The neon haze flickered outside my tiny apartment, casting an electric glow on the walls like a broken promise. I’d gotten used to the way the flickering lights refracted through the grime on my windows, morphing into abstract shapes that danced in the corners of my vision. They particularly liked to converge around the bottle of Synthitox I kept on the table, a remnant of a not-so-far-gone life where the choices I made had direction, a sense of purpose. Now, purpose was a sludgy memory, imbued with the lingering bitterness of regret, washed down by the synthetic burn of self-medication.
I cradled my sidearm, an antique relic in this world of augmented realities and bioengineered weapons. It was a Beretta M9, worn but reliable, a piece of iron that still felt warm in my fingers like an old friend. As I checked the magazine, the rapper on the street below blared distorted verses about the futility of life, an ironic backdrop to the reality I navigated every day.
Experimentation was my lifeblood, but it wasn’t the kind that took place in sterile labs or high-tech facilities. No, I was a product of survival experiments, a volunteer for the sick realities of a world that had since abandoned compassion. Every time I pulled the trigger or set my eyes on a target, I was performing my own little experiment—a hypothesis on how long I could survive in this concrete jungle without losing my humanity completely.
The Council—the shadowy figureheads of our city—had turned the streets into their playground, each alley a potential lab where they could test their grotesque ideas. Everyone was a subject, whether they knew it or not. They’d implant chips, mess with our DNA, and essentially play god while we all watched helplessly, waiting for them to pull the trigger on their next big project. The streets were riddled with the detritus of their experimentation: post-humans who had gone too far, holes in their souls where empathy used to live.
Tonight was just another night of navigating the chaos. My lead was a name scrawled across a digital board in the underbelly of the city: Cather. A former researcher turned rogue, she had access to classified data on the most recent experiments the Council had unleashed. They called it “Project Resurrection,” a program aimed at creating a new breed of humanity, designed to splice genes with animal traits. I couldn’t fathom how they thought that’d lead to anything but disaster, but the Council liked their freaks well-fed and less-than-human.
I stepped into the damp alleys, each step echoing against the graffiti-strewn walls, a symphony of urban decay. The city was a living organism, pulsing and breathing, and on tonight’s menu, it was impossibly hungry. The rain had just started to drizzle, adding a sheen of wetness that clung to the edges of reality—everything blurred, as if the city itself didn’t want to be seen for what it truly was.
The neon lights of a club flickered invitingly, people spilling out like droplets of oil on water, dancing in their digital dreams. I pretended to blend in, the weight of the gun at my hip a constant reminder of the decisions I’d made that had irreversibly altered my life. My fingers brushed against it casually, comforted by the cool metal.
Inside, the pulsing beat throbbed through my body, drowning out thoughts of failure. A haze of smoke spiraled upwards, creating a low-hanging cloak of illicit activity. My eyes searched the crowd—I was looking for Cather, the researcher who might hold the key to unraveling the Council’s plans.
I spotted her at the bar, a tall figure cloaked in a leather jacket that looked like it had survived a dozen experiments itself. She was flipping through a sleek, holographic tablet, her face illuminated by the faint glow that barely hinted at her true emotions. I approached, keeping my posture casual but alert.
“Cather,” I said, my voice low and steady, betraying none of the urgency knotting my gut.
She looked up, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. “You’re the one they sent? I expected someone more… professional.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same about you,” I replied, taking a seat beside her. “What do you have for me?”
She leaned in, and I caught the scent of burnt chrome—an unmistakable marker of her underground affiliations. “The Council is serious about Project Resurrection. They’re testing subjects in the lower sectors, mixing human DNA with various creatures. Results so far? It’s a mess—some are dying, others are developing more than just physical traits. They’re losing their minds too… like they’re being programmed.”
“Programmed?” My mind raced, the gun feeling heavier on my hip. “How do they control them?”
“Neuro-chips,” she said coolly. “They’re implanted directly into the cortex. They can wipe memories, instill commands. They’re turning people into soldiers—just puppets following orders.”
I breathed in sharply, anger simmering under my skin. “And the ones who can’t follow orders? What happens to them?”
“Disposal, usually. They don’t have room for failure.”
A silence stretched between us—a void filled with fear, adrenaline, and the weight of lives lost. The gun slipped from my thigh; I could almost sense its singular purpose. My own life had been a fight against that very conditioning, an experiment of survival against the odds. I’d run from the Council, become a ghost—a phantom too slippery for their grasp. But I wasn’t done yet.
“Where do I find them?” I asked.
She hesitated, eyeing the door as if expecting shadows. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” I replied, but the word had more layered meaning than she could know. I’d been transformed into my own experiment; the gun was an extension of my will, a tool for rewriting my fate amid chaos and blood.
