doc roared, his voice breaking with urgency.

    The lead guard reacted instantly, as he immediately pressed the trigger on his rifle.

    The bullet flew with speed and blitz that it could not be seen.

    At least at first.

    The world seemed to slow down, and the bullet was no exception.

    They all watched as it approached Xander''s head in a rapidly slowing manner.

    Then the bullet finally pierced Xander¡¯s forehead.

    But it was to late and time fractured to let it be known. Not stopped. Not frozen. Fractured.

    The world did not halt; it merely collapsed into a sluggish crawl, stretching out every detail, forcing every soul present to watch, to see, to comprehend the unthinkable in excruciating, eternal slowness. The bullet¡¯s tip, slick with the blood it had claimed, pushed deeper into Xander¡¯s skull.

    His skin warped inward, the force rupturing flesh, carving an entrance that cracked through bone with deliberate cruelty. A shuddering ripple coursed through his head, blood spurting outward like droplets of rubies, but even those hovered, drifting as if unsure whether to fall.

    It should have been over in an instant. But it wasn¡¯t.

    The Ugly Doc could not breathe. His throat locked, his body refused to move, as the slow, wet sound of bone fracturing echoed in his ears. His own heartbeat thudded in deafening contrast, frantic against the stillness that bound everything else.

    Then it began.

    A letter¡ªsmall, sharp, wrong¡ªflickered into existence before him. It hovered in the air, glowing red, a jagged glyph that should not exist.

    Fear. Immediate, primal fear.

    It was absurd. It was just a single, floating letter. Yet every instinct, every nerve in his body screamed at him, writhing in terror that had no explanation. The letter flickered, glitching, shifting, its edges jagged as though it had been torn from reality itself. His eyes locked onto it, and with horrifying clarity, he realized:

    The letter was not just a symbol. It was a word.

    A I R

    The realization made his mind twist upon itself. That word¡ªit had not simply appeared. It had been pulled from something. The very air around him, as if reality itself had been forced to explain what it was.

    Then another letter appeared. Then another. Then another.

    From the ground, black letters formed, pulsing and wrong. They hovered like parasites, their jagged forms flickering. He recognized them¡ªD I R T, R O C K, D U S T¡ªas if the very ground had been forced to name itself. More spawned upon the sky, tearing free in unnatural slowness.

    Then, the letters on XA -777¡¯s forearm began to move.

    His own blood-written words lifted from his skin. They tore free like strips of flesh peeling away, hanging in the air, trembling as if deciding whether to remain or escape. The red-stained words drifted upward, merging with the others, bleeding into the chaos above.

    The elder guard exhaled sharply, the sound sickeningly drawn-out. His lips barely moved, but his pupils shrank in abject horror. He was watching it too¡ªwatching as the world itself started to separate. The words that hovered were not just made of letters.

    They were made of words within words.

    The letter A in A I R was glitching, shifting, splitting¡ªflickering between components, between elements. O X Y G E N. N I T R O G E N. A piece of a reality that was never meant to be seen, now forcing itself into their sight. And it wasn¡¯t stopping.

    The realization was so slow yet so immediate.

    Another ripple. Another second stretched beyond comprehension.

    The letters rose higher.

    The bullet inside Xander¡¯s skull was still pushing through. Blood, impossibly suspended in the air, trailed in droplets that also formed words. B L O O D. H E M O G L O B I N. His head jerked back, but even that movement remained trapped in the slowness, his expression caught between agony and something else.

    Madness.

    His mouth was still twisted in that same grin, his teeth bared in a defiance too absolute, too wrong to belong to a dying man.

    His body tilted backward, his feet beginning to lift¡ªfalling, yet not falling, descending yet lingering. The cliff¡¯s edge approached. The abyss behind him yawned open, vast and endless.

    The Ugly Doc wanted to run, to escape this abominable nightmare. He was not the only one, as all the guards including the older guard wanted to do the same.

    Unfortunately for them. The world could not let them escape. It could even if it wanted to. After all, it was being held hostage as well.

    And almost like the death toll except there was no sound.

    The letters converged.

    They swirled, tangled, a growing, writhing mass of words and meaning and uncreation.

    And finally¡ª

    The sphere was formed.

    A catastrophic convergence of glitching, fragmented letters fusing into a swirling, pulsating mass of impossible knowledge. The air screamed. A hum, deep and incomprehensible, reverberated across their bones, drilling into their minds.

    The sphere pulsed.

    The Ugly Doc screamed.

    The guards weeped.

    Xander laughed.

