Darkness swallowed them as they moved.
Stone scraped and groaned beneath uneven, overused trolley wheels worn thin, wobbling with every step.
One carried the bodies of three living children.
And many other were filled with bodied whose limbs were twisted and bent in ways which one could not see.
They dragged the loads forward as if it were nothing more than another chore in a long, tedious workday.
"Why do we have to get rid of the bodies every time?" One man complained while shoving a corpse back into place with his boot as it slid toward the edge of the trolley. "Can't we just dump them somewhere? Or feed them to animals or something? Its such a pain to dispose of them every day"
The body thudded back in like discarded trash.
"You new to this branch?" another asked without slowing.
"Yeah. Transferred a week ago." he said, tugging the trolley along. "But throwing these things every day is a real pain."
The other chuckled. "Figures you wouldn't know, then. These kids were used for the selection phase of a certain project. Every one of them was injected with Abyssal Liquid."
The newcomer frowned. "So?"
"So if even one gets left behind and starts to rot." the man continued casually, then makes a big scary face "There's a good chance it'll detonate. Big one. BOOM. Spewing corrosive mana everywhere. And if you are close enough, then you will die and turn into an undead."
He laughed softly, as he'd just shared a workplace joke.
"So do your job properly." another added, grinning. "Or we all die."
Their laughter echoed down the tunnel.
A robed figure at the front snapped his fingers. "Move faster, you mutts. We need more test subjects. The Overseer arrives in a month and if we don't have a usable product ready…"
He let the sentence hang long enough to draw in all their attention.
"…we'll be the next ones on the table."
"Hah. Don't remind me." someone muttered.
The chatter continued as they walked with their voices blending with the rattle of wheels and the scrape of stone until the corridor split ahead.
Without much words, they separated.
One path was led by the robed figure while taking the three living kids to a room ment for the experiments.
The other carried only the dead, or used goods meant to be disposed of and forgotten the moment they vanished into the dark.
The heavy iron door creaked as it opened.
The room beyond greeted them with metal chairs bolted to the floor straight backed, rigid, built to force bodies to be upright. Curved restraints for the armrests at unnatural angles locking shoulders back with spines flattened posture corrected into something precise and inescapable.
Leather straps were pulled tight around wrists and ankles.
No one listened to the children's screams.
The first thrashed wildly fighting the restraints, making it difficult to secure him in place. That ended after a single blow to his face by Hale. The crack echoed sharply, and he went still—sniffling, shaking, suddenly obedient.
The second watched it happen.
He cried quietly and offered his arms without resistance.
By the third, there was no struggle at all.
The thin boy from the trolley lay unconscious as they lifted him into the chair. One of the men lingered closer than necessary, leaning down until his shadow fell across the boy's face.
"Good luck." he said cheerfully.
He pressed a quick kiss to the boy's cheek.
The room went dead silent.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" one of the others snapped, recoiling. "Don't ever touch me. Ever. David."
"You're dead to me, David." another muttered, disgust plain on his face.
"That's sick." a third added. "Do that again and I'll kill you."
David the cloaked man shrugged, unbothered. "Relax. Helps morale. And improves luck."
"No, it doesn't." they all said at once.
The final restraint clicked into place.
One by one the others went out of the room with boots echoing against stone as tasks called them elsewhere.
The door groaned shut behind them sealing the chamber in thick oppressive silence.
Only three remained.
Mark.
David, sigils inked deep into his skin, crawling up his neck like something alive.
And Hale, standing quietly by the table already laying out instruments with practised ease.
Mark moved first.
He crossed to the corner and dragged heavy cloth away from a reinforced cabinet. With effort, he hauled it open. Inside sat a large, sealed container filled with a dark liquid that was too dense to be mistaken for water, its surface barely shifting when the cabinet rattled.
Mark lifted it carefully.
He stumbled slightly as he turned the corner.
"Watch your feet." Hale warned calmly. "If you break that, the replacement won't arrive for four months."
David snorted. "And we need results within one."
"Then pray harder." Mark muttered.
He set the container down and unscrewed the cap.
The air changed instantly.
It felt heavier due to the stench coming from the liquid.
The liquid was drawn into syringes with reverent precision. Measurements were checked. Adjusted. Checked again before inserting them in the kids.
"Mark." David said after a moment. "Increase the dose for the unconscious one. Let's label him Number Eleven for now."
Mark hesitated. "His body won't be able to handle it."