“Fine,” she said, a reluctant fire igniting in her eyes. “I’ll take you to the site. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“Don’t use that gun unless absolutely necessary. We need information first, not bodies. I refuse to be a part of this.”
I nodded, realizing the irony of it. I was trying to save lives while concealing a weapon meant to take them. It felt like an experiment in contradiction, a jarring clash of purpose and means.
Together, we slid out of the club and into the rain-soaked streets, her leading the way through alleyways that seemed to twist and turn like a living thing. The city roared around us, alive with potential and peril. I could feel our feet pounding asphalt while my heart raced, the promise of danger hanging thick in the air.
The lower sectors stank of desperation, the edges of society where the forgotten clung to each other for warmth. Every shadow whispered secrets, and every alleyway threatened to swallow us whole. Cather brought us to an abandoned warehouse, its façade crumbling and covered in layers of graffiti, an echo of the city’s artistic defiance against the despair of our reality.
“We’re here,” she said, stepping cautiously. I felt the adrenaline surge, the gun’s presence igniting every nerve. Every experiment I had endured surged through me—the conditioning, the heightened senses—and I stepped into the darkness with purpose.
Inside, the warehouse was a nightmarish juxtaposition of high-tech equipment amid the detritus of urban decay. Sparkling terminals lay in stark contrast to broken bricks and shattered glass.
“Over here,” Cather whispered, moving toward a terminal blinking ominously. My instincts kicked in; I scanned the surroundings, ever vigilant. The Council’s guards were notorious for their cruelty, and I had no intention of becoming one of their experiments.
As we neared the terminal, it whirred to life, showing a map dotted with red markers. “These are the active sites. They’re conducting experiments right now.”
“What can we do?” My voice came out harsh, a growl against the noise of machinery.
“Disconnect the power source.” She gestured to a pair of tangled cables behind the terminal, an unstable pulsating core of energy waiting to be severed. “That’ll shut this place down.”
I nodded, moving forward, but my instincts prickled. I could feel the weight of eyes on us. I looked back at Cather, and in that moment, I knew.
“Get down!” I shouted, just as the warehouse bursts into chaos. The sudden flash of gunfire ripped through the air, and I was on instinct alone, my body moving, diving to the ground.
Gunshots echoed, ricocheting in the enclosed space like a morbid symphony. I rolled behind a stack of crates, pulling the Beretta from my side. My heart thudded painfully as I leaned out, scanning for targets.
“Shoot!” Cather screamed, yelling over the cacophony. “They’ll wipe us if we don’t!”
I pulled the trigger, aimed and fired, the recoil a familiar dance as I dropped one guard, then another. I didn’t want to think about the nature of my choices; instinct kicked in, the gun a part of me, my thoughts drowned by the necessity of survival. It was just me and the echo of my choices—the experiment in willpower and resolve intertwined with the urge to live to fight another day.
As the last guard fell, the warehouse felt eerily quiet, like the calm after a storm. I caught my breath, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins, a cocktail of fear and victory.
“Cather?” I checked over the crates, the remnants of the chaos scattered like a still-life painting gone wrong. She appeared, shaken but uninjured, and relief crashed over me like a wave.
“Now! Disconnect it!” she urged, lunging toward the terminal.
I followed, the gun still raised, scanning the perimeter for threats. Cather worked fast, her fingers flying over the console, and just as I thought we might escape without more bloodshed, the lights overhead flickered, and a deep voice crackled over the intercom.
“Subject 184, you are to return to compliance. We will not tolerate insubordination.”
A shiver ran down my spine. It felt like they were referring to me, as if I were a mere pawn in their twisted game. I was a part of their experiment—a variable they hadn’t fully accounted for.
I turned to Cather, urgency flashing in our eyes. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
Just as she released the cables, the structure trembled, the lights flickering wildly, signaling imminent danger.
“Let’s go!” I shouted, sprinting toward the exit, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. The pulse of the city throbbed outside, urging us to survive, to escape the clutches of the Council’s experiment.
We burst into the night, the rain washing away the remnants of chaos. The city unfolded before us, its neon glow both a warning and an invitation.
But it would always come back to experimentation, wouldn’t it? Every choice we made, every shot fired, every life saved or lost—a part of a bigger narrative, a constant test against a world that saw us as nothing more than data points in a cruel equation.
As I walked through the streets, I held my gun close, my heart heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead. We were still subjects in a never-ending experiment, fighting for the right to remain human in a world that sought to redefine us.
And in that fight, I would find my purpose again—my own twisted experiment, experimenting with the thin line between survival and humanity, between instinct and choice. The outcome was uncertain, but in a city that never slept, I would write my own story—gun in hand, heart still beating, and a reckoning yet to come.