Chapter 35: Chapter 35
Beelzebub approaches the exit door...
He pauses, tilting his head to glance back at the rows of cells behind him, his golden eyes catching the dim overhead light. His grin broadens as his gaze lingers on the engraved number above cell #12.
"Royalty," he muses aloud, his tone carrying both admiration and mockery. "How delightful that even the highest find fun in this. Such… potential."
He lets the thought hang in the stale air before turning back to the door, his blackened fingers brushing along the edges of the interface. Another praise to Santos...disabling the cameras. The console flickers to life, a cold, mechanical voice crackling through the speaker.
"Please state your name, identification number, and clearance code," it drones.
Beelzebub's grin widens. He rolls his shoulders, loosening himself. When he speaks, his voice is uncanny—perfectly mimicking Santos down to the nervous edge in his tone.
"Mark Romero Santos. Identification number 891-AC-91380. Security clearance code Tango-Alpha-Bravo-7-3-9er," he says smoothly, every inflection precise.
The console beeps in acknowledgement. The system pauses, then continues its routine. "What was the name of your first pet?" the voice asks, neutral but probing.
"Max," Beezelbub answers without hesitation, a casual lilt in his tone. He leans closer to the console. "Good boy, that Max. Loyal to a fault." He chuckles to himself, the sound light.
Another beep follows, and the questions deepen.
"Describe your emotional response to a situation where you are powerless to change the outcome."
Beelzebub's expression doesn't falter. "Acceptance of circumstances beyond my control," he says. "While striving to maintain inner peace." He punctuates the statement with a sigh.
The machine continues, "Describe the sensation of falling into the abyss."
Beelzebub tilts his head, considering. "Abyss," he murmurs, his voice trembling ever so slightly, mimicking Santos. "Dark… consuming. Like… nothingness pressing against every inch of your soul."
"Do you find comfort in the darkness?" the machine presses.
"Abyss," Beelzebub whispers again, softer, a hint of hesitation creeping into his tone. "No. Never comfort. Only… only fear."
"Do you feel the void pulling at your soul?" the console asks.
"Void," Beelzebub repeats, his voice faint, barely audible.
"Do you find solace in the void?"
"No," he replies, curt and clipped, his voice almost breaking.
"Is there a part of you that fears the void?"
"Yes," he breathes, as though reluctant to admit it.
The questions continue without fail or deviation...
"What's it like to lose yourself in the embrace of oblivion?" the final question probes.
Beelzebub's smile falters for a fraction of a second before he answers, his voice barely above a whisper...
"Lonely," he says, injecting the faintest tremor.
The console processes the responses, its lights flickering. After a tense pause, the system finally speaks.
"Baseline test 73% passed. Access granted. Identity confirmed. Welcome, Santos," it announces, the door sliding open with a soft hiss.
Beelzebub's grin returns, "Why, thank you," he says cheerfully, stepping through the threshold.
**
Emily Arkwright stands amidst the controlled chaos of the analyst room, her sharp gaze scanning the streams of data scrolling across nearby monitors. Her dark hair is pulled back in a taut ponytail, emphasizing the elegant lines of her face. She holds a tablet tightly against her side as she speaks, "The situation outside is escalating faster than anticipated. If the protests spill into the containment zones, it could become more than just a PR issue."
Lucas Hartwell, seated a few desks away, swivels in his chair, his posture straightening as he interjects. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his glasses slip slightly down his nose, forcing him to push them back up with a distracted finger. "Emily, has there been any word from the families?" His voice rises above the din, drawing the attention of nearby analysts. "Any of them going public about their kids? If they start talking, the pressure on us—"
He stops, glancing at the room. Adjusting his glasses again, Lucas leans forward. "I mean, someone has to be speaking out, right? Missing kids don't just… disappear without people noticing. And if the public catches on—"
Before Emily can reply, the faint sound of hurried footsteps approaches. A tap on her shoulder makes her turn, and she finds herself facing Grace Myrs. Grace's sharp bob gleams under the fluorescent lights. Her lips barely move, her words low but urgent. "Emily. Look."
Grace's eyes dart toward the far side of the room, where the heavy security door stands. Her body is rigid, her hand resting lightly on Emily's arm.
Emily follows her line of sight, turning her head just as the door hisses open with a soft pneumatic sound. The noise barely registers in the room's constant hum, but what steps through makes Emily freeze.
A figure—a child, barely a teenager—stumbles into the room. His movements are slow, almost feral. His clothing hangs in tatters, streaked with grime and what unmistakably looks like dried blood. His bare feet leave faint smudges on the white floor, and his blackened hands, equally bloodied, hang limply at his sides.
For a moment, the room seems to blur around Emily. White locs frame his gaunt face, stark against the blood smeared across his cheeks. But it's his eyes that lock her in place—brilliant gold, like molten metal, glowing faintly under the harsh lights. Those eyes meet hers across the room, and for a heartbeat, it feels as if nothing else exists.
Lucas's voice cuts through the thick air, faltering, half-formed. "Who…" He's half out of his chair.
Emily's legs carry her forward before her mind can catch up. The tablet slips from her hand, landing on the desk with a muted thud. The child's head tilts slightly. The corner of his mouth quirks—but not a smile...
Beside her, Grace lets out a trembling gasp, her hand shooting up to cover her mouth. Tears streak her face. "They said… they said they were taking care of the children," she chokes out. Her fingers press against her trembling lips as if trying to force the words back in. "But we didn't know—oh God, we didn't know it was like this."
