somebody ; minsung

XXI ; subject 17

"Years ago, the miracle metal Adrantine was formulated by scientists in this very laboratory. It is designed to respond to neural output, combining intuitive bionic elements and a built-in computer system to create the best tool ever made by man. Its potential is virtually limitless.

"The project is called the Bionic Warfare Initiative, or BWI. Our goal is to use this perfect weapon to settle not just the war between the east and the west, which has caused endless anguish for both sides — but to end every war in the world.

"Human subjects are needed to make this hope a reality. Each is a soldier saved from the brink of death, each is a hero in more ways than one. You are Subject 17, part of Generation 4 of Oracle Laboratories' cyborg soldiers.

"Unfortunately, all subjects must have their memories erased. For past subjects, waking up as a cyborg has been overwhelming. There was an incident where many lives were put at risk. But trust me when I say you agreed to be part of this program. You signed these documents — this is your signature here."

I stare at the monitor, at the holographic scribble that reads 'Park Ujin.' Nothing about it is familiar. Neither is the reflection in the glass, the unmoving face staring back at me.

"How am I supposed to know this is my signature?" I ask, barely a whisper.

Dr. Song doesn't pause. "Why would you suspect it isn't?"

"I... I don't know. This is all new to me."

His eyebrows push together. He walks closer and leans into the glass.

"You would be wise not to ask such questions in the future."

I swallow. I can't help but feel vulnerable. My body is frozen, trapped inside a glass capsule. I can't even turn my head or flex my hand. There are two armed guards behind him with big scary-looking guns in their hands.

"Okay," I murmur. "Sir."

He nods. "Good. You'll be inspected, then taken to the gymnasium for an evaluation."

He types for a minute and then the holographic monitor dissolves into thin air. A loud ca-chunk and the glass pod disconnects from the wall. The guards walk forward, flank it on either side and push it across the room.

Dr. Song leads the way through the hall. Tunnel-like, windowless, concrete floors, fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling. Through a pair of doors is a laboratory bustling with scientists. The room slows and stares as I enter.

The pod is lowered backward to the floor and the glass casing is removed. I have to close my eyes, shun the bright lights above. Fingers prod at my body, rough and clinical. They lift my arm, needling at the joint, poke around inside my mouth and stick a cotton swab up my nose.

I wait for it to end, trying to breathe evenly. I still have hope I could be caught in a nightmare. Why would I ever willingly sign up for this? Either my reasoning was flawed or someone lied to me. My mind is hollow, my thoughts nearly echo. Whoever I was before might as well be dead.

I open my eyes when the bright lights wane and disappear. They're carting me through another hallway, into an industrial-sized elevator. It whirs and dings as it descends. The doors open to a sleek gymnasium outfitted with odd-looking exercise equipment. The guards push the pod into the middle of the room and move back against the wall, guns raised again.

Endoskeleton, appendages, anatomic function restored.

Shivers course through my body. I didn't realize there were wires plugged into the back of my neck till they pop out and recoil into the wall.

I push the glass shell open, stagger forward and drop to my knees. The room is filled with human-shaped dummies, dead-eyed, leering back at me. Two mirrors, one placed high on the wall, too far up to use, while the other claims the entire left side of the room.

I push myself to my feet, shaky, approaching the mirror. Even from a distance, the thing walking toward me in the reflection — I can tell it isn't human. Oracle Laboratories cyborg soldiers, the perfect weapons.

Christ, what have they done to me? My body is mechanical, only my collarbones and up are spared. There's a patch of uneven skin below my left collarbone, a faded blueish stain. Half of my head is buzzed short, one eye is a matte black, no iris or pupil.

"Subject 17, at attention."

It's a crackly voice sounding over an intercom. I didn't realize I was being watched. Now I understand the mirror looking down over the showroom.

"This is a test to evaluate your aptitude in intuitive combat. The dummy to your left — destroy it."

"Destroy... how?"

The voice doesn't answer. Okay. Hopefully this is multiple choice.

I start for the dummy — and stop in my tracks. I look down at my hand. It twitches. The deep-navy skin fluxes and dances.

My arm narrows and lengthens into a razor-edged staff, curling into a hook at the end.

Something shifts in my mind.

I close in on the dummy and slash its head off with the stroke of my hand. I hack away until it's just a scrap of rubber on a weighted base. Once I start, I can't stop. I'm shaking with energy, panting like I've never breathed in my life.

The intercom is ordering me to stop. Eventually the guards restrain me, hold me steady with steel rods while a plug is forced into the nape of my neck. My body goes numb and collapses.

Even the feeling of helplessness, computerlike shut down... it all feels so familiar. Natural. Like muscle memory.