Chains That Bind Us

We were the test subjects—I was subject 259 among them. Here, we have no names. We are identified only by numbers, mere pawns in a cruel game orchestrated by the Governor, Zareth. When the pandemic struck, killing half the population, including my mother, we were taken from our homes and thrust into this nightmare once we turned sixteen.

The Governor's announcement is still seared into my memory. His name is uttered only in whispers, for even speaking it poorly is a crime punishable by death. We dwell in the Land of Oblivion, a place divided by misery. The rest of humanity struggles in the Infernal, while those afflicted by the sickness are left to die in the Echoing Abyss. It is a place of darkness and horror, where the afflicted have transformed into what we call Nightwalkers.

These creatures, once human, are now gaunt and skeletal, their flesh mottled with necrotic patches, and their eyes—hollow and intense—pierce through the shadows with a dreadful hunger. They only emerge at night, driven by an insatiable craving to hunt. The pandemic transformed them into these grotesque beings, and in the aftermath, the world lies in ruins, incapable of defending itself. The Governor, in his twisted wisdom, decided that sixteen-year-olds would be used as test subjects in the Oblivion, forced to battle these Nightwalkers.

We are injected with small amounts of Nightwalker blood, refined and diluted, intended to grant us their strengths. This process also bestows us with extraordinary powers—telekinesis, water manipulation, fire, thunder, and air. Yet, I was not so fortunate. I am a Dualis, multi-dular, a rare and dangerous anomaly. I wielded more than one power. Subject 122, the last known multi-dular before me, wielded both water and fire. His power was deemed too great, and he was executed. Dualis are considered uncontrollable threats due to their ability to wield multiple powers, leading to devastating failures in previous experiments. The Governor’s fear of such power resulted in the elimination of the last multi-dualer and the destruction of many Testers.

In Oblivion, one is assigned to a specific group based on their power: telekinesis, fire, water, thunder, or those without any power. The powerless are utilized for daily experiments in hopes of finding a cure. The rumours say that we may remain like this forever, trapped in a cycle of violence and despair.

Every day, subjects are forced into the Echoing Abyss to hunt Nightwalkers. Many never return. The Abyss is aptly named; it is a place of torment where the chances of survival are slim. To determine our fate, we must first endure three trials where we are pitted against one another. Few survive past the third trial before being sent to the Abyss. The wealthy observe our suffering from their luxurious seats, turning our plight into a spectacle. They bet on our lives, enjoying the twisted entertainment while the poor outside in the Infernal struggle for scraps.

We are paraded before the cameras, compelled to smile and proclaim our dedication to our country, only to be sent to kill each other and then drugged, waking up in the Echoing Abyss as mere prey for the Nightwalkers.

Now, at seventeen, it is my turn to be tested. The Testers’ voices cut through my thoughts. "Welcome to The Infernal Reckoning. We are here to assess your powers and determine your place among us. We had to wait for the blood injected into your system to fully develop."

Their words are cold and clinical. "Subject 259, go to Room C. Your test awaits you."

I freeze, my heart pounding as I take in the sterile surroundings. With a deep breath, I nod and make my way towards Room C- the room that will decide my fate.

The metallic clank of the heavy door echoed as I entered Room C, a chamber that exuded the cold and clinical efficiency of an execution chamber. Flickering, harsh lights cast eerie shadows across the room, making the atmosphere even more unsettling. Blood tubes hung like grim decorations, and the walls were linked with sinister, interlocking machines, their sharp edges glinting ominously. Monitors beeped rhythmically, tracking the heartbeats of subjects like a morbid metronome. Medical knives and needles were strewn about, alongside documents detailing both failed and successful experiments.

At the centre of the room stood a cold, metallic table surrounded by these menacing devices, a tableau of fear designed to remind us that we were no more than test subjects. My gaze drifted to the mirror on the wall, where the tattoo "259" was emblazoned on my arm, a stark reminder that I had been stripped of my identity, reduced to a mere number.

I studied my reflection: tanned skin, long brown hair and brown eyes staring back at me. The reflection was a sombre reminder of my humanity, now overshadowed by the inescapable reality of my existence. The atmosphere was thick with palpable menace, a constant reminder of the dread that permeated every moment in this place.

