章 69: Possedi captus?-LXIX
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DATE:?th of July, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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When I opened my eyes, a flood of awareness hit me. Something was wrong—very wrong.
I was chained to a cold, metallic table. My wrists, ankles, waist, and even my neck were restrained by thick metal clamps. It felt excessive, almost comical, if it wasn't so dehumanizing.
Oh, and I was naked. Let's not skip over that little detail.
So what? They got me while I was sleeping? Nasty.
Standing over me was a man. He looked to be around thirty, with white hair that was obviously dyed—his dark eyebrows gave that away. His appearance was sharp but unsettling, with an unnatural sparkle in his gray eyes as he studied me. He wore a lab coat over a green wool sweater, which seemed wildly inappropriate for the summer heat. Then again, I couldn't feel cold despite my...exposed condition. Something was keeping my body temperature regulated.
The man grinned as he noticed I was awake.
"Ah, excellent. You're conscious." His voice was smooth, like someone used to being listened to. "Allow me to introduce myself—I am Dumas, head physician and caretaker of...special specimens such as yourself."
I tried to open my mouth to speak, to demand answers, but nothing came out. My body felt heavy and unresponsive, my vocal cords as numb as the rest of me.
"Ah, yes, you'll find speaking quite impossible at the moment. A necessary precaution," Dumas said with a chuckle. "You see, I've waited a very long time for a specimen like you. Something extraordinary, unique. You are, without a doubt, the crown jewel of my collection."
His eyes roamed over my body, not with lust, but with a twisted fascination, like I was some rare artifact or specimen in a jar. It made my skin crawl.
"You'll come to understand in time," he continued, leaning closer. "Your existence is...impressive. But there's much for us to discover about you. Your limits, your abilities, your mind. Oh, this will be fun."
Fun for him, maybe. For me, it was kind of boring.
Dumas returned after some time, carrying a worn leather bag. His movements were methodical, each step calculated, as if he were savoring the moment.
He set the bag down and unfastened it, revealing a row of syringes filled with various substances—clear liquids, thick gels, even one that shimmered like molten metal. He arranged them on a metal tray, the soft clink of glass and steel breaking the silence.
I stared at him blankly, my face devoid of any emotion. Why should I care? He was just another obstacle, another problem to be dealt with eventually. His theatrics didn't intimidate me.
Taking the first syringe, Dumas injected it into my arm. A burning sensation spread through my vein, but I didn't react. Pain was irrelevant. It was nothing I hadn't endured before.
Dumas tilted his head, watching for a reaction that never came. "Impressive," he muttered, almost to himself. "You don't even flinch. Either you're exceptionally resilient, or you've been through hell already. Let's find out, shall we?"
He gestured toward my left hand, where several sensors were connected, their wires leading to a nearby machine. I followed his gaze, my eyes dull and uninterested.
"Ah, you've noticed," he said with a smirk. "These sensors will help me measure your pain responses—or lack thereof, in your case. It's rare to find a subject who doesn't squirm. You're a fascinating specimen."
Ignoring his words, I kept my expression neutral, my focus inward. This was just another game.
Dumas picked up a second syringe, this one filled with a dark-green liquid that seemed to thicken as he held it. He approached me, opening my mouth with firm, practiced hands, and injected the substance directly into my tongue.
"The anesthesia should wear off soon," he explained, stepping back to observe. "I'd like to know your pain threshold—assuming you have one."
The burning on my tongue was sharper than before, but I remained still, expressionless. He watched me, waiting for any sign of discomfort.
"Nothing?" he asked, his voice laced with both frustration and admiration. "You truly don't care, do you?"
I met his gaze, my eyes cold and empty. I didn't need to answer. My silence was enough.
Dumas returned after a while, his face alight with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. He moved swiftly, setting aside his leather bag and retrieving a series of wires. His earlier amusement had faded, replaced by a sharp edge of frustration.
"You think you're untouchable?" he asked, glaring down at me as he connected the wires to various points on my chest and limbs. "We'll see about that."
I met his eyes with a blank, unblinking stare. My indifference clearly got under his skin, as he gritted his teeth and muttered curses under his breath.
He turned to the nearby console, pressed a few buttons, and a surge of electricity shot through my body. My muscles tensed involuntarily, but I didn't flinch.
