Subdue-X

Stripped Souls

The room was dim, bathed in the eerie, dark blue glow of the surgical light and the screens that lined the walls. Shadows clung to every corner, swallowing the air, making it thick and suffocating. The walls were a muted reflection of the cold, clinical light, giving everything a ghostly, unnatural hue. The glass walls made the space feel like a cage, and I was the experiment within.

The door hissed open, the sound barely audible over the hum of the equipment, and a tall figure stepped inside. Eleven. His bald head gleamed under the pale light, his crystal blue eyes cutting through the darkness with unsettling clarity. He moved with an air of authority, his posture stiff, a hand in his pocket, the other hanging lifelessly by his side. There was no hesitation in his steps, no warmth in his gaze.

“I’m going to offer a sedative,” he said, his voice as cold and sterile as the room around us.

I shook my head, refusing the idea of being rendered even more helpless, more at their mercy. I didn’t want to feel any more defenseless than I already was.

His eyes narrowed, as if questioning why I’d refuse something to make this process easier. I had seen him before, floating through the complex like a ghost, but never cared to know who he was. Now, I regretted that ignorance.

“You want to accept the medication,” he insisted, his tone icy and blunt.

Up close, I could see he was younger than I had imagined—mid-thirties, maybe. His features were sharp, his jawline strict, and his stance rigid and unforgiving. Sympathetic? The farthest thing from it. A tattoo of a black and grey falcon adorned the side of his neck, a stark contrast to his robotic demeanor. It was a reminder that somewhere inside him, there had to be a man—a man who made the human decision to mark his skin permanently.

“Now isn’t the time to be illogical,” he pressed, the words clipped and devoid of emotion.

“You can’t expect someone in this position to be logical,” I replied, still sitting on the floor like a rag doll coming apart at the seams. “I can’t even comprehend the difference between what is and isn’t logical.”

He didn’t dignify my words with a response. Instead, he turned his back on me and left the room, the door sealing shut behind him. I forced myself to my feet, ignoring the dull ache in my fists, and slammed them against the glass again. The unbreakable surface mocked my futile attempts at rebellion.

I watched him through the glass as he sorted through plastic packages, his eyes occasionally flicking up towards me without raising his head. His movements were measured, casual, like this was just another day at the office. He picked up a small plastic container and walked back in my direction, entering the room with a firm, deliberate step. The door closed behind him with a soft click, final and inescapable.

He took out a syringe, tapping it a few times as if checking for imperfections. He didn’t confront me directly, just held the syringe out on the palm of his hand, offering it like a challenge. It was small, almost insignificant in size, but I knew its implications were anything but.

“If you know that you’re incapable of making decisions, I can make it for you,” he muttered flatly, his tone carrying no more weight than if he were discussing the weather.

I stared at the syringe, unmoving. When I didn’t retreat, he tucked it back between his fingers and approached me. He nodded towards the bed, and I hesitated only briefly before sitting on it. The fact that he wasn’t the slightest bit anxious about being alone with me made it clear—there was no hope.

He opened a soundless drawer beneath the gurney and pulled out a piece of gauze with alcohol. He wiped down my shoulder with the same cold efficiency he applied to everything else. Then, pausing, he gazed at the side of my face, his eyes stern and unyielding. “You’re not getting out of here,” he stated, as if it was a simple fact. His words crushed the last flicker of hope I had clung to.