Test Subject No. 23-2: The Neighbor with a Few Loose Screws
The friend in the next room had some mental issues, but he knew his stuff and wasn't a bad guy overall. Sure, I didn't even know his face—all I knew was that flat, emotionless voice, like all feeling had been scrubbed clean from it.
"So, where the hell is this place?"
"What's today's date?"
"What's my name?"
Correction: the friend in the next room had mental issues, knew jack shit, but wasn't a bad guy. Still no face, just that emotionless monotone, but I'd decided to think of him that way.
See? How nice of him. I mentally added "good patience" to his file and spoke up.
"You got memories, huh?"
No matter what I said, I'd be pegged as a lunatic anyway, so I was sticking with amnesia. Think about it: say I survived while the other test subjects got butchered in this mad scientist's lab. Then suddenly the new guy next door pipes up with, "I'm a martial artist from Murim, died fighting the Heavenly Demon, woke up on a mad scientist's bed." What would you think? I'd figure either I'm crazy or he's crazy—and I'd bet on him first. Admitting you're the nutjob is always harder.
"Sadly, that's where I came to—right on that bed. Opened my eyes, and bam, mad scientist's operating table."
"Same difference in horror factor. This is about the worst thing in my life right now..."
I wet my lips here. It wasn't a total lie—just half, since my "current life" pretty much started on that bed-slash-table anyway.
"...the most godawful shit we've both been through."
Who gives a damn if it's a bed or a table or whatever?
The voice apologized readily, though it didn't sound all that sorry. I let it slide—staying sane in a place like this turns you that way eventually. If anything, that quick apology bumped my opinion of him up another notch, and I pressed on.
"That's it."
Done. Zip.
"What do you expect from an amnesiac?"
Silence settled between us again. For some reason, it felt like the thin wall separating us had grown a little thicker.
This cell—or camp, or whatever the hell it was—must've had some drafty hole. A sigh-like gust of wind whispered from somewhere.
He waited for the breeze to pass before speaking.
His follow-up was more mumble than anything, but it seemed my amnesia story had cleared up some doubt nagging at him. Helping out the neighbor turned my half-lie into a white one, and that felt pretty damn satisfying.
This is why you tell white lies.
"No other test subjects around here?"
"How recent is 'a couple weeks'?"
No. 3, 13, 23. Huh.
"Is 3 supposed to be lucky?"
The offhand comment drew a muffled beast-like growl from somewhere, forcing me to swallow the rest. For a split second, I thought it was a guard dog patrolling the hall, but no—it was laughter.
"......"
It echoed grotesquely, like someone relearning how to laugh after forgetting entirely.
By the time pity started creeping in, the laughter faded, replaced by that flat voice booming out.
The voice mixed dry chuckles with something unpracticed, but it sounded way better than before. So I laughed back.
"Hahaha!"
"...Ha..."
A heavier silence crashed down, twice as thick as before. Tough to respond to, honestly. But mental illness is what it is—you gotta get out of dumps like this to fix it.
"How long do test subjects usually last?"
"One month? That's decent."
"......"
Right. At least it's not zero. Forcing some optimism, I heard the voice continue from beyond the wall. Not done yet.
"...And the longest?"
"You didn't need to finish that."
A sigh-mixed reply came just as I added that. Then—drag, drag—something scraping echoed down the hall.
"What's that noise?"
I'd come out to peek at the hall earlier, so I heeded him and stepped back. Not out of fear or panic, mind you.
Creak, drag.
The sound of ill-oiled wheels being forced along kept coming. I braced myself a bit. I'd faced demons and freaky martial artists back home, forgotten what fear even was—but thinking of that old monster's face I'd glimpsed here tensed me right up.
Creak.
The noise stopped, revealing a freakish robot. If I had to compare, Frankenstein of the robot world. Breaking it down like human parts: arms, legs, torso, head. Finer: forearms/upper arms/hands; shins/thighs/feet; belly/chest/neck; skull/rest. This thing? Total mismatch, every piece from a different scrap heap. Even the fingers setting down some mystery blob and a bottle of fluid on my shelf were all unique parts. Like it'd hacked up a bunch of bots and stitched 'em together without a single duplicate.
"......"
Clack. Drag, drag.
I kept my mouth shut till the racket faded completely down the hall.
"Gotta get the fuck outta here ASAP."
Was that one of the test subjects? The thought hit, igniting an escape urge stronger than ever before.
The skeptical tone made me think I'd said something dumb. My bad?
"Yeah, out."
"Find a way."
I could feel the sheer disbelief radiating through the wall. Fair enough—no one else locked in here had been me.
"Anyway, you..."
I barely swallowed the words that slipped out.
How the hell are you still alive?
That'd just poke at his fragile state, right? My tact saved the day, but the question lingered. How was he surviving in a lab where folks lasted a week on average?
He clocked my unasked question anyway, his voice turning gloomier than before, making my courtesy pointless.
Deadpan as ever, but I caught an undercurrent of nameless dread and despair. Maybe that flat tone was his desperate bid to stay sane—a near-delusional empathy hit me. First experiments: rage, hate, terror, hopelessness. Blood draws: grim acceptance, negativity. But when even that's gone? Relief at first, then... what? Waiting to be culled, neighbors vanishing one by one, chatty subjects dropping off. Pity reared up again; I clicked my tongue softly.
"Hey."
I glanced at my arm as I spoke. With cyberware like this claw, the outside world wasn't normal either. One word sums up a mechanized dystopia where human lives are disposable: cyberpunk.
"Outside's gotta be better than this dump, right? What's it like? Fill me in—I got no clue."
"Good enough. Let's bounce."
The silence screamed "how?" loud enough to hear through the wall.
"Let's introduce ourselves proper."
"I'm apparently No. 23, for now."
I'd had a name once, sure. But with no one left who knew it or called me by it, who cares? Amnesia was convenient besides.
"Playing hard to get? Fine, whatever you like."
This was a prison, after all. Sounded like you'd only leave in a body bag. But my cellblock buddy was polite, knowledgeable (sorta), patient. Had hope? Maybe not, but not fully given up either—or he'd be bonkers by now.
"Once we're out, got anything for me? Reward or whatever."
"Buried treasure? Hidden inheritance?"
"Stretchin' it, but hey, let's make it work, Sister Pria."
Felt like a gust from the draft hole whispered "crazy bastard," but I ignored it. Superstitious primitives assign meaning to nature— not me.