Kryptonite-01B-069A, experiment 168. Always going on about 'humans' and 'feelings'; it gets annoying sometimes, doesn't it?
Yeah. Kinda.
But, everything happens for a reason.
Krypton was a normal kid from birth, he was originally called Raven; but there was one thing that set him apart from the others. He was smart. Incredibly smart. It was strange. He learned to read, to write, to speak, to walk, way before all of the other kids. At one year old, he had the mind of a 3 year old. They bring him to school earlier, way earlier. He was younger than the other kids, who were 5 and 6. Almost twice his age. He never had much of a childhood due to this. His parents were strict with him, always begging him to be perfect, overly perfect. And so that's what he tried to do. He wanted to make his parents proud of him! While other kids had fun, and got to play games, he forced himself to revise and study, that's what his parents told him to do. They said to him: "Your studies will always matter more than fun, Raven. In the real world, you have no time for 'fun'." They told him. They always reminded him that he was a failure if he even remotely made a mistake. But, like all kids do, he didn't understand at the time how abnormally high his parents' standards were for him.
The children in school always picked on him. He was always the youngest, but smartest, in the year group. He didn't have any friends, but he preferred it that way. No distractions; no worries. He would spend hours and hours on end studying for class, for tests, etc. He skipped meals sometimes just to study. This made him slightly underweight, which was also a factor that helped with the bullying. But, he never let the words get to his head, because he knew they were stupid, uneducated, and that's why they picked on him. He knew they just wanted to be smart, but they were not. No one ever interacted with him, not even the 'weird' kids in highschool. He was isolated from everyone else, it was just him, and himself. And he preferred it that way. He found peace in loneliness early on, and that's exactly how he wanted it to be.
As he grew older, he grew a passion for computer science, and engineering. He loved to fix computers, phones, ipads, pretty much anything electrical. His parents always wanted him to pursue English, to become an author, or a teacher. But, when they found out about his ongrowing love for computers, many years later, (he was 17 at this time) they said something which would change his life completely. Their words were: "If you like all this. . robotic and . . tech stuff, how about you become one yourself?!". Obviously, he thought they were joking, and he would laugh. He would reply sarcastically, but in a friendly way. He mentioned how they didn't have the money to do that. And that was their plan.
Just mere weeks after this conversation, his parents sold him to a company working for the royal family. A war was going to take place, tension between his country and another was close. He woke up, blindfolded, in a cold, damp room, the walls laced with rot and mould. He couldn't see, or speak. Something was up, and he was going to find out. He had tried to move his hands at the time, but he was sitting, his hands tied to an old chair, on the brink of caving in. He would start to panic, but he couldn't scream. He would writhe around, horrified. And as he heard footsteps, he thought he was going to be saved; but that wasn't the case, A scientist appeared in front of him, greeting him. The scientist would take his blindfold off, before explaining how he was sold by his parents to take part in a war, to be converted to a machine, an immortal one. His heart sank in desperation. The scientist then told him how this process would take years, about 8 years. This shattered Ravens guts into a bajillion pieces. He would try to contradict, to argue, but to no avail. He couldn't speak. His ability was removed. And so he looked up at the scientist, a pathetic look on his face, pleading for mercy. But this scientist didn't show mercy, no guilt, no remorse. He would be untied from the chair, but immediately sedated, in order to prevent escape. And then, the scientist walked out, and locked the cold, damp cell.
On the 2nd week of lying in the horrible cell, it would open. He lied on a stained mattress, stained with blood, bodily fluids, liquids, just horrible things, rotting away in between the fibres of the mattress. The springs were rusty, and would snap sometimes. It had no sheets, no pillows, no blanket, no bed frame, nothing. Just a dirty old mattress lying on the floor. Gosh knows what else could be living in there. He would be dragged to a surgery room with violent force, though he wasn't resisting at all. He was grabbed by his wrists, and dragged along the blood-stained floors of the laboratory. He was flung on to a surgery bed, his shirt would be taken off of him, and he was strapped down. There was no anaesthetic, not at all. These cruel scientists would grab out a marker, a surgery knife, and a bone saw. He immediately knew what was going on. He would try to resist, to escape, but nope. They did have anaesthetics, but they didn't want to use them on him. They wanted to torture him. The scientists would mark where on his arm they wanted to cut off. The whole arm, shoulder down. As his body was cut into, his nervous system would ignite, sending waves of anguish through his body. He would try to scream, but he couldn't. He braced the pain, squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he possibly could, and as what once was his arm dropped to the floor, he looked in horror. The pain surged through his body, creating a dull, stinging ache down his spine. They would do this to his other arm too, and they would leave the wounds unattended, only just wrapping them up in toilet paper. He was then unstrapped, and, now by the hair, he was dragged right back to his cell, and locked once more. The pain was horrid, his breathing heavy.