My thoughts were interrupted by the Tester's voice. “Okay, are you ready to take the examination, Subject 259?” She held up my documentation, detailing my test results and personal history. My mother was dead, taken by the pandemic, while my father still lived. I nodded silently, feeling a pang of unease as she looked at me with soft brown eyes, a flicker of empathy breaking through the clinical façade.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said gently, her voice almost soothing. “We’ll get this over with quickly. We need to check your blood and vitals to see what powers you possess.”

The mention of the blood test made my mouth itch, and I winced as she prepared the needle. I watched as she drew a significant amount of blood, her demeanour calm despite the gravity of the situation. “I’ll be back once we’ve processed the results,” she said before leaving the room.

Left alone, I turned my attention to the documents she’d left behind. My name—Diana Stone—stood out among the sterile details: height 5'5", brown hair, brown eyes, father alive, mother deceased, no siblings, age 17. Seeing my information laid out before me made my stomach churn. I felt a deep, unsettling unease, so I sat on the examination bed, twisting my fingers anxiously.

I already knew what the outcome would be. After being injected with Nightwalker blood six months ago, I had discovered my powers during a practice duel with my best friend Lily. Lily, who possessed telekinesis, had been the first to witness my ability to control both water and telekinesis. She had sworn to keep my secret, allowing me to survive. The Testers were aware that powers usually manifested within the first six months or up to a year. They conducted blood tests at seventeen to ensure accurate records. Anyone found to be multi-dular was swiftly eliminated. The tragic case of Evan, Subject 190, another who had been killed for possessing both fire and thunder abilities, haunted me. His death was a stark reminder of the peril I faced.

A sudden commotion broke my reverie. The Tester from earlier reentered the room, her expression unusually tense. “I know what you are,” she said softly, her eyes scanning the room nervously. My heart raced, and I felt a wave of panic. I was sure I had switched the blood samples, so nothing could come up. This could be the moment of reckoning, the point of no return.

I stared at her, fear gripping me. “Are you sure you didn’t mix up my blood?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I hoped, perhaps naively, that a mistake had been made, as it was sometimes common during testing. She smiled gently, but her eyes held a depth of sorrow.

“There’s no mistake,” she said. “I’m not going to kill you.” Her words were a fleeting comfort, but I scanned her face for any hint of deceit. She looked around, then closed the door behind her, leaning in closer.

“I had a sister just like you,” she began, her voice trembling. “Her name was Aria. She was a multi-dular—fire and water. They killed her in front of me.” Her face contorted with pain, and I felt a pang of sympathy.

The reason she had escaped the fate that awaited us was losing one of her fingers to the trials—she was missing a finger, making her ineligible for the rest of the trials. “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling a rush of empathy. She shook her head, a gesture of dismissal.

“I don’t need pity,” she said. “But you must keep pretending. Use only one power. Being a multi-dular is a crime punishable by death; they see it as cheating life and being uncontrolled. I shouldn’t be saying this, but I want Zareth dead. His wicked games have gone on long enough.”

She revealed a tattoo on her arm—an emblem of the Defiant. “We are a resistance group,” she explained. “Some of us are Trainers, others are Testers, and some are currently in the trials. We’re waiting for a way to overthrow Zareth.”

I traced the tattoo with my fingers, absorbing the gravity of her words. Before I could ask further, a sudden scream pierced the air.

“He’s a multi-dular!” The words echoed through the hallways, and within moments, guards and Testers burst into the room, their expressions grim and resolute.

Subject 233 was dragged in, his face contorted in a mixture of terror and desperation. His eyes darted around wildly, locking onto mine. “Please, help me!” he cried, his voice a raw plea that pierced through the cacophony. His arms flailed as he stumbled towards me, his movements frantic. He reached out and grasped my arm, his fingers cold and trembling.

The sudden, urgent grip startled me, and I could hardly process what was happening. His eyes, wide with fear, seemed to search mine for any sign of hope. I opened my mouth to respond, to offer any form of comfort or assistance, but the words caught in my throat. My heart raced, paralyzed by a mix of fear and helplessness.

Before I could muster a response, the guards and Testers seized him. With a jarring yank, they tore him away from me, his cries of “Please, don’t let me die!” echoing as he was dragged down the hallway. His grip on my arm was abruptly severed, leaving me with the chilling sensation of his desperation still lingering on my skin.

I watched, frozen in place, as his pleas grew fainter, eventually swallowed by the distance and silence of the corridor. The harsh, clinical indifference of the Testers and the disgust etched on their faces as they dealt with him only deepened my sense of helplessness. My heart shattered with each fading cry, my breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts.