Dumas leaned closer, watching intently for any sign of discomfort. When he saw none, he increased the voltage. Again, the electricity coursed through me, and again, I stayed silent.
"Nothing?" he spat, his voice rising. "You can't be immune to pain!"
I didn't respond. Instead, after the third jolt, I yawned, long and deliberate.
The sound made him jump back, startled. His eyes darted to the console, then to me, as if trying to understand how I could even move under the anesthesia.
"You…" he stammered, his face pale. "How are you—? That's impossible!"
I weakly smirked and said, "You're a trash chemist."
His expression twisted with rage. "You dare mock me?!"
Grabbing a blade from his tray, he approached me, his hand trembling with fury. "Let's see if you'll bleed as easily as the others!"
Before he could make his move, the air in the room shifted. A soft hum filled the space, and the lights flickered.
The air in the room shimmered, and the hologram of the woman from Chou reappeared, her form clear and composed despite the flickering static.
"Doctor," she said, her tone sharp and impatient, "you can't kill him. Not yet. He's still unusually tethered to the AI."
I smirked slightly, tilting my head. "Wasn't that how this was supposed to go?"
The woman's face twisted in annoyance. "No, it wasn't," she snapped. Then, her eyes narrowed as she stared at me. "Why do you even bother acting like a human?"
I raised an eyebrow at her, feigning confusion. Both she and the doctor exchanged perplexed glances.
She turned to him, exasperated. "Did you tell him what you found yet?"
The doctor shrugged nonchalantly. "Didn't get around to it." He stepped closer, his expression shifting into one of mock curiosity. "The big reveal, then. Your body biologically died fifteen years ago. You're not alive—you're a corpse."
For a moment, there was silence. Then I chuckled, the sound echoing through the sterile room. "Still standing, aren't I? Well... figuratively speaking." I gestured to the straps holding me to the table. "You're a doctor, huh? Some revelation that was. Guess stupidity doesn't stop with the living."
The doctor's face flushed red with anger, his hands balling into fists.
The hologram's face twisted in frustration. "Enough of this nonsense. I don't care what magic keeps you in this world. What I need is the AI."
I scoffed, my voice dripping with defiance. "Her name is Emily."
The hologram flickered violently, the woman's face contorting in rage before she disappeared, her final words cut off mid-sentence.
The doctor, now serious, looked down at me, his earlier amusement replaced with cold disdain. "You think I care about what she wants?" he said, his voice low and venomous. "I'm not interested in your existence. Frankly, I find it disgusting."
He leaned in, his eyes boring into mine. "No church on this planet supports necromancy, and I agree with them. As a physician, as a man of science, the fact that something like you exists is an affront to both."
I glared at Dumas, unyielding in my skepticism. "I won't just trust what you say, considering our circumstances."
He paused, frozen in thought, before making a dismissive gesture in the air. "Deus," he began, "informed me of the findings from both Lifeweaver and the disgraced professor who inspected your condition."
I narrowed my eyes, watching as his expression shifted to something resembling concern. "Tell me," he asked, "why didn't they let you know about this?"
His words caught me off guard, and he clearly noticed my bafflement. "Let me show you," he said, walking over to a nearby counter and retrieving a tablet. Returning to my side, he tapped the screen, pulling up a detailed magnification. "This is what I found when I analyzed your cells."
I stared at the image, a high-resolution depiction of microscopic cells. He zoomed in, moving closer and closer until he focused on the nucleus—or what should have been there. But there was nothing.
Seeing the confusion on my face, he sighed and began explaining. "Normally, DNA is stored in the nucleus, dictating how cells function. Yours…" He gestured to the empty void on the screen. "Yours don't have any."
His words hung in the air as he continued. "I searched everywhere in your body, but I found no DNA strands. Furthermore, your cells don't perform mitosis. They're biologically senescent, meaning they don't divide anymore. Essentially, your entire body is made of... cancerous growths."
I snorted in disbelief. "That doesn't make sense. My body still heals, and up to the point where no scars are left. Cancer doesn't regenerate tissue like that."
Dumas took a deep breath, his voice calm but laced with an edge of frustration. "That's exactly the problem. It's not natural."
