PHOENIX. [sequel to 067]

20. just an experiment; zandik.

     "i see you've made it," the tsaritsa sighs softly as her hand brushes against your cheek, inspecting you and your features. her eyes soften as she sees your soft expression, a happy expression, while you're in your formal attire. a simple suit, lended to you by dottore, with small gem stone detailing that you had added yourself out of a belief of necessity. you needed to look the sharpest, you wouldn't settle for anything less.

     "we have, unfortunately, my fair lady," dottore grumbles as he fiddles with the ends of his white suit, complementary to yours. you helped him figure it out moments prior to this event as he was panicking over it, despite his sudden newly founded attitude, quite cute if you say so yourself. it's cute how his first response was to ask you for your input on his clothing for such an important event - from what you've been told.

you've been told this would be a classified and important event, as you were in the meeting that lead to this entire situation. the archons would be coming, the harbingers would be feasting, and you'd be crashing the party; essentially. a random vampire, with no memory, feasting amongst the gods; what an occasion!

the tsaritsa's sparkling white ball gown, with plenty of ruffles, shines under the warm light escaping from the chandelier in the center of the room. a large table, with plenty of chairs and fancy decor, littered all over the top. the tablecloth seems as if it's silk, the expensive kind, with a great level of detailing in the fabric, and plates rest upon the table.

    "yes, unfortunately indeed," the tsaritsa sighs with a hint of sarcasm laced to her voice, "come, the seats are assigned."

    "assigned? what are we, my lady, children?" dottore groans as he follows after the goddess, which you're quick to follow behind him. the goddess pulls up a chair, closer to the far right of the table, where a small folded piece of paper lays on the dish - Il Dottore/Zandik - is what it says in fancy writing, cursive.

   "you are," she responds, "for you, doctor," she finishes with a gesture of her hand, motioning for the lengthy man to take a seat.

zandik. the name's, once again, all too familiar to you. the way it rolls off of her tongue, as well, as with the sounds of the name. that's dottore's given name, isn't it? it must be.

where have you heard such a name? sure, you assume it's his name, but there's. . . something to it. something reminiscing about it, like a feign memory just barely out of reach.

dottore's . . . or zandik's? . . . masked face moves to each of it's sides, "where is mi- y/n to sit?"

    "he won't be seated, he'll be shown off," the tsaritsa speaks as her brows narrow at dottore's use of the word 'mi' and his sudden correction. her icy hand places itself onto your shoulder and you can feel the way her fingers dig into your skin, through all the layers of cloth, "he is just an experiment, no? he'll be with the rest of them, there is no need for him to mingle with those of our important status more than necessary. why do you ask, doctor?"

you can't see underneath dottore's mask to gather a sense of how he's reacting, fully, but you do see how his lips form into a tight line, however. you get a visual of how they press against each other, and hear that small, but audible, groan slip through them.

   "just wondering, fair lady. where shall these . . . experiments be stored?" he questions while his gloved fingers tap against the wooden frame of the chair, "i must make sure my experiments are in a storage unit up to my standard, after all, i would know best for them."

  "oh, that shouldn't be any of your concern. sylvia!" the tsaritsa speaks before calling out towards one of the small servant girls, one with a fair complexion and braided hair, "take him at once."

sylvia's hand wraps itself around your forearm, gently of course, as she begins to walk forward. she doesn't once question the goddesses' words as she seems so sure of her movements; her maiden's dress flows with her movements while you're left to trudge behind her.

her movements are much quicker than zandium prepared you for. with her speedy movements, it doesn't take much time for you to be met face-to-face with a wooden door. a much smaller one, compared to the numerous of others in this place, but still a door, nonetheless.

her fraile hand pushes the door open and she holds it open for you, a small huff coming from her. your eyes widen at the array of different quote-on-quote "experiments" in the room. several of weapons, most having a weird chamber of various forms of liquid - some purple, some blue, some red, and even some black ones. there's small cages being covered behind a thin sheet of fabric, while small noises emit from them; creatures noises, or beating of some sorts.

   "i shall be back with a refreshment, for your wait, 067, blood, i presume?" sylvia asks you as you step inside of the dimly lit room. 067.

why would she refer to you in such a matter? you're not a number, you're a person. or, well, a vampire, on dottore's account. though, dottore has this second name . . . zandik . . . so, can you truly trust what he says? what if everything he told you was a lie?

oh, dear archons, how you wish you would magically gain your memories back to help you create sense of all that is going on. one hand, dot- zandik, helped you through so much: he brought you back, rescued you from . . . zander, took you out on a small date, spoiled you and pleasured you. but on the other hand: he has a secret name, he could be lying to you, he has a death room full of rotting corpses, and so on. plus, there was that . . . weird nightmare about the small child, claiming you had killed her.

.

.

.

did you kill her? is that why you died, why that blade sliced through your neck? your hand presses its fingers against the protruding scar on your neck, rubbing the bump of it.

  "blood will do just fine, sylvia," you respond, only earning a small hum from the servant girl. it took her mere seconds to leave you with your own thoughts, in this room full of experiments.

that's when the words the tsaritsa spoke called out to you, finally making sense. "he is just an experiment," and zandik's confirmation: "where shall these experiments be stored?"

is this truly the fate your past self experienced? or is it still your . . .

your head begins to ache, pounding as the pain pulsates through your skull, cutting you off from your worried thoughts. you instantly reach to grab your head, rubbing at the temples with your thumbs, as you slowly feel the rest of your body begin to ache, along with a small stomach growl. this is no ordinary hunger . . . blood.

when was the last time you consumed the very same thing you, apparently, needed to survive?