Work Text:
You can't make out your reflection in the mirror, the steam from your hot shower obscuring your reflection. The shower has relaxed your muscles, they’ve become tired and lazy as a result.
Nevertheless - you raise your hand, placing your palm on the cool glass. The most clears, replaced by droplets revealing your bare torso. Despite your bangs covering your eyes wholesale - you're still able to see past them.
It must have been five minutes - maybe ten - as you continuously started at your reflection. All the details, from the color of your skin and hair, to the shape of your jawline, the amount of fat on your body, the shape of your pupils.
It all faded together.
Like a blur, indiscernible to you.
You traced your jawline with your fingers, eying the reflection in the vein hope that what you feel would translate onto the mirror.
But the more you looked… the more the shape you feel on your fingertips contradicts the motions on the mirror.
You let your hand fall to your side.
It's no use.
You slump out of the bathroom, your head still hazy even after that ‘relaxing’ shower.
That entire experience did nothing to help you feel at ease or ‘calm’ yourself.
If anything; the haze you still feel in your head has gotten worse.
You look over to the bed. The clothes picked out for you, they were cheap as hell - to look like ‘you picked them out for yourself’. Well they weren’t wrong.
However they were ironed and folded out so neatly, wearing them would feel like an insult to whatever soul did this deed for you.
Then again, whoever’s doing is definitely not doing this out of the good of their heart.
You felt the malice underneath the layer of professionalism and politeness, the look in their eyes revealed more than words ever will.
Slipping off your towel, you put on the boxer shorts and vest provided for you. Your hand and arms worked clumsily, the rim of the vest wriggled as it made its way to your waist.
You moved your attention to the shirt, they thankfully unbuttoned it for you.
You know stitching those buttons through those holes using your thumbs in this state would be hell for you.
As your palms pushed themselves for the sleeves your mind began to wonder…
It didn’t take long for your brain to latch on to those memories again.
As your thumbs struggled to push a single button through the hole - a side affect of your body being on autopilot - you were transported back to that place.
“This one’s a failure,”
Remembering those words caused your shoulder to itch.
Your eye strained under the light of the small torch, the person pressed their entire thumb on your eyelid. He grumbled; clearly unsatisfied.
“I thought we would finally get THE one. This one was supposed to be different!”
He drew away his torch, pushed himself away from you - the fast squeaking of the chair's tiny wheels could have grated your ears - and agitatedly scribbled something on his work desk.
"All these experiments I thought I finally did it…”
“All those freaky suits at the top… they’re single minded, power hungry - they’re children! Immortality is no different to a the rawest, shiniest action figure. Just a new toy for them to give themselves a status boost. They want to show off!”
He turned his attention back to you, his eyes filled with malice.
“Then there’s you… you were a little punk. But that’s what made you so perfect. Recreating Kamui for the express purposes of harvesting silver eyes… they tell the public these shelters are for the express purpose of developing the perfect civilian. I’m more interested in that, someone obedient, someone who can listen, someone emotionless. It’s perfect for someone like me. I loathe people, i disgust their stupidity, their single mindedness in chasing after product, their unhegenicness, their lack of manners. You would show them all!”
The button came undone just as you finally looped it over.
You glanced to your lower body, the pants they gave you were looped through your ankles, they haven’t been pulled up yet…
Since when did you put them on?
You lifted your face up, the room began to rotate, there was a sharp throb coming from your head, like a needle was being pushed through your skull inside out.
Your chin shivered.
He moved his thumb over your chin.
A noticeable scowl on his features.
“They thought they could achieve their goal by making mental clones of Kamui, maybe that would produce their precious silver eyes…”
He let go of your chin, looking at you with disgust.
“You don’t even know, what happened before this moment do you? From your time of birth to now, all of that’s been erased. Good.” There was a smug satisfaction in his voice when pronouncing that final word. “It was nice to completely eradicate a person’s individuality like that. You weren’t going to be a mere Kamui mental clone, you were supposed to be THE Kamui. THE obedient soldier.”
