Project 313

Chapter 1

We turn away subconsciously from other people's suffering.

And laugh, and cry,

And live our lives,

Oblivious.

313 sits on a chair, her back aching to lie down on the green grass on a summer day. A summer day, with the breeze whistling a song in her ears.

She couldn't even remember what colour the sky was.

She imagined it to be stark white, an empty piece of paper.

No, it was light blue, thin, transparent and unnoticed.

Or dark blue.

Blue. What did blue look like?

Click.

The dreaded sound of the door opening, sight of the familiar woman with brown hair saunter in. The brunette takes care to handcuff her properly.

"Why, hello there. Hmph, you've eaten all four buckets. You really are a monster. Still, it's still fun to torture someone to get paid."

She fetches a sharp pair of scissors. The scissors that the nurse had used to cut open all her leg joints on their first encounter.

Oh, yes, how the girl had screamed.

The nurse leans forward with the instrument, no doubt to cut her eyes open. The nurse often stuck needles in her eyes as a welcome greeting. Other times, she had just butchered them with a cheese grater or seared them with hot iron.

But not anymore.

It is time.

She is not going to take any more of this crap.

She waits for the right moment. She waits until the nurse has leaned all the way in, her disgusting Cheshire cat smile the main feature adorning her distorted face. She waits until she can feel a searing, burning pain on her bare eyeball, indicating the moment just before the nurse snips it open.

Now!

She feels her fingers hardening, morphing, and changing. She hears the clean sound of handcuffs snapping. Her fingers melt into each other, forming the shape of a clean blade.

It happens in a second. She hears the snap of her handcuffs giving way to her hand, her fingers hardening, slicing the nurse's throat in a clean swipe.

The nurse's eyes are still open, blood seeping from the thin slit on her throat. How the tables have turned.

Helpless, miserable, naive, little Carolyn. 313 tosses her dying body into the chair, and carefully places the dumb carcass into the right position.

The nurse didn't even have enough time to react. To gasp, to scream in horror, to utter a syllable.

Hilarious.

313 can't help it.

It begins with a muffled giggle, which morphs into a laugh and grows louder and louder. All her pent-up, twisted hatred she held in every last corner in her body sets itself free. The bitch wouldn't ever be able to smile ever again. She wouldn't ever be able to enjoy herself or eat another hamburger. But what causes her the most elation, she decides, is that the nurse had just turned twenty-one, and has died before the prime of her life.

"I'll be borrowing this,"

313 gingerly strips off the nurse's coat and alters the properties of her face and hair to match the nurse's features. She sheds her bloodied rags and slides on the crisp, white scientist cloak.

"Sweet dreams,"

She fishes around for Carolyn's ID, and swipes it into the scanner, initiating a beep. The silicon card is cool and smooth between her warm fingers.

She walks out of the room, her footsteps soft, and silent, transparent. The sight is not so different from when she was last brought here to be experimented on. She was given a modified version of smallpox, and the nurse had stabbed her brutally with the cold, metallic needles filled with possible antidotes.

A slim, curvy woman with blonde curls saunters down the hallway, clasping a clipboard. In 313's eyes, she would have better off being a supermodel. "Supermodel" (as well as torturous scientist) was the only occupation that 313 really remembered clearly because her dad used to make corny jokes about them before he was executed. It was a nice memory.

"Carolyn? You're supposed to be experimenting on test subject 313. Did you need something? Or-" The woman waves her hand stiffly in front of 313's face to get her attention. "Carolyn?"

"Everything's going fine, I just need to get something,"

All signs of surprise vanishes from the woman's face. "Oh, I thought so. After you've finished getting what you need, come have lunch with us,"

"Yes, of course,"

I won't need to.

313 sees a door marked "Dangerous. Restricted Section. Enter at your own risk."

You'll all be burning in hell by then.

She fumbles around the coat pockets for Carolyn's ID card.

Three minutes later, on Friday the thirteenth of March, 2103, the International Lab of Scientific Experimentation on Criminal Subjects explodes.

When the smoke clears, and the fire is successfully tamed, the rubble is searched.

"At least sixty scientists were killed in the explosion, and detectives are currently trying to work out the exact number of casualties."

The national organisation of scientific research facility has lost all the test subjects in its newest and most valuable branch.

The blast came from the room behind test subject 313. 313 was blown clean out of the chair it usually occupies, the handcuffs found snapped and broken, presumably from the impact of the explosion. The body was completely reduced to ashes as the centre exploded immediately and without warning.

Police suspect that it might have been intentional sabotage by terrorists planning to halt research and scientific development. "It is almost certain, considering our post-war circumstances due to WW3. We have not been able to successfully identify the bodies, however all missing persons seem to be accounted for. We have already filed around twenty cases of missing people and are doing our best to crack this case and figure out the culprit for this atrocious act," Private Detective Andrew Connors says.

Any help from witnesses who can help identify the terrorists will be deeply appreciated. If you have seen anything, you are urged to call 1300-1323."

313 drops the newspaper she found on the sidewalk and walks over to a public payphone, with a few silver coins she found lurking around at the nearby wishing fountain.

"One-three-zero-zero-one-three-two-three, huh."

Pick up, pick up,

"Hello?"

"Hello, I have information on the destruction of the International Lab of Scientific Experimentation on Criminal Subjects,"

"Name?"

"Carolyn Walker,"

I'll be borrowing your identity for quite a bit, Carolyn Walker.

I hope you're not resting in peace.

Humans are so weak yet so strong.

What dark irony.