"He survived the initial stage." Hale replied evenly. "His physiology adapted to the Abyssal Liquid. If he survives again, Phase One is nearly complete."
Mark exhaled through his nose.
He increased the dosage for now No11.
They approached the children.
Needles pierced skin.
Bodies convulsed violently against restraints. Screams tore free muffled by cloth forced into mouths echoing uselessly against stone walls that had heard far worse.
The men watched without expression.
One noted pulse irregularities.
Another observed pupils dilating beyond anything human.
Mark moved between them, glancing down at Number Eleven.
"Still alive." he said, almost impressed.
They did not care about tears.
They did not care about the begging.
They simply observed.
Across the room, David retrieved additional catalysts, already preparing to continue the experiment.
Within these screams Mark was the first one to notice No11 irregularities.
At first, it was just a discrepancy while looking at him.
The other two children were still convulsing against their restraints with their bodies jerking violently as darkened veins crawled beneath their skin. Blood leaked from the corners of their mouths and stained the cloths forced between their teeth. Their muffled screams were wet, broken being desperate for air tearing through ruined throats.
Number Eleven did not scream or you can say stopped screaming slowly.
His body still trembled, yes.
Muscles locked and released in irregular spasms as the Abyssal Liquid coursed through him. His pulse fluttered dangerously then stabilized and then slowed again.
But his face.
Mark frowned.
The boy's eyes were open.
They were wide open looking at something.
Not on the men.
Not on the ceiling.
But nowhere in particular.
There was no panic in them.
No fear. No pleading. Not even hatred.
Mark stepped closer to observe him closely not caring about other kids.
"Strange," he muttered.
Hale glanced up from his notes. "Vitals?"
"Stable enough." Mark replied. "More than enough."
He leaned in, studying the boy's expression as another scream tore free from the child to the left.
Number Eleven didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't react at all.
Mark straightened slowly.
"Brain trauma?" Hale asked, not looking up.
"Possibly," Mark said. "Or self-induced suppression."
"We have seen some such cases right?"
He watched the boy for several long seconds, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Some minds shut parts of themselves down under extreme stress. Emotional dampening. A defence mechanism."
Hale hummed. "Rare occurrence."
Mark nodded. "Either way, it works."
He didn't look at the other two.
Didn't acknowledge the blood.
Didn't comment on the way one of them had begun to choke on his own screams.
David returned then metal case in hand.
He set it down with a soft clink and opened it, revealing vials filled with a thinner, silver-black substance that shimmered faintly under the torchlight.
"Stabilizing catalysts," David said lightly. "Should keep the Abyssal Liquid from eating through what's left." He flicked a Syringe "And if they survive we get more successful pieces."
He approached the chairs, injecting the screaming children first.
Their convulsions worsened.
Mark didn't react.
David stopped in front of Number Eleven, hesitating.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "we might not need Phase Two for this one."
Hale finally looked up. "Why not?"
David gestured vaguely toward the boy's face. "Phase Two's purpose is memory and identity erosion. Destroy the emotional centres. Leave behind a usable person whom we can build from scratch but from the looks of it we can just sell that vial it will be a good pocket change for us to go by."
"Dont forget out share." Hale said with a smile.
"Make sure it wont cause any problems later." Mark interjected.
David tilted his head. "Looks like this one did half the work himself."
Mark considered that.
He crouched in front of Number Eleven, bringing himself eye-level.
"What's your name?" he asked calmly.
The boy's lips parted.
No hesitation.
No confusion.
"I don't know," he said.
His voice was flat. Hoarse. Empty.
Mark inhaled slowly through his nose.
"Any memories?"
The boy stared past him.
Silence.
Mark stood.
"Emotional response is minimal." he said. "He has already forgotten about himself."
Hale made a note. "And from the looks of it he does not need any catalyst for stabilizing."
David smiled faintly. "Quite efficient."
Another scream cut off abruptly as one of the children went limp.
No one commented.
Mark glanced once more at Number Eleven.
The boy's eyes tracked movement now. Not fearfully. Not curiously.
Observantly.
Satisfied, Mark stepped back.
"Prepare for stabilisation," he said. "We'll skip Phase Two for now."
David nodded, already adjusting the catalysts.
As the screams continued—wet, grating, endless—
Number Eleven watched.
And for the first time, a thought surfaced clearly in his mind.
'Finally.'
'Some peace.'
'They screamed too much.'