Warning for the Following Content: Unethical Scientific Experiments, Semi-Major Depiction of Injury, Dehumanization
"Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that's where I imagine it - there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library." ― Haruki Murakami, quote from Kafka on the Shore
‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
Drip Drip Drop...
A strong feeling of serenity and calmness hung in the air as a man with an air of composure and a messenger bag by his side, strolled down the pristine halls. The atmosphere embraced him like a warm blanket on a cold winter night, offering a sense of security.
As he continued forward, he couldn't help but notice the pallor of the walls and the strangely matching floors. To his right, a faint dripping noise persisted, disrupting the perfect harmony of the serene scene.
Drip Drip Drop...
"There may be a hole in the ceiling.." he mused, his thoughts seemingly unaffected by the disturbance. A facade of nonchalance concealed the potential unease that the persistent sound might evoke. The man listened intently, contemplating whether the source of the disturbance was a mere leak or something more sinister, maybe a hole in the wall.
Drip Drip Drop...
"It may just be a leak," he reassured himself, dismissing the disturbance as a minor inconvenience. Nonetheless, he still carried on his path.
The droplet, like a tiny dancer, descended with an enticing demeanor, its crystalline allure radiating a subtle glow beneath the white. Similar to a ballerina, whose feet delicately moved across the stage floor before commencing a mesmerizing dance, the droplet descended with an elegance that captivated onlookers, rendering them unable to avert their gaze.
As the droplet continued its descent, it embarked on a ballet of sorts, gracefully spiraling downward until it found its destined partner—the petal of a flower. The red, alluring petals of the blossom seemed to glisten with a vibrancy that rivaled the brightness of even the most radiant red dwarf in the solar system. Each petal held the droplet as if it were a precious gem adorning a celestial dancer's costume, reflecting the dance of light and water in a harmonious symphony.
Yet, in the wake of this elegant union, the flower's dark-green, nearly black stem swayed with a soft resistance, much like a child growing upset over the intrusion of having to share a room. The water was an unexpected guest, it brought both life and discord to the otherwise undisturbed sanctuary of the flower's haven.
"Agent H, how have you been?" a voice interrupted the man's contemplation. Another, Agent R, entered the scene, startlingly him a bit. Yet he made great care to not show the reaction outwardly. But it seemed like his efforts were in vain with the keen look in the other man's eyes.
"Agent R.. I have been well. Dianne and the kids are out on a small trip right now, so I've had more personal time.. How about you? I take the Mrs. is still giving you a hard time," Agent H mused softly to the other man. The two of them had turned the corner into one of the building's many breakrooms. Agent R matched Agent H's reaction and hummed in both delight and tiredness.
Walking over to brew a cup of coffee Agent R glanced over to Agent H slightly, "Ever since she got pregnant she has been on my ass minor things. Seriously, that woman needs to learn how to calm down," Agent H stifled back a soft chuckle. "By the way, how do you want you coffee?"
"Cream and sugar, I don't mind which brew you pick."
"Hm, alright"
Drip Drip Drop. . .
Agent H furrowed his brow slightly annoyed. He had been able to ignore the constant dripping in the hallway. It made sense for a leak to occur. Most faculty in the building did not mind the hallways being messy, nor certain rooms in this building, but the break room? Who was paying those janitors and repair men.
Even after taking a sip of the coffee Agent R had given him, the distaste in his mouth did not leave. In fact, the bitter taste of the caffeinated beverage only made the sensation worse.
Beep Beep Beep
The sound of an alarm shook him out of his thoughts. Sensing the buzzing vibrations of something on his person, Agent H swiftly took out his phone and turned the alarm off. Muttering a stream of curses towards the minor jump-scare faintly, he sighed and took a short glance towards Agent R's way, "Seems like duty is starting soon." There was a glint in both of their eyes.
A glint many in this building all shared.
Drip Drip Drop. . .
Ignoring the now infuriating sound of the ceiling leaking, Agent H and R walked towards their respective stations. H had turned left at a fork in the road--would it be called a fork in the hallway in this case?--and R had gone right.
Pushing a hand slightly on a door, Agent H stepped in. The first thing that invaded his senses was the foul smell of something metallic. Grumbling as he crinkled his nose with a mixture of disgust and annoyance, Agent H had muttered more curses under his breath. Whoever was in charge of cleaning would most definitely be getting fired. Nonetheless, the man stepped further inside the room and placed his bag down on top of a table.
Opening it slightly, Agent H pulled out a pair of gloves and swiftly donned them before extracting nearly everything from his bag. They were merely tools necessary for work, nothing more and nothing else. Turning to his left, a composed smile adorned his face. The morning had begun by irritating him, yet he knew a way to cool his nerves.
Brown eyes, hidden behind black sunglasses, met a dull, icy blue gaze. An entity, no older than 19, lay strapped to a table. And that's all it did—lay there, with eyes as wide as the gap between Niagara Falls, separating Toronto and Goat Island. Eyes that felt hollow of life, as if they belonged to a world over yonder. Eyes that were both focused and unfocused. However, the slow rising and falling of the entity's chest betrayed the fact that it was still very much alive.
If you could call it being alive.
"I know you're awake, scum. No use in feigning unconsciousness when this room is set up to prevent you from falling asleep," Agent H mused with venom lacing his voice as he grabbed an item from the table. Growing closer, he could assess more clearly the condition of the creature. If the thing was fully sentient, perhaps the agent would feel a small amount of pity at its pitiful state.