After almost 2 months without arms, he was dragged in again. The same process took place to start with, he was dragged, and strapped down. This time, they had some sort of prosthetics. They looked scarily advanced. As they connected the wiring to where his arms once were, it was a painstaking, slow process. It took almost 3 days to put on these prosthetics, and, still by the hair, he was dragged back to his cell, again. The cell hasn't gotten any better, there were spiders into corners weaving intricate patterns in the corners. They were his only friends. He would pick them up, and would stare at them. He would admire their works of art, his eyes tracing every single inch of the webs. They felt no pain. They were safe here. He envied them. He hated this place. All he wanted was freedom, just like these insects, that are so very unaware of problems, of what was going on.
He was left in his cell for 3 months now, only the occasional scientist coming to give him 'food'. This, as we can tell, was not human food, it was petrol. They didn't want him drinking water, or eating food in general. They wanted him to get used to petrol. It tasted horrible, and made him dizzy, made him sick. But they force fed him soon after he refused. He almost died, due to this. He learnt his lesson, and so he drank the horrible petrol, and held his vomit down. The petrol would make him weary, tired. He was being poisoned, but the scientists obviously didn't care enough to give him real food. He was inferior; merely a subject. He hated it.
A few weeks after this, he was tested on again. This time, they were cutting off his legs. He was trapped down once more, and they would grab the knife, the marker, and the saw. They would mark the place which they wanted to saw off — which was from the thighs down — and would then, like last time, slowly saw into his legs. They meant to do this, they wanted him to suffer. He then writhed in pain, trying to escape, but to no avail. One of the scientists would grab a hammer, smacking it directly into his temple, and he would immediately be knocked out. When he woke up, both of his legs were gone, and he was in his cell. He felt dizzy, and he would then lie down, and sob.
And then, as we can expect, after 2 months without legs, he was dragged by the hair to the surgery room again, and the prosthetic legs would be attached to his body, painstakingly slow, and this time it took longer, as they messed up. Eventually, they managed to finish their job, and he was dragged to his cell again, and left there, with a can of petrol, which he would drink, hesitantly.
As time went on, the procedures were less frequent. He had one once every year, and about five years passed. He would get less and less to drink, it was as if he was being forgotten about in a way. But, eventually, a scientist would bring him to the surgery room, and they would grab our different equipment than last time. The scientist would then explain what was going on. His memories, his brain functions, were going to be uploaded on to a hardware storage device, and would replace his brain. This process would take days, the scientist stated. And then, he was put under anaesthesia. When he woke up, his whole head would be completely robotic. He looked different. He wasn't Raven anymore, and he was then given his code name. His name was Kryptonite-01B-069A. He hadn't had any human interactions for years, he was spoken very little to, and he could not speak.
Another two years passed by, and he was yet again forgotten about. But, eventually, a final procedure would take place. His torso was now going to be replaced mechanically. This process was going to take about a year, and had a high death rate. He was relieved, he wanted to be released from this torture. He wanted to die. He hated his life, himself, everyone around him. He was then put under anaesthesia, finally happy about his sweet release. . . But no. He would wake up eventually after a year, and he would look around. He was surprised. Krypton was still inside of the surgery room, and the scientists around him would cheer, in surprise, in victory. They converted a human into a machine. They told him he could speak now, but he refused to speak, in case it would be used against him. He was then taught to use guns. They had implemented fast reaction time into his systems, and coded him. He was forced to fight in a war, now. Many of the colleagues died, but he did not. He was immune. He would fight all day every day, never getting a break.
Eventually, this war did end, but what would they do with him now? Well, they just. . dumped him. Left him to roam. He roamed for years, wondering about feelings. He didn't remember ever feeling anymore. It seemed to have been deleted from his memory. It was strange. He didn't know what feelings were, what anything was, He was always trying to decipher feelings. Human feelings.
When he spoke to himself, his voice would be faulty. He knew she should've spoken to those scientists, there and then, and he wouldn't have ended up sounding so stupid. But now it was too late.
And now we are here.