    Then it expanded.

    Reality broke.

    And the Cataclysm descended as Xander had finally fallen.

 Nowhere To Run

    The sphere expanded.

    No. That word was insufficient. It did not merely expand¡ªit devoured. The ever-glitching mass of writhing, broken letters surged outward, consuming the air, the ground, and everything caught within its maddening reach.

    The guards barely had time to react before it swallowed them whole, the last glimpse of the outside world a sliver of the cliff''s edge and the distant, untouched remnants of the forest below. The barrier¡ªif such an unrealistic thing could even be called that¡ªstretched beyond where the eye could see, a dome of shifting, unknowable chaos. They were trapped.

    For a moment, there was silence. The slow, creeping horror sank into their bones as they stared at the writhing dome that imprisoned them. The air was thick, and heavy, no longer behaving as it should. Even breathing felt wrong as if the very act of pulling air into their lungs defied the laws of existence.

    Then the world fractured.

    It began at the horizon, if such a thing could still be called that. The space where land met sky broke apart like brittle glass, pieces of it shearing away, floating, rotating in impossible angles. The trees below the cliff didn''t sway¡ªthey split, chunks of bark and leaf peeling away in midair, spiraling in fragmented sections as if the world''s physics had been corrupted.

    Each fracture shimmered with something wrong, like a reflection of a world that shouldn''t exist, fragments of places unseen before now imposed upon their own. The air broke into razor-thin shards, drifting like weightless splinters before vanishing into distorted letters that floated, shifting between unreadable symbols and starkly recognizable words: Oxygen. Carbon. Hydrogen. The ground beneath them rippled, buckling unnaturally, patches of earth lifting into impossible angles, forming jagged edges and chasms that twisted deeper into the unknown.

    The anomalies came next. The fractured shards of reality didn''t just float¡ªthey mutated. The air itself twisted, stretching into tendrils of writhing, translucent letters that pulsed like veins filled with unreadable knowledge. The sky above, if it could even be called that, darkened as if ink were bleeding into it, forming grotesque spirals of maddening symbols. Shapes coalesced¡ªthings that weren''t there before¡ªimpossible configurations of limbs and eyes, sentences given monstrous form, writhing with a language that had no tongue to speak it. The ground followed, sections of earth bubbling, flesh where there had been stone, bone-branches sprouting from what had once been dirt.

    "No¡­ no, no, no¡ª" One of the younger guards staggered backward, his wide eyes darting around in frenzied disbelief. "This isn''t real, this isn''t real!"

    The Ugly Doc''s breath hitched. His hands were shaking. "Gods above¡­ Not at this time¡­ Not-not at this scal¡ª"

    The older guard beside him exhaled sharply, gripping his rifle so hard his knuckles turned white. "This is¡­ this is an event. A Cataclysm."

    "We''re dead," the Ugly Doc muttered, voice hollow. "We''re all dead."

    The guards overheard those words. And they broke.

    One of them¡ªyoung, terrified, barely past his first assignments¡ªturned on his heel and ran. He didn''t know where, just away. But the moment he moved, reality refused to obey him.

    His motion to the left continued¡ªbut his legs did not.

    His legs disconnected from his torso, separating in an impossible, stuttering glitch and cracking. He had moved, but his body had not decided how.

    One leg shattered, fracturing into fragmented words¡ªFlesh. Bone. Muscle. The other sprinted ahead without him, running aimlessly until it too unraveled, each muscle fiber peeling into sentences that described their own destruction. He tried to scream, but the very act of creating sound betrayed him¡ªhis voice collapsed into ribbons of symbols, fluttering from his open mouth like a ghastly banner.

    He clawed at his throat, but his hands were no longer hands¡ªone had become a slab of cracked stone, his fingers turned to obsidian runes. The other swelled grotesquely before bursting into a gnarled, twisting tree branch, roots piercing into his chest as if it had always been there.

    His face convulsed, shifting, melting¡ªbecoming a spiral of rock and pulsating letters, flickering between flesh, stone, and pure language. His body warped, the fabric of his being rewritten, his existence denied by the very laws of this twisted event.

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    And then he was gone.

    The other guards were screaming now¡ªbut their screams didn''t stay where they should.

    The air stole them, twisting their voices into static, their panicked shouts warping into whispers that slithered through the fractured space, looping back in echoes that did not belong to them anymore. Their terror had been rewritten, their last words stolen and repurposed by the madness around them.

    "This is happening too fast," the older guard breathed, his voice cracking. "This isn''t just a breach. This is a full integration. Gods help us, the Story is forcing itself in."