He stepped out of his chair, turning his back towards you… abandoning you.
“I didn’t get the ideal Kamui, i just got an empty husk. The second best thing for me personally, but not like they care. You can’t produce silver eyes, you can’t perform basic tasks… you’re useless on all fronts. A failure.”
He opened the door of the room, his silhouette obscuring the light.
His neck rotated slightly to face you - still can’t see his damn face - then his final words to you.
“This MASPRO programme has run it’s course, maybe a new one would begin again but like I care… Anyway; I’ve marked you for disposal. Look forward to that.”
You caught your composure. If you leaned even more - just an inch more - you would have fell over.
A strange sensation was in your chest, left hand side.
You placed your palm over the spot and a rhythmic thumping sound was discovered. The pace was quick, like it was frightened.
And just like that it died down.
What a bizarre feeling.
You traced the edges of your shirt, only three buttons were closed, four remaining.
You look over to the clock, roughly fifteen minutes left until they get here.
You should really finish clothing yourself but this fuzziness in your head makes it really difficult.
As your thumb presses onto the first plastic of the button you can't help but wonder… is this feeling really real?
Is this button supposed to feel this specific way? Why this feeling specifically?
You state at the open flaps of your sorry once more and swivvel your head around the apartment they've given you.
Are you really seeing things through your retinas or through a camcorder? The way the colours 'pop', the textures of the surroundings, the atmosphere… it has an uncanny feeling you cannot place.
You should really get back to work.
Distract yourself from thinking about those blasted memories, most of it are blacks anyway, why should it matter?
Too late.
You held the button tight with your thumb and index, the edge of the button made an indent on your skin.
You thought to yourself: Why DID I have that flashback? After all you barely dream - Heck, you barely sleep - but; when you do sleep, when you do dream…
It's always the same dream over and over.
You dream about men.
Different kinds of men…
You pictured them right this moment, an older looking men in red sunglasses, a University student in a white jumpsuit, a tall man with his eyes obscured, a long haired man with an eyepiece, a blonde man smoking a cigarette…
You have no idea who any of these people are. You have never met them… and you may never will… but everytime you dream about them… picture them you get a twinge.
Just a slight twinge…. Of familiarity.
As if you've known them all your life.
You notice how your thumb is on the cusp of bleeding, the button dangerously close to buttoning your skin.
You let go of it.
You glanced at the clock again, the fifteen minutes have passed.
You locked on to the front door, he hasn't arrived yet if you rush it you'd be able to be finish in time.
But just as you scramble to tediously loop the buttons through the slots on your shirt… the doorbell rang.
Silence fell, you couldn’t bring yourself to reach the door.
It rang again.
You wished it was still 5:00 AM where you were just laying there on the bed; watching the moon fall.
It rang yet again, they ringing became a lot more prominent as each second passes.
If you had a few more minutes left… if you hadn’t had 15 minutes to waste…
You gave in, waddling over to the front door, the sound of the doorbell already devolved into a hungry war cry. Awaiting your arrival. To gobble you up for your disobedience.
You decided to open it up anyway, in spite of the fact your pants were still down or that you’re shirt was still open.
You reluctantly opened the door… and you were met with him.
Him and his square-ish head and buzz cut, his sunglasses hid away his humanity - the window to his very soul, his wire can be seen clearly behind his kneck.
His suit looked better than yours, even if it looked exactly the same.
There was something about the material, the way he dressed it on himself.
He definitely did not spend most of his time changing his clothes thinking about… things.
And he definitely was never put in a situation where he had to answer the door without pulling up his pants first.
You could tell that he eyed you up and down, and his cheeks tugged with disgust.
"I see you haven't finished changing yet," He grunted, grabbing your shirt.
He did, in ten seconds, what took you ten minutes to do, closing up your shirt. He even took time to smooth it out.
"A detective needs to look his best, even if you're not a… thinking person."
