Alex struggled back to his confined space, his energy spent after the recent, miserable encounter with Dr. Arnold, the resident psychological tormentor.
His hands trembled visibly, a residual effect of the chemical cocktail Arnold had forced him to consume. This harrowing experience, Alex realized, had inadvertently given the doctor a new avenue for refined cruelty: the targeted infliction of systemic discomfort. He already anticipated the escalating horrors Arnold would devise once the full data from this experiment was compiled.
On the positive side, Alex savored a minor, if costly, victory over the sadistic warden, Adrax. He was reasonably certain his second strike had cost the brute an eye—a satisfying piece of payback, though he instantly regretted not aiming for a more sensitive target. The impulse to finish Adrax off right then and there had been overwhelmingly strong. However, he knew that an act of murder, even if successful, would immediately escalate his situation past the point of no return—a "game over" scenario that he was absolutely unwilling to risk.
Adrax served, in every practical sense, as Alex's primary jailer and source of personalized torment. The aging man's cruelty was often sexually driven, evidenced by his literal arousal during the torture sessions. Alex couldn't count the number of times he had cried out in agony during one of Adrax's horrific "game times." It was truly vile.
He vividly recalled one incident where Adrax decided to test his flexibility, demanding he touch his foot to the back of his head. Despite his daily rigorous training, Alex was no contortionist. Adrax, finding the failure unacceptable, deliberately shattered his leg, laughing and proclaiming the resulting suffering a magnificent piece of "art."
Alex desperately hoped Adrax would be indisposed for a substantial period. This fragile hope was overshadowed by the catastrophic possibility that APEX had already cracked the code to mass-produce healing potions from his blood, a development that would fundamentally destabilize this universe's version of the strange-verse. The notion of a nicer replacement warden was so absurd it was almost comical, a stark reminder of his hopeless situation.
It was impossible to pretend any part of his captivity was beneficial. The treatment by Adrax was 99% detrimental, with the fractional 1% advantage being a forced, accelerated understanding of his **metahuman abilities.
He grimly noted that three months had passed since his abduction. He had missed his favorite holiday, New Year's, forced instead to spend it as an imprisoned, experimented-upon metahuman.
His days were now characterized by a crushing monotony, stripped of life or color save for the frequent, inevitable splashes of red. Torture had become ROUTINE. Broken bones and violent clashes were now simply habitual occurrences. Everything had settled into a grim, predictable sequence. He found himself anticipating the particular anguish and pain from either the maniacal Dr. Arnold or the brute Adrax, establishing a symmetry of predictions in his mind. The pain was generally expected, though sometimes it exceeded his perceived threshold, but the constant jeering and collective indifference had been internalized.
Though constantly battling depression and fear, Alex always managed to regain his composure within a few hours. He had developed a grim mental exercise: comparing current pain to the "unforgettable" agonies of his past to either find solace in its lesser severity or resignation in its advancement. This mental routine eliminated the element of surprise, allowing him to simply count down the minutes until he was dismissed back to his cell.
He realized this grim predictability was a gift. Predictable events allowed for adaptation, whereas the unknown was the single greatest terror in this environment. Yet, his impulsive strike against Adrax meant that predictability was now destroyed. Change, he sighed, was unavoidable.
Regarding his powers, he had confirmed subtle, non-monumental changes. His overall healing factor had increased in speed, but he had identified a critical flaw: regeneration of critical organs was significantly slower than the rest of his body. Adrax had once shot him in the spine, and that specific injury required over four agonizing hours to heal fully. He knew that a direct hit to the heart would currently be fatal—a weakness he hoped his captors remained ignorant of.
Alex registered an observation beyond his physical development: a subtle, burgeoning intellect. He wasn't suddenly a genius on par with Einstein or Newton, but the changes were significant enough for him alone to perceive.
This improvement became apparent during the scientific chatter of Dr. Arnold and the other researchers. While the bulk of their terminology was lost on him, Alex found himself, over time, comprehending fragments of their complex discussions. Crucially, the answers or understanding would often arrive randomly, long after the conversations, during quiet moments in his cell—a sudden, unbidden surge of insight. This was remarkable, considering his own limited background in advanced science, despite holding a Biology degree.
This cognitive leap led Alex back to questioning the true nature of his metahuman ability. The synchronous development—growing stronger with physical stress, and now seemingly absorbing and processing information passively—suggested his entire system was engaged in a deep form of adapting. This was Darwinian natural selection taken to an extreme: the ability to conform and evolve to both physical and mental necessities. The applications, he recognized, were phenomenal.
