Dreambreaker

Extraordinary

The dimly lit chamber of the underground laboratory stretched out before Simon, humming with the quiet, rhythmic pulse of machinery that kept the Regime's most prized operations running. A faint, sterile scent lingered in the air—a mix of antiseptic and something darker, something primal that Simon couldn't quite place. The temperature was cold, bordering on frigid, yet Simon barely felt it. His mind was consumed by the decision he'd just made, the monumental shift that now hung over him like a weighted cloak. The signature he'd scrawled on Chancellor Voss's immaculate document had sealed his fate.

He had consented.

Consent was a rare commodity in the Regime's laboratories. Most subjects brought here—like the rows of students suspended in glass test tubes around him—were taken by force or manipulation, harvested for their abilities, broken down and rebuilt into something useful. The difference for Simon, Voss had said, was his choice. He had chosen this path, chosen to serve The Regime, chosen to ascend.

He had chosen to survive.

Simon shuddered, though it wasn't the cold that caused the tremor to ripple through his slender body. His skin was taut over his bony frame, pale and scrawny from years of malnourishment and neglect. The days of his childhood, when their household income dwindled after his father's disappearance, had left their mark on his body—a stark contrast to the perfect, engineered forms floating in the tanks around him.

The lab was quiet, save for the constant hum of machines and the soft bubble of liquids that bathed the unconscious bodies within the test tubes. The students inside the tubes were at various stages of transformation. Some looked peaceful, their bodies slowly reshaping themselves under the influence of science and dark magic. Others, though...Simon swallowed hard as his eyes caught sight of one who looked more like a corpse than a student, skin drawn tight against bone, eyes vacant and glassy.

Success or failure. Life or death. There was no in-between.

Voss had promised that Simon was different. That he was special. Exceptional. He had even used that word. The Chancellor's voice echoed in Simon's head, urging him forward.

A sharp voice pulled Simon from his thoughts, cutting through the ambient noise like a scalpel. "Simon Knight?" Dr. Finch stepped into the room, clipboard in hand, his eyes as cold as the metal instruments lined up on the nearby table. He was older than Simon had expected, with salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to match the sterile atmosphere of the lab. His white coat was pristine, and his hands moved with the precise, detached grace of someone who had performed this process many times before.

Simon nodded, his throat too dry to speak.

"Take off your clothes," Dr. Finch ordered, not unkindly, but with an air of authority that brooked no argument.

Simon hesitated, fingers trembling as they moved to unfasten the buttons of his uniform. His hands shook as he peeled away the layers, each movement feeling like a shedding of his former self. When he was done, he stood there, exposed and vulnerable in the dim light. The harsh glow of the overhead lamps cast his reflection against the metallic walls, showing every rib and scar, every inch of the malnourished frame that he had carried since childhood.