He pointed back to the tablet. "Your cells don't multiply or repair themselves. They simply reappear in the exact same spot they were taken from—at an arbitrary pace."
I shook my head. "That's preposterous."
He leaned back, arms crossed. "Is it? Tell me, are you aware of how much time has passed since you were apprehended?"
"A day," I said flatly.
He chuckled darkly. "Five."
Reaching for another device, he brought up a series of video recordings. On one, I watched as he repeatedly made the same incision on my left arm and observed the aftermath under a microscope. The footage showed my skin slowly knitting itself back together—but not through cell division. Instead, the tissue reappeared as if by some unseen force, identical to its original state.
"It's just as I said," Dumas murmured, his voice cold. "You're not alive. You're an anomaly—a walking, self-repairing corpse held together by something far beyond our understanding."
I shrugged, utterly indifferent. "How does that change anything?"
Dumas paused, clearly taken aback by my dismissive attitude. "You don't even flinch, do you? You lack morals, too. It's as if nothing matters to you."
I met his gaze with a cold stare. "Me being a zombie is probably the least interesting thing in this world, considering UltraMan existed."
He spun back toward me, his lab coat swishing as he pivoted from the space where the hologram had stood. "You don't know how the heroes came to be?" He narrowed his eyes, his words pointed. "It's not magic, like..." He trailed off, realizing I had no clue what he was referring to.
He burst out laughing, a hollow, almost cruel sound echoing in the sterile room. "You thought you were close to the truth? What did you even know? A puppet to the very end."
I shrugged again, brushing off his words. "Whatever."
But his words hit deeper than I let on. For a fleeting moment, something gnawed at me—anger, shame, or perhaps regret. Still, I smothered it, my expression remaining blank.
Dumas ran a hand through his hair, a mix of amusement and exasperation playing across his face. "You really are fascinating," he muttered. "No fear, no shame. Just... apathy."
Deciding he'd had enough of me for now, he gestured to the guards at the door. "Let him stew on that," he said, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. "I need a break."
He left, the faint click of the door punctuating his exit, leaving me alone with the cold hum of the machines.
At the end of the day what happened, happened. I knew I wasn't normal. It doesn't matter that Deus apparently kept an eye on me for months. The problem was finding out why those two kept that information away.
The professor for one I can understand. He may have not actually cared about my circumstances. He wanted to have his revenge on the Syndicate and I was just the one up to it.
But what did he know about me? Was he really so non-Chalant? This is a stretch, but he still is from Ventia. Spirituality is everything in the tribal politics. But what is this about Necromancy?
I never heard of such rituals... Mithras, the god of the old Ventian church is the God of the Sun and all light. He would be against Necromancy. By that logic, who even brought me back to life? And when? I have no memory of dieing.
No, there must be some holes in the information I was provided.
About Liveweaver, I have less reason to understand.
He must have seen this with his ability if what Dumas said is true. If John can suture a body at a cell level he must have known about my state. Even more considering how many times he healed me. Why keep silent about it?
At first it could be because he was skeptical, at least if I were to find reason for his actions, but what about afterwords.
Did he and Mundi not talk anything about this issue.
This changes everything about our relationship. How little do I actually know about what goes on in their own time?
I stood there with my eyes closed and I started losing interest. It was strange considering how important this issue was, but I couldn't help it.
Dumas would say that it was my unnatural state making me not care about life, but he is wrong. At some level I am capable of feeling the same things a normal man can. With Alice I laughed, I cried and I smiled.
No, I don't care because in the life I did, meaningless ponder about matter that aren't necessary to keeping yourself alive would mean your end.
Being demoralized does your enemy the biggest help you can. It's sels sabotage. I always said that it's better to rationalize everything even if you are wrong.
No matter. I had to put things in order.
Getting out of these restraints was the first priority.
Second was getting out of here.
Thirdly, I should recovering Emily. That soul connection may prove dangerous.
I lay there, taking in the heavy silence of the room. My thoughts churned over Dumas' experiments, his mistakes. He'd pumped me full of drugs—carelessly, perhaps arrogantly. I didn't know their exact effects, but they had to do something.