Its skin was pale, nearing the same white hue as the building's surroundings; similarly, his suit matched the overall pallor as well. The already faint breathing pattern was ragged. There had always been a possibility that, although non-sentient, it could feel pain. Yet, an even higher likelihood existed that it was merely an act—a facade to elicit sympathy from anyone it could. The creature was dangerous, and if left unchecked, it could and would cause mass destruction.
"Gathering samples of it to run tests and discover if there were other entities like it amongst the world is for the greater good," Agent H reassured himself as he pressed the scalpel into the thing's side. He paid no mind to the flinch it made, and he certainly paid no mind to the narrowing of the thing's pupil.
Why would he?
Paying too close attention to the psychological reactions of the creature wouldn't be worth it. The creature, being an ectoplasmic entity, meant it was non-sentient. Non-sentient creatures could not feel. They could mimic emotions, yes, but the most that would be available would be psychological reactions.
Of course, someone would flinch when touched with something that was not their own flesh and skin.
But this creature didn't have real flesh. It did not have real skin either. He had seen its true form. Its "Ghost Form," as it would call it back in Amity Park. The star-white hair that mimic the way a star shined and the toxic green eyes were not ones the Agent would be able to forget.
Even if this thing had turned into a more pitiful and human-looking state, the Agent knew the truth. The truth of this monster.
The sterile room echoed with the muted sounds of the agent's actions. The clinical precision with which he carried out his tasks stood in stark contrast to the unsettling nature of the situation. The creature, bound and vulnerable, remained a silent canvas upon which Agent H conducted his grotesque work.
As the scalpel cut through the creature's abnormal yet too close to human form, the room echoed with a disquieting sense of detachment. Agent H, unmoved by the creature's reaction, continued his work. The creature's flinch, a mere mimicry of human response, held no significance in the eyes of the Agent.
It was just a biological reflex, a programmed response to external stimuli. Nothing more.
As the scalpel made its incision, a controlled determination reflected in Agent H's eyes. The samples he sought, the tests he conducted—each action had a purpose. The creature's reaction, whether genuine or a calculated response, remained inconsequential to the agent's singular focus on the greater good.
The air in the room grew heavy with the scent of antiseptic. Agent H, undeterred by any display of discomfort from the creature, continued his work methodically. His thoughts, shielded behind a stoic exterior, reaffirmed the necessity of these actions for the safety of the world.
As the tests progressed, the creature's features became more pronounced. The pale skin, the ragged breathing—all indicators of a being that existed at the edge of the known and the unknown. Agent H, engrossed in his mission, remained oblivious to the internal struggle within the creature or the potential consequences of unraveling the mysteries it held.
The room bore witness to the clash between Agent H's conviction and the surroundings of the creature. With each precise movement, he delved further into the enigma, his actions justified by a belief in the greater good. Yet, whether the creature truly posed a threat or if it was merely a victim of circumstance remained a question lingering in the shadows of the sterile chamber.
(It's answer, however, was obvious. Had this boy thing truly hurt someone willingly? )
(He It has nearly killed one to two humans, yes, but it was under the control of a different creature. If it wasn't intentional, was it truly evil?)
The creature appeared nothing more than a crude rendition of a taxidermy butterfly by the time the Agent was satisfied, having gathered enough samples to conduct experiments. Large flaps of the thing's skin had been moved aside to allow for easier access to its organs—organs that were shredded beyond repair. Three eighths of its upper intestine had been removed, a section of its lung was missing, and many more injuries induced a sense of giddiness in the Agent. However, there was one thing the Agent could not find, no matter how much he poked and prodded.
Its ghost core.
To experiment on the ghost core would be akin to having the power to eradicate all of Ghost kind. To discover what makes them destabilize for good would be the highlight of the Agent's day.
It seemed that day would not be today. Agent H left the creature to desensitize the surgical instruments and sanitize his very own hands, leaving the entity to its thoughts.
To its emotions.
To stay mentally residing within its core.
Pain—Hurt—HURTS! Its core screamed, and it had been screaming for what it could assume to be a year. A small sliver of hope clung to the creature.
For someone to hear its wails.
While Agent H meticulously attended to the hygienic protocols, the room remained shrouded in an unsettling silence, broken only by the haunting echoes of the creature's inner torment. The surgical instruments, now devoid of the grotesque evidence of the earlier examination, gleamed under the sterile lights, a stark contrast to the agony that persisted within the creature's spectral core.
The entity, left to its own devices, grappled with the abyss of its emotions, its thoughts a tumultuous sea of pain and longing. In the solitude of the sterile chamber, it clung to the hope that someone—perhaps a compassionate soul attuned to its silent pleas—would hear its wails and come to its rescue.
Inside the creature's core, the echoes of torment manifested in a relentless chorus of anguish. The relentless passage of time, measured in the ceaseless screams, hinted at a yearning for liberation, for release from the unending agony that had become its existence.
Panic—Fear—PAIN! The core's desperate cry reverberated through the room, a haunting symphony that seemed to seep into the very walls, pleading for salvation. And yet, amid the suffering, a resilient sliver of hope clung to the creature's consciousness—a belief that its knight in shining armor, its savior, its fright knight, would eventually arrive to free it from the shackles of its nightmarish reality.
Yet, it's been doing this for a year. An entire year dedicated to agony and despair. And no one. No response, no reassurance, no family, no friends. Just it and the GIW. It could call, day after day after each painstakingly day.
But no one ever came.
No one has came in the past year.