Test Subject 23 - Come Back to Me
"Come back to me, Test Subject 000 No. 23-1. Come back to me. It's all my fault, everything's my fault. I don't want to lose you."
Singing some old song with chunks missing in the middle, I slammed my head against the stark white wall. This couldn't be real. You leaving me had to be a dream. The fact that no tears came proved it.
"It's all over, so fuck off on vacation. Lifetime vacation. It was gross hanging out with you, let's never meet again."
...That's what I said, but it wasn't sincere. Couldn't you come back if I asked nicely? Even as a pathetic ex clinging to regrets, banging my head on the wall didn't bring back my severed limbs.
All that greeted me in their place was this metallic left arm that whirred like it might any second. Squeak? Haha, you cute little shit. Where'd the buddy that used to be there go? What? The Industrial Revolution? Got laid off? I'm the fucking boss—who lays off my people!!
Clang clang! I smashed the damn thing into the wall in a rage, but all I got was a sharp sting from the unhealed surgical scar.
That mad old freak hacked me apart without anesthesia. No matter how much heroic spirit and grit I had as a man among men, watching my limbs get chopped off was too grotesque to stomach. I screamed like a little girl!
It had to be some demonic sorcery clouding my mind and draining my spirit. And the arm they slapped on in place of my perfectly good one? It looked like a goddamn tripod for cripples. Not the idiomatic "cripple tripod" for top-tier invalids—no, it was a literal tripod shaped like a cripple's ass.
And don't get me started on the right leg. Even shoving a stray dog bone in there would've looked sturdier. This steel leg, cobbled from two iron bars and a cheap cylinder, flaunted its gnarly lines like something fetish freaks would cream over.
The fact that it was my leg made me want to lose my shit for real. Whatever they were experimenting on, it had to be some freakishly bizarre procedure to match its freewheeling design.
"...Hoo."
After a brief moment (a day and a half) to collect my rattled nerves, I slowly scanned my surroundings. Rough concrete walls, a plain ceiling, a heavy iron-barred door, and a dimly glowing bulb. This room showed zero consideration for whoever was locked in it—like some psycho designed it for savoring victims' agonizing deaths. It was an architectural style I hadn't seen in decades.
No straw mats, dirt floors, or wood. Walls of cement and brick. No candles, oil lamps, or rare luminous pearls—just electric civilization light. Cold mechanical limbs in place of my warm, blood-pumping originals.
Everything around me was utterly alien from the Central Plains I'd known before losing consciousness (and probably my life). Especially these mystery machine limbs I had no clue how to operate.
"...Like hell!"
Was that bastard's sorcery still stirring my inner demons? A surge of heavenly fury boiled up inside, urging the cripple tripod to smash the wall again—
> Last time you were quiet, now you're making a racket.
"...Ah, shit."
I'd long reached the realm where thought became action, but my current body—devoid of any inner power—was just that of a common mortal. No reaction beyond a jolt in my voice.
> New arrival? Or did he tinker with your head...? The last test subject wouldn't talk, so who knows.
The walls weren't even soundproofed. His voice came clear through the rough concrete, even the mumble at the end.
"...My head's fine. But it got replaced. My arms, my leg. With scrap metal."
> ...Must be in shock. So you're the 23rd dragged to the lab yesterday.
This stranger treated me like a nutjob right off the bat. I earnestly protested my sanity, but got back a voice laced with pity. Misunderstandings must be cleared on the spot to avoid lingering issues. But a more crucial word jumped out, so I kept the conversation going instead.
"...23rd?"
> Twenty came and went behind me. ...That lunatic called me No. 3. Not exact—some left and never returned, others clammed up till the end.
Ah, that explained it. Only then did I pinpoint the eerie dissonance in his voice. Flat and toneless, warped slightly through the wall.
No one could stay sane locked in a shithole like this, watching twenty neighbors get slaughtered and replaced. "Makes sense, so..."
Villains see villains in their eyes. The virtuous spot fellow paragons first. True or not, people project their own traits onto others. So crazies spot crazies right away.
His rude assumption from the start—that I was a lunatic—suddenly seemed trivial once I realized he was the broken one. To avoid prodding his mental wounds, I spoke as softly and kindly as I could.
"Must've been rough."
> ...That rubs me the wrong way somehow.
Crazies never know they're crazy. Pointing it out just earns rage or a knife. To avoid pointless drama, I smoothly shifted topics.
"More importantly, I'm the 23rd?"
Truth be told, there were bigger priorities than humoring this lost cause. 23rd. The word sent chills racing up my spine.
> Yeah, like I said—not exact.
"......"
Cautiously, I rose from my spot. Among the killers I knew, there'd been one called No. 23. No idea who hired him, but the bastard hounded me relentlessly. Sometimes a passerby, a rundown inn's errand boy, a chance merchant companion, a damsel in distress. Shapeshifting endlessly to assassinate me.
I spared him. Had he shown real killing intent or malice, he'd have been bisected on the second or third try, depending on my mood. But he operated like clockwork programming—fail, move to the next plan in sequence.
I wasn't some idiot vending machine spitting out items on cue or a maniac raging at swung blades. So after about thirty encounters, I caught him politely and asked who sent him.
True to his training, he tried to suicide. But against a master like me, even underlings don't choose death freely. With my courteous acupoint strikes and gentlemanly demeanor over seven days of wine, we opened up.
After that, I wiped out some psycho killer cult called whatever—no big deal. Point is, No. 23 turned out to be a woman.
Which brings me to this: roundabout, but yeah. Possession targets aren't always male, right? The thought chilled my brain the instant I heard "23."
Four times already, parts of me had vanished and been swapped. "...Gone quiet. Problem...?"
"Hold up!"
I hushed the voice from next door and took slow, deep breaths. Prep time. My gaunt frame looked male at a glance, but who knew? Nothing short of seeing it with these eyes would reassure me. The vague heaviness offered no comfort this time.
"Not a fifth time..."
And this was the only one. Not a pair—a single one!
I'd prayed to gods plenty, but never this desperately. First awakening in the martial world, beaten by beggars in the streets..., trapped in a collapsing secret cave after betrayal...
...Counting on three remaining left fingers wasn't enough. Right hand? Overran it quick, so I quit.
"...Hoo."
Exhaling the boiling rage inside, I steeled my face and checked my lower half.
"......"
> ......
"Phew, safe."
> ...What do you mean?
"It's still attached."
In industry lingo, no TS for me. Relief.
> ......
After a long silence, he finally spoke, like he suspected something.
> Seeing weird shit or hearing voices...? Or describe your room?
"......"
His madness ran deep. Clearly doubting my sanity again, but I couldn't snap at the poor guy. I just shut my mouth.