Hey I know I've been gone a while but here me out. I kind of forgot my password a while back and got a bit disheartened, so I didn't bother trying for some time. Finally sorted it out last week, and now I'm back!
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I used to think I was born from nothing but bad luck. Two people broken by different flags, stitched together by pain. My mother was an MK‑Ultra castoff, a ghost from a project the United States pretended never happened. And my father was one of the USSR's psychotronics test subjects, their answer to the same question: can a human mind be turned into a weapon? Both governments decided the answer was no. "No" meant they were useless, dumped back into the world with sealed records and fractured minds. Under improbable odds, they found each other years later, two ex‑experiments in the same support group under the guise of something else. Trauma was their common language. And from that came me. A child they swore would never be part of the darkness that made them.
For a while, it even worked. My early years were pretty quiet. We had a small apartment, secondhand furniture, and pretty mundane dinners, but home was home, so I thought. I saw my dad smile from time to time, and my mother humming while she cooked. They tried to be normal. But normal doesn't hold when the past leaks into the present. Yet a guess that doesn't account for power. At three years old, I instinctively blurted out answers to questions no one had asked as if reading their thought or guessing what the weather would be like in a couple of hours. At five, kitchen drawers slid open by themselves when I got angry. By seven, lightbulbs popped when I cried. At first, it was welcoming to my parents; they thought of me as "gifted." But what I felt at the time, only what I could understand now, was utter fear and terror.
By the time I was ten, the panic and dread were all that was left. The same people who had been victims and loved me unconditionally now saw me as the experiment. Every flicker of my power dragged their nightmares back to the forefront. I caught my mom crying in the hallway, whispering that I was "one of them." Like that made sense, the more she told herself, My dad wouldn't console me anymore, let alone smile or even look me in the eyes. Yet on the occasional occasion, they did, hoping I was gone. It was unbearable. Not fear of what might happen to me, but fear of me. That and sheer Disgust. That was the look burned into my brain the night the black vans rolled up.
I remember the knock. Not at all frantic, just the foreboding sense of finality. Men in dark suits. Claiming me under the guise of "containment," "public safety," "national security." My parents didn't fight. They didn't even speak. By that time, I was twelve, barefoot, as I wasn't afforded shoes, let alone socks. I tried clinging to a doorframe, yet they pried my fingers off one by one. The last thing I saw as they dragged me out was my mom's face, pale, unashamed, rigid, her eyes not of fear but now of righteousness. And my father doesn't get me started on that bastard; he wouldn't even meet my gaze. That was the night the child in me died. And Subject 001 was born in a windowless transport van.
The base they took me to wasn't on any known map. I learned to stop asking where I was. When what they called training began, at first, it started out as just shock therapy was used when they thought me, disobedient. It meant nails pulled when I was trying hard enough, or waterboarding to see how I would react in a fight or flight. And drills until I bled from my nose and ears. They sought obedience, control, and the weaponization of power. They claimed that with my abilities, I was the next step in human evolution, "the future of war,". I was a fucking science project, a living curse. They'd wire me into machines, force images/information into my head. Asked me countless possible futures until my tongue went numb, and made me move objects until my vision went white. They wanted a perfect hybrid, a being that epitomizes mind over matter, along with machine.
For six years, I did what they asked. I learned to push code straight into systems with my thoughts, to read the thin shimmer of probability before it unfolded. I learned to move metal like water. And induce madness within men. They called it progress. I called it surviving, as at the time I thought myself limited. But inside, something hardened. Every time they punished me, every time they measured me while denying the name I once lost, the harder I grew. Until it wasn't fear keeping me in line anymore, it was planning.
They never understood that prescience isn't just about seeing what's next, as it also gives the opportunity to shape it. I saw updates of their security systems before they built them. I saw the exact day one guard would leave a keycard too close to my cell. I saw many possible mistakes before they could happen. And when everything fell into place, I acted.
It wasn't clean. People died. A lot of them. Some by me turning experimental creations against them, or controlling the other guards to gun down my torturers, while others had the unfortunate fate of being impaled by random objects. At the time, I was conflicted. I didn't know if they deserved it. Either way, I ended up not caring, as all of them were complicit in some way, shape, or form.
But freedom wasn't really freedom. I knew too much. I could never live a normal life in a world that cultivated me in a lab. So I started thinking bigger. They'd taught me every scientific and biological matter under the sun, in the hope I'd weaponize it for them by paring it with my prescience. They thought they were controlling me. Only, they were feeding me the blueprints of my desire, I swear, government lackeys will be some of the most stupid people you will meet.
Precognition gave me the map. Technopathy gave me the tools. My mind bridged gaps no computer could, turning equations into reality. With enough energy and precision, space can fold. Dimensions can touch. They called it impossible. I called it a one-way ticket to my dream vacation.
The destination being Westeros itself. Primarily due to bias, it was one of the few things that gave me comfort, a fictional world that, when read, made me feel alive. At first, it was safe fiction to keep me compliant. Yet now it was something I could enjoy to all my desires. When I built the portal, I built it to somewhere I already understood to some level. A world brutal yet, easy enough for me to thrive to unimaginable heights, a technological backwater world that allowed my abilities to thrive beyond belief, A world soon to be mine.
Now standing at the edge of the impossibility, eighteen years old and previously dubbed Subject 001. Will finally gain freedom.
One step through, and there will be no going back. The blast will erase every trace of me in this world, at least. On the other side awaits fire and ice, kings and knives.I chose it. For the first time in my life, the future isn't something they can influence on me, force on me. It's something I'm walking into.
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Hope you enjoyed, I don't mind any criticism as long as your respectable about it. P.S be on the look out for my upcoming TVD is coming out( I know I have an issue not finishing fics)