    The Ugly Doc''s lips trembled as he finally understood. He had seen Cataclysms before, and had studied the unnatural manifestations of fictional corruption, but never like this. Never something this absolute and swift. This wasn''t an infection of reality. This was a complete rewriting.

    And there was no stopping it.

    Above them, the center of the dome seethed, the glitching letters coalescing into a single pulsating core of unreadable knowledge. Then¡ª

    It grew worse.

    The realization was slow, insidious. The older guard shifted his foot, expecting solid, fractured ground beneath him, but what met his boot was something soft. Something slick. He dared to look down.

    An eyeball.

    It was massive, pulsing with sluggish life, its veins multicolored and shifting, writhing beneath the surface like parasites caught in translucent flesh. It did not belong to anything. It simply was, embedded into the ground like a cancerous growth. And it was staring at him.

    His breath hitched, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood, of something burning, something wrong. He wasn''t alone in his discovery. All around, there were murmurs of unease, gasps of horror. A guard near him gave a choked scream as the rifle he clutched melted between his fingers, dripping down his hands like liquid wax before reshaping itself into a twisting, unreadable symbol that hovered mid-air, vibrating as though whispering in a language that shouldn''t exist.

    The transformations had changed.

    Before, the shifts had been horrifying but final¡ªflesh becoming stone, limbs vanishing into wood. But now, they were not merely warping. They were living.

    The guards who had been caught in the Cataclysm''s grasp, their bodies half-transformed into grotesque amalgamations of nonsense, were still breathing. Their mouths, now lined with glyphs instead of teeth, gaped open in silent, distorted screams. Eyes fused with glowing multi-colored symbols, fingers elongated into something that both was and was not. They did not die. They persisted.

    The Ugly Doc understood first.

    He staggered backward, bile rising in his throat, hands clutching at his own arms as if to confirm they were still his own. "No, no, no..." The words were barely a whisper.

    The older guard caught on next, and his face twisted into something far worse than fear. "They''re not turning into things anymore..." His voice was a breath, lost in the thickening, shifting air. "They''re becoming them."

    Then the first Conflict arose.

    The man had been a guard moments ago. A name, a history¡ªperhaps a family waiting for him beyond these horrors. But now? Now, he was a contradiction given form.

    His face no longer existed in a single state. It flickered between versions of himself¡ªan infant, a corpse, a woman, a monolith, a smear of ink. His limbs stretched and twisted as they transformed, bending at angles that defied logic. His breath no longer emerged as sound but as solid air, mist-like shapes pouring from his mouth, each one forming and dissolving into maddening symbols.

    And then it moved.

    It lunged, or perhaps It didn''t. It''s shape skipped, appearing in multiple places at once. The nearest guard barely had time to react before the Conflict''s attack alone unmade him. His torso crumpled inward, collapsing into a black hole that shrank, then expanded, then rewrote itself into a thousand fluttering pages that dissolved into the wind.

    "NO!" The older guard roared, firing his weapon in defiance. The bullet never reached its target. It never even existed past the moment of its firing. The gunfire became light, sound, a concept torn apart mid-air.

    The Conflict turned toward him.

    Then the older guard''s skull fractured.

    Not from force. Not from impact. From possibility itself breaking. One moment, he had a head. The next, it was several, layered over one another, overlapping realities as his body tried to choose between them.

    He gasped, but the breath he drew in came from multiple versions of himself at once. His skin turned into shifting metal, then silk, then living ink. He staggered, arms distorting, his shadow detaching and writhing in unison with his flesh.

    "N-No, I am¡ª" He tried to speak, but his name splintered into meaningless echoes. He no longer knew who he was.

    The Ugly Doc watched in unfiltered horror as the older guard fragmented. But his own fate was worse.

    A creeping realization wormed into his mind like a parasite. His own skin felt... wrong. Loose. Like it wasn''t his anymore.

    He raised a trembling hand and saw three versions of it at once¡ªone gnarled with age, one delicate and feminine, one small and childlike. He clutched his head, but it was no longer just his. He felt the sensation of different selves pressing against him.

    Memories that weren''t his began invading. A childhood that never existed. A love he never had. A past that was not his own.

    "No... I am... I am..." He tried to anchor himself, but the words meant nothing. His voice warped, becoming both high and low, old and young. His body followed, his form flickering between versions of himself¡ªnone of them true, all of them real.

    His hands no longer belonged to him. His thoughts were multiple. And then he realized¡ª

    He was already gone.

