Nameless

Specimen

Am I going mad?

Every day, the hunter observed the busy routine of the oomans. Poking, prodding, walking around him.

They seldom spoke these days, a new policy after one dismemberment - which resulted in a later death.

They never spoke to him.

Which led him to some sort of detachment, almost estrangement to the memory of his name.

His eyes unfocused for a moment, while he tried to invoke memories - situations where people had called after him. Yelling, murmuring, moaning. In anger, in indifference, in pleasure. As a warning, as a form of hold his attention, as...

The hunter blinked when a specific staff member inched closer. He was not looking at the ooman. He could tell each one of them by their smell, the sound and rhythm of their steps. By how much fear soured their scent when they needed to approach.

To come too close.

This ooman in particular was new to the staff. New member were not a novelty, tough. Very feel would stick for more than 70 days - or what he deemed days, at least. The ones who stayed longer, however, were around for entire cycles. Again, according to his perception.

The hunter marked the passing of time according to the oomans routine.

There were no cues - visual or otherwise - about the passing of time.

Just the restart of the oomans routine - he marked the beginning of a new day by the a series of actions they would take in the same manner and ( and it would seem, for the same purposes) and mark the end of it when he was left alone. Then a pair of oomans would pass by him in similar intervals. He had measured those intervals  in breaths.

Guards.

The pair of oomans guards would vary - a different pair every day. There were three pairs. On rare occasion, a different ooman would do the rounds with one of the know guards.

As for the staff. Scientists, for sure. Some medical training - but not to all of them.

The team had 22 members. Usually 6 would visit him everyday.

Aside for the daily routine, their presence was more inconsistent, save for 4.

All of them used the same type of garments. They hid their hair under awkward caps, hid the lower half of their faces with soft masks. Used synthetic gloves, with a sterile to them.

Never, ever, touched him directly. Always gloved. Gloved hands would rarely touch his body, and always with intent.

He knew their agenda.

For the past 27 days, they were analyzing muscle tissue on his limbs.

The hunter thigh was cut open, the scaly skin cut in ways that allowed them to observe what was going on underneath.

Needles linked to electrodes were pinned across the muscles.

He could barely feel when his leg moved.

His left calf, left foot, left bicep. His left hand - fore, middle finger and thumb.

Half skinned, muscled exposed, pins, involuntary movements.

The hunter kept his stare to the ceiling. He was aware of all of that, but the oomans would think him catatonic if they not knew better by now.

So part of the hunter's brain kept musing, toying with memories of the sound of his name.

***

The hunter's breath hitched.