Alex also noted a peculiar side effect: his brain had developed a mild "science fetish." When his thoughts were allowed to wander, they often defaulted to geeking out over scientific concepts within his limited knowledge base. Though sometimes annoying, it proved to be a new form of constructive thinking. Despite its utility, he swore he would never willingly open another science textbook.
These were the key observations he'd gathered in three months, knowing full well APEX undoubtedly had far more detailed—and chilling—explanations for their new guinea pig. He desperately hoped they remained unaware of his developing intellect, a capability that would only invite more invasive procedures, perhaps tearing open his skull for study.
Having access, however limited, to his metahuman gene was bad enough. Finding that he was evolving simply by listening was like handing APEX a literal guidebook on how to "fuck the world in two steps." The potential for catastrophic outcomes was absolute. This cemented his desire for escape, though he recognized it remained a pipe dream; he couldn't pass the current floor without being instantly riddled with lead. His only choice was to bide his time, grow stronger, and wait for the perfect opportunity to bolt. At least tomorrow can't be any worse... Right?
.
.
.
The next morning shattered any hope of predictability.
"What is this? What is the meaning of this? No... No... No! This can't be happening!" Alex's thoughts dissolved into chaos as he stared at the figure before him: a man, gagged, bloodied, and bound to a chair. Sniffles and tears marred the victim's face, displaying the extensive torture he had already endured. The man sat slumped, utterly defeated, his resigned eyes focused solely on Alex.
Alex stood frozen, unable to process the situation.
The command, delivered remotely through concealed speakers, was simple, devoid of context or fanfare: "I-039, take his life."
A moment later, Alex stared blankly at the result: the man's slit throat. His stomach churned, his brain fuzzy with the shock and the horrifying memory of his own action. Though the command was only stated once, it relentlessly replayed in his mind.
The victim's initial look—a mixture of fear and dawning realization—was the first clue. A part of Alex instantly grasped the impending horror, but his conscious mind violently refused to accept the inevitable conundrum.
When Alex was led to his front, the man shook violently in the chair, vainly struggling against his bonds, his pleading eyes leaving a suffocating lump in Alex's throat. As Alex's mind finally began to piece together the scene, the voice boomed again: "I-039, take his life." The words were dispassionate and clinical, akin to a detached order given to a machine, jolting Alex into abrupt, agonizing realization.
He remained rooted, scanning the victim's face, beaten beyond recognition. The absence of sharp cuts suggested the extensive bruising was inflicted solely by blunt force, maximized for pain. A faint sob brought Alex out of his daze as the man's dried tears overflowed. Every hiccup, tear, and choke grated on Alex's conscience, bringing him to the brink of tears himself.
"What else? What else would they make me do?" The thought ignited a furious blaze in his nerves, screaming against the inhumane act. He turned towards the lone guard by the door, ready to lash out.
He froze instantly, remembering the chilling words spoken to him upon his initial arrival, before the torture began: "Mr. St. Cross, from what I've heard, you've been refusing our offer... you were under the impression that you had a choice. Even if it takes us breaking every single appendage in your body, you WILL fold. Am I understood?"
Alex desperately wanted to refute the involuntary compliance, but his body remained frozen, turning back to face the victim with tears momentarily dried in his eyes. He lost the war for control. The man, sensing the finality, stopped struggling, his muscles relaxing.
In that silent exchange of gazes, Alex moved forward, his mind unnervingly calm—too calm—as if everything was falling into a swift, horrific synchrony. He picked up a knife from a nearby table, ignoring the gun placed beside it.
Reaching the victim, they exchanged a last, profound look. Alex raised the knife, slid it across the man's throat in a swift motion. Blood splattered his face as he held the dying gaze, finally comprehending his total entrapment. No matter his training or strength, he was utterly stuck in their hands—APEX
His brain processed the slow fade of life, every drop of blood and the dying light in the victim's eyes permanently etched into his memory.
"Congratulations. Draugr!"
**"Hail APEX !"**
**"Hail APEX !"**
The words registered in the background, but Alex couldn't focus on them. He was consumed by the sight of the man he had just murdered. Whether the victim was a criminal or a saint was irrelevant; he didn't care.
Only one thought burned with absolute clarity: For what they made me do, APEX would burn.