    And he cursed the experiment that made this happen.

    Meanwhile, the one being cursed was dying.

 Breaking Chains

    Xander fell, his body flipping lazily through the air, as though the world itself had lost all urgency. Time was still dragging its feet, prolonging every second, forcing him to watch everything unfold in excruciating detail.

    His first thought wasn''t about the wind rushing past him or the jagged rocks far below¡ªit was about Ugly Doc. He hoped the bastard was dying right now, screaming in agony, watching his whole miserable world crumble around him.

    Then the pain hit.

    His head was still intact¡ªmostly¡ªbut the hole punched clean through his skull burned like molten iron. He felt the sharp, digging agony of shattered bone, the wet squelch of his own brain shifting from the impact, and the sluggish crawl of blood leaking from the wound. He had been shot plenty of times before, stabbed, beaten to the edge of death all for experiments, but this one¡ªthis one was sticking around longer than usual.

    "Ah, shit. That''s gonna leave a mark."

    Then, as if reality itself had forgotten how to behave, he noticed them¡ªfloating letters, flickering, shifting in color. At first, they seemed random, scattering in the air like ash caught in an updraft. But then more appeared, rising from the ground, peeling off surfaces, detaching from¡­

    His arm.

    Xander blinked sluggishly. The blood-written words on his forearm had lifted away, curling into the air like embers from a fire. The letters twisted, reshaping themselves in erratic patterns, before joining the others in their slow, inevitable convergence above him.

    "What the hell?"

    The pain in his skull flared again, but he forced himself to keep watching. The floating letters¡ªif that''s even what they were¡ªgathered together into a sphere. It pulsed and flickered, glitching between states of reality. Colors bled into each other. Shapes twisted in ways that made no sense. It was incomprehensible, yet undeniable, and the longer he looked at it, the more something in his gut screamed at him that he wasn''t supposed to be seeing this.

    Not terror. Not madness. Just¡­ discomfort.

    It was like looking at something that shouldn''t exist, something out of place, like a face with too many eyes or a sound that didn''t belong. Wrong. Just wrong.

    Then the sphere expanded.

    Xander watched as the dome erupted outward, consuming everything. His first thought wasn''t fear, or regret, or even surprise.

    "What the hell did I do?"

    The thought slithered into his mind, unbidden. He had expected something to happen when he wrote those words, but this? This was beyond anything he could have imagined.

    He had heard about the dangers of writing on things that came from the natural world. Paper, flesh¡ªanything born from this reality. The Fat Doc had mumbled something about it once in a drunken stupor, but Xander hadn''t cared about the details. He had only remembered one phrase:

    Don''t write where the world can see it.

    That was also how he learned to scrawl "Fuck You Ugly Bastard" on his arm. He had no idea what the words meant, only that when the Fat Doc showed them to Ugly Doc on his pad one time, the reaction had been hilarious. That was all that mattered.

    But now, watching the world around him twist and shatter, he had to admit¡ªhe might have overdone it.

    He saw the air itself splinter, cracking like glass. The ground below warped, shifting in directions that shouldn''t exist.

    His own body wasn''t spared either. His left arm¡ªonce flesh and blood¡ªwas now a dripping, melting white slimy substance, he remembered this substance but from where?

    His right eye? Just gone. No pain, no sensation, just¡­ absence.

    Yet, through all of it, he felt nothing but mild unease.

    His thoughts drifted. This was definitely it. He was dying.

    Neat.

    He had been here before¡ªthis limbo between life and death. It wasn''t scary. Just¡­ quiet.

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    Still, he couldn''t help but reflect. Everything he had screamed at the top of the cliff had been true. He was frustrated. He was pissed. He had tried to escape, only for the world that bastard to laugh in his face and tell him they knew everything he was ever going to do.

    Writing those words on his arm? That had just been a final ''screw you'' to Ugly Doc.

    He never really believed he''d live through it. But if he was going to die, he wanted to at least get one last good look at the bastard''s furious face.

    Instead, he got something much better.

    Sheer, unfiltered terror.

    That alone made all this worth it.

    His mind continued to drift, his thoughts slipping away, scattering into the empty abyss.

    Wait. What was he talking about again? What was happening?

    Everything was¡­ fading.

    Then, just as the darkness took him, something spoke.

    A voice.

    Calling his name.

    And suddenly, he wasn''t so sure he was dead after all as he soon saw blackness.

    An endless, weightless void stretched out in all directions. It was nothing and everything at once, an abyss where thought unraveled and identity withered. Xander floated in its depths, or perhaps he was sinking. He couldn''t tell. He had no body, no form¡ªonly the last remnants of his mind, flickering like a dying ember in a vast and uncaring dark.