The room seemed to spin as I was left alone with the aftermath of the scene. The weight of guilt pressed down on me, suffocating and relentless. I couldn't save him, couldn’t intervene in his moment of dire need. Panic surged through me, constricting my chest and making it hard to breathe.

“Diana, breathe,” I whispered to myself, fighting against the rising tide of panic. I couldn’t afford to collapse now. If I did, it would only be another sign of weakness in a world where survival was paramount. I had to stay strong, to live for myself and for my father so that I could return back into his arms as his little girl. The harsh reality of the Infernal Reckoning had claimed another life, and I was left to grapple with the harsh truth that, in this place, empathy was a luxury that could cost you everything.

Emelia's the Tester, cut through the haze of my fear. “Back to the experiment room,” she said, her tone carrying an unmistakable edge of finality. I glanced at Lily, who gave me a sorrowful look before retreating back to experimenting room for her test results.

As I prepared to leave, I called out to Emelia softly, “Thank you.” Her name felt foreign on my tongue, but it was a sincere acknowledgment of her kindness amidst the cruelty. She gave me a small, understanding smile, nodding in acknowledgment before I stepped out of the building. Her quiet words followed me, “You remind me of her.”

In the cold, unforgiving corridors, I held onto that fleeting sense of solidarity, knowing that even in the darkest times, there was still a glimmer of humanity left in the world. I knew what I had to do, which was survive.

As I stumbled out of the building, tears stung my eyes, threatening to spill over. I blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back, but the sting of helplessness was overwhelming. Finding a secluded corner behind the building, away from prying cameras, I let my frustration out by kicking the wall. The impact reverberated through my body, and I could almost feel the echo of Subject 233’s final, terrified gaze.

"Why?" I screamed into the sky, my voice raw with anger and despair. "He was just like me!" My fists clenched, and I pounded the wall again, the harsh reality of the situation weighing heavily on my shoulders. I felt numb, hollow, consumed by the belief that I should have done something—anything—to help him.

A voice interrupted my self-loathing. "Done what?" it asked coolly. I spun around, tears mingling with anger, to face a tall figure. He stood a head taller than me, easily 6 feet 2 inches, with a muscular build that spoke of rigorous training. His brown hair was tousled with a blond streak in his hair, and his blue eyes were sharp, observing me with an unsettling detachment.

It was only then that I noticed the tattoo on his arm—300. My gaze lingered on the number. I snapped out of my daze, meeting his eyes with renewed irritation. "Well, number 300, " I said, my voice laced with contempt, not bothering to know his name. "Why don’t you go bother someone else? I’m having my alone time."

He smirked, the expression a mix of amusement and condescension. "Does your alone time consist of kicking walls and shouting how much you hate yourself? How pathetic."

His words stung, but I tried to ignore him, turning my back. "Why don’t you leave me alone? Don’t you have anything better to do?"

He feigned a thoughtful pose, glancing around as if considering his next move. "Nope, you’re quite the source of entertainment."

I shot him a bitter glare. "How nice."

Then he leaned closer and gently grabbed my face to look at him, a smudge grin on his face. "Does 259 have a name, or is 'a pretty face' all I get?"

I turned to him, my anger boiling over. Grabbing his arm, I twisted it sharply. "Don’t touch me," I hissed.

In a surprising turn, he retaliated by burning me. The pain was immediate and searing, and I gasped in shock. His eyes gleamed with amusement as he watched my reaction. "Well, I didn’t expect you to attack me," he said with a smirk. "And didn’t they ever teach you? Play with fire, get burned."

The pain intensified, leaving me with no choice but to use my water powers to cool the burns. The soothing chill of the water was almost immediate, and he watched with a raised eyebrow as the burns healed.

"Looks like you’ve cooled down a bit," he remarked, clearly entertained.

"I couldn’t hate you more," I said flatly, my voice dripping with frustration.

Before he could retort, Lily appeared, concern etched on her face. "What’s going on here?"

"Nothing," I snapped. "This fool is just disturbing me."

I grabbed Lily’s arm and started to walk away, my heart still pounding with anger and fear. Over my shoulder, I glared at the tall figure. He winked at me, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and called out, "I’m so getting that name!"

I could feel the challenge in his tone, a promise of more to come. With Lily by my side, I walked away, the encounter leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth and a sense that this was only the beginning of more confrontations to come.