Emily's gaze flicks toward Grace.That door. She'd passed it countless times, always assuming it led to the databanks or the animal testing facilities. But this…? Her breath stops in her throat. What the fuck have they been doing?
Lucas turns fully now. His face goes pale, his mouth opening and closing as if the words are caught somewhere deep in his chest. When they finally emerge, they're faint, barely audible. "Dear God," he breathes, the phrase escaping on a shaky exhale. "What are they doing to them?"
The room shifts like a wave. Heads turn toward the door, eyes widening as they take in the boy's state. Reactions ripple through the crowd—shocked gasps, muffled sobs, and stunned silence.
In the front, a young analyst with short, curly red hair steps forward hesitantly. Tara Benson, usually the first to crack a joke or offer a comforting word, now wears an expression of quiet resolve that barely conceals her fear. Her green eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, dart between the child and the faces around her. She takes a shaky breath, her voice trembling as she speaks. "What did they do to you?" she asks. She extends a hand halfway, hesitant...
The boy doesn't react immediately. His golden eyes flick to Tara's outstretched hand, then back to her face.
Before the child can utter a single word, an earsplitting alarm shatters the tense silence in the room. Lights embedded in the ceiling flash red.
An automated voice cuts through, its tone mechanical. "ALERT: SECURITY BREACH. LEVEL ONE. ALL PERSONNEL STAND BY. ALERT: SECURITY BREACH. LEVEL ONE."
The analysts freeze. Desks clatter as analysts scramble to clear out of the main pathways, their movements frantic and uncoordinated.
The heavy thud of boots pounding against the polished floor grows louder. The analysts turn their heads in unison as the double doors at the far end of the room burst open. Dozens of soldiers in black camouflage stream in.
Weapons are drawn in perfect unison, the metallic clicks and clacks of safeties disengaging sending shivers through the air. The soldiers fan out, positioning themselves in two precise lines along the edges of the room. Their expressions are hidden behind black helmets and visors.
A single soldier steps forward from the formation. He halts at the center of the room, his posture stiff yet jittery.
Clearing his throat awkwardly, the man addresses the room, his voice raspy. "I am Sergeant Lowry," he announces.
Lowry glances nervously at the analysts, his eyes darting toward the blood-streaked child standing silently by the door. He swallows hard before continuing, his voice trembling ever so slightly. "I am now in command of this operation." He straightens his back. "Everyone is to remain calm and step away from the subject designated as #13."
The analysts exchange uneasy glances but remain rooted in place. The child, unmoving, tilts his head slightly, his golden eyes flickering under the harsh red light.
Lowry's eyes dart nervously to the soldiers behind him before snapping back to the analysts. "I said step away!" he barks.
Grace, still trembling near Emily, whispers under her breath, "This is insane. They're treating him like some kind of bomb."
Lucas, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of a desk, leans toward Emily. "Do we… do we comply? What's going on here?"
Before Emily can respond, Lowry tries to step closer to the child, his movements hesitant. "This is your last warning," he says, his voice rising in volume but faltering. "Stand back, or we will take action."
As Lowry makes small steps the analysts finally find their voices.
"How could you?" shouts an older man from the back, "This isn't what we signed up for!"
"You're experimenting on children!" another woman yells, her face twisted in fury. Her hands grip the edge of her desk, "You've turned this place into a nightmare!"
More voices join in. The analysts begin to close in around Lowry demanding answers.
"This isn't right!" one man near the front calls out, jabbing a finger toward Lowry. "You can't just treat people like lab rats! You're monsters!"
Lowry's already shaky composure begins to crumble as the analysts press closer. He raises his weapon, his movements jerky and panicked. "Stay back!" he shouts, his voice cracking as his hand trembles around the grip.
The crowd hesitates for a moment. They continue to close in.
Lowry's breathing grows ragged, his chest heaving. In a final, desperate act, he tilts his gun upward and fires a single deafening shot into the ceiling.
The sharp crack echoes through the room and silencing the protests in an instant. Dust falls from the ceiling, drifting like snowflakes in the red-tinged light, and the analysts scatter backward.
"Step back now!" Lowry barks. He swings the weapon in an arc, his finger dangerously close to the trigger. "Or I will order open fire!"
The analysts freeze, their eyes darting between the trembling sergeant and the soldiers behind him, who stand at the ready, their weapons aimed.
Lowry swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly as sweat trickles down his temple. His grip on the gun tightens as he raises it, the muzzle now trained directly on the child. His hand trembles, the barrel wavering slightly.
The child raises a hand slowly. Just as Lowry's finger begins to tense against the trigger, Emily steps into the line of fire.
"Stop please!" Emily cries. "This child has done nothing wrong!"
Lowry hesitates, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. It's high-pitched, almost hysterical. "Nothing wrong?" he echoes, his eyes darting nervously. "Do you even—" His gaze shifts past Emily, landing on Tara Benson, who is standing dangerously close to the child, her back turned.
"Hey! Get away from him!" Lowry shouts.
Emily doesn't move. "This is beyond inhumane," she says. "As God as my witness—"
Her words die in her throat as a voice cuts through the air. No, not the air—it seeps into their very minds, a cold, invasive presence.
"Pray to whatever god helps you sleep," the voice sneers...
"None will answer you..."
The room falls into a silence. Soldiers shift uneasily, their weapons clutched tightly, while analysts glance at each other with wide, panicked eyes.
Tara, closest to the child, turns back toward him, her expression flickering between concern and morbid curiosity. She opens her mouth, her voice tentative, trembling. "Did you hear that—"
Her words are cut off by a loud, wet crack.