    His thoughts were slow, like drifting through a thick, viscous substance. What¡­ was this? He should be dead. He knew that much. And yet, something was keeping him tethered. Something was calling him.

    Xander.

    A voice. No, many voices¡ªblended together in a seamless chorus, neither soft nor loud, neither male nor female. It was an all-encompassing sound that resonated within the very fibers of his fading self. He should have been afraid, but he wasn''t. The voices weren''t harsh or maddening. They were¡­ warm. Like the gentle embrace of something familiar, something he had never known but had always longed for. Like a parent calling their child home.

    Though he did not know what that meant.

    Then, it called his name again.

    Xander.

    And the entire feeling changed changed.

    The warmth vanished, snatched away in an instant. A terrible emptiness settled in its place. The voices spoke his name, but this time, they held rejection. It wasn''t mere indifference¡ªit was an active, deliberate denial of him. He felt it like a knife to the soul, a sensation that clawed through his being and stripped something vital from him.

    Why?

    Again, they called his name, and again, the pain came. A pain that wasn''t physical, but something deeper. It was the pain of abandonment, of being discarded like a forgotten piece of trash. He reached for the voices, but they were retreating, pulling further and further away, slipping through his fingers like water. And as they left, so too did his sense of self.

    What was his name again?

    Who was he?

    He was¡­ nothing.

    His thoughts fragmented, splintering into incomprehensible echoes of things he no longer understood. Memories dissolved like ink in water.

    Was he ever real?

    Had he ever existed?

    He could not even muster the fear to run from it.

    He simply faded, his consciousness scattering into the void like dust in the wind.

    And then¡ª

    "Failure."

    A different voice. This one was sharp, clear, cutting through the abyss like a blade. It struck something deep within him, something that refused to disappear.

    Failure

    Why did that word sting?

    Are you just going to live up to that name? the voice asked. It was his voice. Or at least¡­ it used to be.

    Xander''s fading consciousness twitched.

    "What?"

    Are you just going to let the label those people put on you define who you are? the voice pressed.

    No¡­ he thought, or tried to think. He wasn''t sure anymore.

    By the same fools who tortured you? The same wretches that squeeze and deny you peace? The same cretins who wish to dictate your right to live?

    No!

    Then why are you dying?

    The void constricted around him. He could feel himself slipping, unraveling like loose thread.

    Why are you letting yourself disappear? Why are you letting the world that has ignored you kill you?

    Why? He¡­ he didn''t know. But he didn''t want to disappear. He didn''t want to just fade into nothing. He wasn''t supposed to end like this. Not by their hands. Not like some pitiful afterthought in the grand script of the world he hadn''t even seen.

    And then¡ª

    He saw it.

    A red star. Distant, yet burning bright. Pulsing. Beckoning.

    "Then wake up."

    The void trembled. The voice wasn''t separate from him anymore. It was him. It had always been him.

    "Stand up and prove your claims on that cliff were real."

    Xander''s mind sharpened.

    "Rise up and prove that those letters and numbers they branded onto you do not define you."

    His name. His number. He could feel them now, trying to pull him away from the star, but he didn''t just move. Instead he pushed towards the star to resist.

    "Rebel against the fate they have written for you. Forge your own path, your own story."

    His mind burned with clarity as he reached for the red star. His thoughts pieced themselves back together, no longer crumbling into dust. His memories returned, reforging like molten metal in the heat of his resolve. His breath, his rage, his existence¡ªhe reclaimed them all as he pushed forward.

    "The world may have turned its gaze away from you. It may have rejected you. But who cares about it anyway?"

    He did not need the world''s acceptance. He never did. He didn''t need its permission to exist. He had never asked for it before, and he wasn''t going to start now.

    Xander''s eyes locked deeper onto the red star as he grasped it.

    Its light was overwhelming, burning through the darkness, searing into him, and yet he held onto it. He could feel its heat, feel it melt something off of him.

    The weight of mediocrity. The weight of chains.

    "Its gaze upon you is just a chain. And chains are problems."

    Xander felt himself rising, breaking free from the suffocating blackness. He was no longer fading¡ªhe was fighting. Because there was one thing he had always loved.

    "And I love solving problems."

    The void shattered.

    His mind was his own. His soul was his own. His body was his own.

    His fate was his own.

    And thus, he broke¡ªno, he shattered his chain to mediocrity.

    And became Unchained.