The man pulled up your pants, tucking your shirt into it. As his eyes rested onto your face, you could sense the man was frowning on the inside even harder.
“How could you see like this?” He aggressively parted your bangs, you could feel the different strands on your forehead, parted away from your eyes.
"Get your tie.” He commanded, you wasted no time obeying him, your thoughts would have wondered if you went on your own.
“Don’t forget to grab your suit.” He mentioned offhandedly.
Again, you picked it up as you commanded, the tie slung around your neck, the noose imagery was not lost on you.
As you came back, the man carefully tied your tie, properly. It must have been a relief to you that you didn’t have to do it yourself.
“I probably would be doing this anyway, I came here to pick you up but what I’m in fact doing is babysitting you,” And in that time, a perfect double Windsor was made. “For the time being anyway, that will be the problem for whoever your future co-workers will be when we get you ‘transferred’.”
You followed him, putting on the clean pair of slip ons they provided for you and awkwardly pushing your arms through the sleeves off the suit jacket.
He turned to you. “Get in the car, we can’t keep our contact at the Tower High-rise waiting.”
- - -
You sat at the back of the car, watching the world pass you by, eventually everything blurred together. From the square and rectangle buildings, the grey and unappealing sky, the people wearing clothes in the same two colors… black and white, every detail every crevice… it was all manufactured.
This entire city, this “Ward”, it’s made specifically to put everyone in boxes, even a child should see this much, individualism in this world is a crime. The vaccine? A death sentence.
Your spine tingled, you could smell death in the air and it was cold, sterile, calculated.
It was like a computer could bleed and the smell represents it’s programming.
How many heinous crimes have you ignored on your way to the place?
How many ‘criminals’ ill you be forced to ‘process’.
‘Process’.
Why give another word for killing unless you wish to distract yourself from the hard truth about the job.
‘Process’ is what they made you do when they placed you in that apartment room.
That gilded cage.
Processing information, like a machine.
Information about this Ward, about the procedure of the Heinous Crimes Unit, details of your soon to be co-workers.
It was a part of their plan after all, whatever that may be.
“You're a silent fella, huh?” The man at the steering wheel grunted. “I can’t sake the feeling that you’re just like
him
. Someone from the 24th HCU, a big guy too.”
You didn’t answer.
“They called him Big Dick by the way.”
Even if you could react… you wouldn’t want to.
He grunted. “Tough crowd.”
Silence fell for a while longer.
Until he broke it.
“Well, since we’re nearly there; I should remind you of the purpose. You are going to investigate the Bayside Tower Highrise, we have a contact from the 24th HCU, you’d have to investigate the crime scene before this Ward’s HCU gets to it. If all goes according to plan you’ll be given a name and transferred to the 25th HCU.”
You took a mental note of this.
“It was a piece of work getting our contact to make it look like you transferred from her Ward’s HCU…” He glanced at you. “We uuuh… we broke up years ago and I think she wants me dead.”
You decided not to take a mental note of this…
“Anyway, you’ll be informed more when we get there.”
With that being said you glanced at his windshield, you could see something getting bigger and bigger the closer you got to it.
You rolled down the window next to you and stuck your head out.
You could see it as clear as day, even as its beige colour palette blended into the dull grey sky.
It was impossible to miss… the aforementioned high-rise.
It was an imposing monster, a symbol of the sterile cleanliness this place represents.
It lacks personality, multiple strips of concrete represent the Towerland, all 80 floors.
It’s a symbol of the Ward, alight.
A symbol of the kind of society is being perpetuated here.
T
hese are no living quarters, they’re farms, made specifically to weed out those who are unfit to live in this society.
The car came to a halt, you sheepishly brought your head back in the car, rolling up the window.
The man turned around and looked at you.
“You won’t exactly be my problem anymore, but I don’t think it’ll hurt to tell you my name…” He adjusted his glasses.
“Michiru Kosaka.”
You step out of the car.
It’s time to for you to face the future, your story.
It’s time for the observation, it’s time for the…
#0 PROTOTYPE