Prisma . Nova

The world has always been strange.... And it has always been like that... ..... .... This was my belief three years ago, but my belief has become a reality.... How strange the fates are. I do not remember anything except my name and my age... It is as if someone is controlling my mind. What should I remember and what should I not remember... I was sleeping on the cold hard floor, staring at the ceiling of the room, like a mental institution. "I feel bored." I muttered that without knowing it, and suddenly the buzzing was the first thing. His silence was broken. It was not just a sound, but a continuous flutter, a harsh vibration wave, as if a swarm of steel bees were stuck inside his skull, trying to get out. He opened his eyes with great difficulty, and was greeted by a liquid cloud of caustic white lights, hanging from the ceiling, writhing maliciously with the rising smoke, as if pulsing with a tyrannical life mocking his weakness. "It's begun." The air in the room was heavy as lead, sharply sour, and laden with a pungent metallic odor, a pungent mixture of cold iron rust and fresh, clotting blood. He extended his trembling hand that had betrayed him so that his face would allow it. He felt a thick, sticky layer covering his entire skin. It was warm at his fingertips, which meant that the disaster had only occurred a few moments ago. He slowly raised his head, and the scene became clearer. The walls are pale, grey, and the edges are scorched with a strange precision, as if the fire had targeted specific spots. The paint is peeling in wide spots like acid-corroded leather. On the rough cement floor were smeared dark footprints heading towards the door, trailing streaks of dried, brown blood. ​In the nearest corner, there was a huge metal table turned on its side, emitting the smell of alcohol and disinfectant. It was littered with fine drilling tools, shiny surgical scalpels, and empty glass syringes with traces of dark blue liquid in them, and next to it was a torn strip of paper on which was written in squiggly, hasty, nervous handwriting: "Test 12 - Control Failure — Maximum Built-in Power Exceeded." He slowly turned his gaze towards the opposite wall where the mirror was, but his reflection was ambiguous. Half of the mirror was cracked in a strange geometric pattern, as if it were a strong blow or an internal explosion. He couldn't see his face clearly, but the eyes... they didn't belong to him. The pupil dilated and contracted with animalistic speed every few seconds, as if it were not just a nerve but a breathing being beneath his skin. ​He raised his left forearm. He saw a dark tattoo engraved with a precise laser inside the skin, not imprinted on it, that looked like it had been forcefully engraved: ​Subject-12 (Subject-12) ​When he tried to pull his body into a sitting position, a mechanical voice resounded in his head, a sharp, metallic sound like an echo in a huge cave, cold, toneless and emotionless, coming from a place that was not his: "Awakening is certain. Vital functions are stable. Mental stability is weak. The test is not over." The humming suddenly stopped, and the air around him trembled as a feeling of tremendous energy passing through. The harsh lights suddenly went out, plunging the place into complete, invisible darkness. In this dark and absolute emptiness, the sound of footsteps approaching with confidence and weight was heard, and the cold and deadly friction of a huge knife being slowly drawn from its leather sheath. ​​And in this dark and absolute void, he heard the sound of confident and heavy approaching footsteps, and the cold and deadly friction of a huge knife being slowly drawn from its leather sheath. ​The hero rushed forward, ignoring the pain that tore through his muscles, trying hard to reach the edge of the overturned metal table to use it as a cover. He didn't have time to think. ​The robotic voice in his head stopped, to be replaced by a cold, intermittent whisper, the origin of which was unknown, as if it was echoing in the air near him: "I... the executor... do not move..." "Subject-12" felt a very short flash of light that penetrated the darkness, as if it were a reflection of the shiny metal knife. It was getting close to his head. With one final force, he pushed his body away from the sound and fell on the other side of the overturned table. At that moment, he felt a sharp, electric shock to his left forearm, which bore the tattoo. It was not a stab, it was a precisely directed shock towards the tattoo (Subject-12). He screamed in pain and raised his trembling forearm, only to see that the tattoo itself had become glowing a fiery red color. In that darkness, he heard a human voice very close, calm and masculine: "There is no point in running away. Protocol links escape to the end of life. You belong to the laboratory, Number 12." The torn mind had barely comprehended the words, when a bright light emanated from his glowing left forearm, followed by a violent electrical crackling sound, and "Subject-12" felt his entire body being lifted off the ground in a painful spasm, as if the tattoo had become the source of the fatal blow.