Twisted Strings

Prologue

In a dimly lit cell, barely illuminated by a flickering overhead bulb, a little girl, no older than ten, slumped lifelessly in a chair. Her neck bore the grotesque evidence of a violent demise, snapped in half. She was dead, or so it seemed. The weight of a decade in this nightmarish existence had finally crushed her, or at least that's what she thought.

The air in the cell hung heavy with the stench of despair as the girl's limp form experienced an eerie stillness. About twenty seconds passed, each ticking by like an eternity, until the impossible happened. Her broken neck slowly mended itself, the bones aligning with a grotesque symphony of snaps and cracks. A sudden gasp echoed through the cold walls as life returned to the girl.

She sat up, breathing heavily, her hand instinctively reaching to touch the now healed but still tender skin of her neck. "Fuck," she muttered, frustration etched across her face. Why was death so elusive? Why did it slip through her grasp like water every time she tried to grasp it?

In a fit of anger, she kicked the chair in front of her, sending it clattering to the far end of the cell. Head between her knees, she despised the relentless persistence of her existence. Her family was gone, victims of this wretched place that had molded her into something she couldn't quite comprehend.

The girl's mind swirled with confusion. Why was she spared when others, stronger or more cunning, had met their demise? She wasn't the best among the marionettes; 006 excelled in killing, and 002 in manipulation. Yet, here she was, grappling with an inexplicable immortality.

For the past seven months, she had questioned her undeserved survival. Picking up a rock from the cold, damp floor, she hurled it at the wall, unleashing her pent-up anger in a futile attempt to escape the confines of her own mind.

The metallic door of her cell creaked open, revealing the ominous figure of Dr. Ivanova. He spoke in Russian, inquiring about her well-being and any side effects from the serum. The girl remained silent, her eyes fixed on the floor. A sudden slap across her face jolted her back to reality. Dr. Ivanova's cold eyes bore into hers, demanding a response.

"I asked you a question, you little freak," he sneered, contempt dripping from every word. The guards, ever loyal to their sadistic overseer, flooded into the cell. With ruthless efficiency, they unleashed a torrent of blows upon the defenseless girl, each strike accompanied by a chorus of pained grunts.

The next day dawned cold and unforgiving. The air in the cell still carried the remnants of the previous night's brutality. The little girl lay on the hard, damp floor, battered and bruised, her petite frame a canvas of pain. Her wrist throbbed with a persistent ache, a harsh reminder of the violence inflicted upon her.

With great effort, she pushed herself into a sitting position, wincing as the soreness in her body protested every movement. Bloodstains marked the floor beneath her, testament to the merciless beating she had endured. As she attempted to stand, her legs trembled beneath the weight of both physical and emotional agony.

Resting her head against the cold, unforgiving wall, the girl allowed herself a moment of respite. The solitude of the cell enveloped her, a suffocating cloak that mirrored the desolation within her soul. The dim light overhead cast eerie shadows, dancing across her broken form.

In the oppressive silence, a soft voice, familiar yet distant, echoed through her consciousness. "You're okay" it whispered, a phantom presence that defied logic. The girl's eyes widened as a spectral figure materialized before her. A ghostly visage of 002, the marionette who had been like a little sister to her when they were alive.

"You're strong," the ghostly 002 spoke with a childlike innocence, her eyes gleaming with a warmth that contrasted the harsh reality of the cell. "They can hurt your body, but they can't break your spirit. We're all with you, you know?"

The little girl blinked back tears, the ghost of 002's presence offering a bittersweet solace. "But why, 002? Why did you all have to die?" she choked out, her voice a fragile whisper.

002's ghost crouched down beside her, an ethereal hand reaching out to gently caress her tear-streaked cheek. "We were too much for them, too unpredictable. They couldn't control us, so they eliminated the threat. But you... you have something they fear. A resilience that even death can't extinguish."

The girl clenched her fists, determination flickering in her eyes. "I don't want to be strong. I just want it to end," she admitted, her vulnerability laid bare.

002's ghost smiled, a gesture that held both sadness and reassurance. "Strength isn't always a choice, but what you do with it is. You have a purpose, even if you can't see it now. We believe in you, all of us."

As the ghostly figure faded away, the cell returned to its oppressive silence. Yet, in the solitude, a flicker of strength ignited within the little girl.

-CHARLIE

sorry for such a short prologue! I just needed to get it out since i've been delaying it :)