Twisted Death

0. Fourteen Years Ago

A growl broke the silence in the lab.

Standing up from his chair, Dr. Tokioka looked at his guinea pig - a fresh corpse of a skinny man strapped to an operating table with red and green IV lines connected to his limbs. The body rumbled like an empty stomach as the almost non-existent muscles swelled. Then the man's eyes snapped open, displaying red-streaked whites.

Suddenly, the man roared. Was it pain? Or anger born of an interrupted rest? Tokioka had yet to find the answer as none of his creations had ever spoken to him properly.

The man's bloating muscles struggled against the metallic shackles as his liquid excrement puddled underneath him. The stench pierced through Tokioka's mask, stung his nose and pushed acid up to his throat. "I'm sorry," he mumbled with a wince, "but this is for the Necrolyzation Project. I must prove my worth to the Mafia."

Necrolyzation was more than reanimating corpses. Once a scientist filled a body with some special serum, one would grow big and strong enough to resist bullets and lift armored trucks. Like a shortcut to be a massive, yet lean bodybuilder with extraordinary strength and durability one would say. But unlike the natural process of bodybuilding, the subject would lose most of his senses. A dish from a renowned chef wouldn't even arouse one's olfactory nerve and taste buds; at most, the subject could only feel how the food toasted or froze his tongue. The process might even warp the subject's personality.

Despite its side effects, this technology of raising the dead enticed a portion of the town's biggest mafia organization - Millennion. Heck, these people were the ones who first thought of fiddling with the dead actually. The monstrous products of necrolyzation - the necrolyzers - would do very well in mob wars and other shady business.

The loud cry continued, tearing and searing Tokioka's heart. Actually, the mere concept of necrolyzation went against what his parents had taught: one must treat the bodies of the dead with respect, not turn them into some expendable super soldiers for a mafia organization. Yet Tokioka never had the guts to honor his parents' teachings. You rejected the Mafia's offer? Well, have fun sleeping with the fishes.

To be honest, Millennion scared Tokioka more than necrolyzers. Unlike these undead giants, the Mafia worked in a group; you hurt one, ten would come to make you pay.

The restraints snapped, and the newly created necrolyzer thrashed  and screamed. The IV lines came off, spilling crimson and green fluid everywhere.

Heart thumping hard and fast, Tokioka picked up the drenched towel from one of the desk drawers. As his guinea pig sat up, he rushed to the operating table and pressed the piece of cloth against the subject's face. It silenced the giant and sent him off to dreamland.

After leaving the towel on the necrolyzer, Tokioka retreated to his desk and let out a sigh of relief. He rested for some time - until his heartbeat slowed a bit - before forcing his shaky hand to take a mobile phone out of his coat pocket. This necrolyzer had to go into the isolation chamber soon.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Coming." Tokioka stood up and approached the entrance door. Perfect timing; if it were his employer behind the steel double door, he could show his work and report the averted disaster.

It wasn't his employer.

A man in a black suit stood before him, his brown eyes staring into Tokioka's. Lights glinted off his glasses and slicked back hair, and like a typical Millennion mafioso, he had a well-built physique. A briefcase rested in his hand.

Tokioka immediately recognized him as the famous Brandon Heat. Hailing from the slums, the young man first started out as a small-time Millennion loan shark. Now, he had become a hitman in the Mafia - an ace hitman, to be exact. Just give him a hit list and the money, and he would get the job done quickly and efficiently. Many said that his street fighting skills played a major role in his success.

Stepping back, Tokioka stammered, "How c-can I h-help you, Sir?"

Brandon walked past Tokioka and towards his desk, further instilling fear in his heart. Even if he wanted to fight back, how could he grab his weapons from the desk drawers? He couldn't report this to the higher-ups either; his employer - another Millennion mafioso - had hired him secretly after all.

The fact that Brandon knew about this secret research only bothered Tokioka even more. He wasn't supposed to wet his pants as a grown-up, but Brandon just made him want to.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Tokioka closed the door gently. His cowardly and selfish nature would make him obey Brandon for sure, even if the hitman demanded a mass necrolyzation - a grave insult against his parents' teachings. Yet Tokioka couldn't help it; his primal instinct just begged him to survive.

"Let's make a deal, Doc," Brandon said invitingly as he put his briefcase on the desk.

"Y-yes." Assuming a poker face, Tokioka sauntered towards Brandon. "What is it?"

Brandon shifted his gaze to the slumbering giant. "Necrolyzation..." He turned to Tokioka. "Let me be your guinea pig."

"Wh-what?" Tokioka's eyes widened. "For God's sake, Sir! Why would you want to be one? Why would you forsake the good life you're currently living?"

"A hitman never lives a good life." With a click, Brandon flipped the briefcase open and revealed bundles of money in it. "Anyway, you can have these if you agree."

If Tokioka's jaw could reach the floor, it would have reached it by now. Why was there a man who would refuse the eternal slumber called "death?"

"But if you disagree," Brandon spoke in a low, rumbling voice, "this will talk." He took a pistol out of his suit and pointed it at Tokioka. "Forty years old is still quite young for a scientist, Doc."

Just a mere look at the black, long-muzzled horror turned Tokioka into a trembling jelly. Sweating with his heart hammering wildly against his chest, he gulped. "M-may I ask a question before making my decision?"

Brandon nodded.

"Why do you want to be a necrolyzer?"

"Doctor, my life is short," Brandon muttered, his face an impassive mask, "but I want to keep protecting Millennion." His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on the pistol. "For Mr. Asagi, Millennion's founder and the father I've never had. When I die, dig up my body and necrolyze it."