He hadn't mentioned my ability. That meant he either didn't know about it or didn't understand it. If it had activated during his tests, I would've known. He would've known. The element of surprise was still mine.
I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, testing for any shift in my perception. Nothing. Another deep breath. Still nothing. Frustration flickered, but I couldn't afford to dwell on it.
Most of my body was numb, barely responsive, but that didn't mean I was powerless. I fixated on my wrist where the cables snaked out, connecting me to his infernal machines. Tiny screens buzzed nearby, likely feeding him every detail of my vitals and reactions.
Screw his research.
Gritting my teeth, I twisted my hand sharply, again and again, until the skin split open. Pain flared hot and sharp, but it was familiar—almost grounding. The cables snapped free, and I could almost hear Dumas' hypothetical annoyance.
Oddly, the pain lingered far longer than it should have, sharp and vivid. Something stirred inside me, an instinct, raw and primal. This… this must be the trigger.
I focused on my injured hand, willing it to move through the restraint. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled—and the impossible happened.
The brace didn't bend or resist. It crumbled. My hand moved as though passing through wet sand, leaving the metal snapped and distorted in its wake.
I stared at the loose fragment left behind, pinching it between my fingers. The texture was all wrong. The material—once solid steel—was now brittle, granular. Whatever I'd done, it had fundamentally changed the structure of the metal.
I turned my attention to the valve embedded in my lower abdomen, the source of the drugs coursing through me. My hand moved instinctively, bypassing the restraints entirely, as though they didn't exist.
The valve clicked under my fingers, releasing another dose of the familiar substance into my veins. The rush was immediate, sharp and exhilarating.
I leaned back against the table, the hum of the machines and the distant sound of Dumas' muffled voice fading into the background. I was really going overboard today.
But this wasn't the end. No, not yet.
I placed the distorted metal brace back into place, carefully making it seem untouched. If Dumas noticed, my plan would fail before it even began.
When he returned, his face twisted in anger at the sight of the disconnected wires. "What do you think you're doing?" he barked, moving to reattach them. He didn't even glance at the brace.
*Perfect.*
As he turned to gather the cables, I acted. I drew in a sharp breath, focusing on the sharp pain still throbbing in my wrist and spreading it to the rest of my body. Time slowed to a crawl as the surge of my ability took over.
One by one, I broke the remaining braces, the distorted fragments floating in the air as I rose from the table. My body protested, weak and sluggish, the effects of the drugs still weighing me down.
I stumbled, nearly losing my breath and balance, but it was enough. I moved behind him in the frozen world, wrapping my left hand over his mouth and my right arm tightly around his neck.
Time snapped back into place as Dumas struggled, muffled screams of shock escaping beneath my hand. His efforts were pointless. With a swift motion, I twisted his neck sharply, the sickening snap echoing through the room. His body went limp in my grip, and I carefully lowered him to the ground.
Stripping him of his lab coat and clothes, I dressed quickly, leaving him in his... *tasteful choice* of rainbow-striped boxers. The absurdity didn't matter. This wasn't a disguise—it was practicality.
From the table, I picked up the knife he had planned to use on me earlier. Its blade gleamed under the cold fluorescent light, sharp and ready.
Opening the door, I moved swiftly toward the first guard stationed outside. Before she could react, I drove the blade into her neck with precision, silencing her instantly.
Her companion turned, eyes wide with alarm, but I didn't give her the chance to react. My left hand, imbued with that strange new power, lunged for her face. The effect was immediate.
Her glasses shattered first, the brittle fragments falling away. Her skin and bone crumbled beneath my touch, disintegrating as though turned to sand. My hand didn't stop until it reached the center of her head, leaving a hollow cavity where her face once was.
Her lifeless body crumpled to the ground as I pulled my hand back, the power lingering like a quiet hum in my fingertips.
I looked at my hand and it was clean. Even the blood turned brittle from my touch.
What a strange effect.
I scavenged them for equipment, taking a bulletproof vest from the more... Meaty woman and her P90 submachinegun and the Glock of the other lady.
I saw that they didn't have teleportation watches. I need to find one.
Supposedly I am a zombie. They made a grave mistake to keep me alive for these pointless experiments.
I'll make that hologram woman regret it.
Now, to get out of here.-*-*-*-*-*
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