Chapter 4: Lab Rat
A dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes was the first sensation to greet Hugo's return to consciousness. For a moment, he lay still, processing the simple, profound fact: he wasn't dead yet. The realization acted like a jolt of adrenaline making jolte upright, his body protesting with a chorus of minor aches and a profound stiffness.
His eyes darted around, taking in his new surroundings. He was in a cell, but unlike any he had seen in the waking world.
Four walls of seamless, onyx-black material surrounded him, their surfaces dull and lifeless absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. There were no seams, no doors and no windows Yet despite the apparent absence of a light source, the cell was illuminated in a soft pervasive, and sourceless glow, casting no shadows.
The furnishings were Spartan to the point of mockery. A single, smooth slab of the same black stone served as a bed, fused seamlessly to the floor. In the corner sat a strange, bowl-like depression with a faint, almost invisible shimmering field above it—a toilet of alien design.
'Wow. How generous,' Hugo thought, the sarcasm a thin shield against the cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach.
He was a 'special sample.' A lab rat for better words, The conclusion was so apparent even a blind person can see it.
'It must be because of my Aspect and Attributes,' he mused, his mind, sharpened by his [Extraordinary Memory], already racing to assess the situation.
Nothing about this aligned with the documented experiences of a First Nightmare. Aspirants were supposed to be integrated into roles—soldiers, scouts, nobles, even slaves in unfortunate cases but they were always part of the world, with agency and a defined objective.
But He was a prisoner in a cage with no clear objective or enemy , within a civilization so advanced it felt like a glimpse into a future humanity was never meant to see. A civilization that was about to face extinction soon enough, the ruins he had seen at the beginning of the nightmare were still a sharp image in his mind. That and the thing that brought said extinction
'A civilization doomed to end and that happens...' A shiver ran down his spine as he imagined himself burning alive with this place.
Hugo sighed, he had far more important thingsh to do then convincing himself he was a dead man.
Pacing the short length of his cell, He methodically considered his options. The simplest, most passive answer was to wait. To sit quietly and hope his captors' intentions were benign, or that the Nightmare would shift on its own
But Hugo was not a simple person. Passivity had never been his nature; it was a luxury for those who had something to lose but He had already lost everything that mattered.
'Alright. First things first, what do I know about my captors?' he began, structuring his thoughts like a report.
They possessed technology farmore advanced then that of the waking world even when spell tech is included, They captured individuals of multiple, wildly divergent species, implying either a vast empire or a terrifyingly efficient hunting operation. They also were intelligent, ruthlessly pragmatic, and saw other beings as specimens or inconveniences rather then creatures.
'Well, obviously they'd be smart,' he chastised himself. 'Otherwise, they wouldn't have been able to build all of this.'
The most logical conclusion was that they were gathering samples for experimentation. The 'why' remained a mystery, but the 'what' was becoming terrifyingly clear.
Sitting back on the unyielding stone bed, Hugo contemplated this scant information. It told him the 'what' but not the 'why' of this Nightmare's trial. What was he supposed to do? Escape? Survive the experiments? Overthrow his captors? If so, then how the hell was he supposed to do that ?
He was stranded, unarmed, and his only Aspect ability was a cryptic description offering no immediate power.
'The only thing I have right now is time... at least, I think I do.'
Pushing aside the rising panic, he shifted his legs, settling into a meditative posture that felt awkward and faintly ridiculous but was the only action available to him. He turned his focus inward, to the riddle of his own being.
'Blood, bones, flesh, mind, soul, spirit, and shadow...'
Six parts of his being remained unmastered. His theory was that mastering them would grant him new Attributes, which in turn meant new tools for survival.
It was a hope, a thread to cling to in the darkness. But the reality could be far grimmer. What if mastering them required specific, impossible catalysts? What if the process itself was lethal?
'Well, it's already bad enough that I don't know how to even begin,' he thought, a wave of frustration washing over him.
The mind had been mastered upon entry, likely because his intellect and memory were his inherent, defining traits. But how did one 'master' their blood? Let alone Their shadow, soul and spirit. These were abstract, metaphysical concepts that could only be accessed through aspects abilities.
Still he Refused to succumb to despair this easily, and so Hugo decided to start with his soul. It was the only spiritual component he had any academic knowledge of, as it was the core of every living being.
But What exactly was a soul? The most common answer you would hear from awakened academic is that It was the essence and animating force of every living creature.
Mundane humans possessed them, but they were like embers compared to the roaring furnaces of Awakened and Nightmare Creatures. The Path of Ascension, walked by conquering Nightmares, was the known method of empowering one's soul and ones soul core. From Sleeper to Awakened, to Ascended, to Transcendent... the ranks were a ladder of soul-forging and cultivation entirely dependent on the Spell trials.
But theories suggested that in the ancient Dream Realm, before the Spell as humanity knew it became this omnipotent existence there had once been other paths to ascend through the ranks and empower one's soul. They were Lost arts of self-perfection.
Why was that important? It mattered because these arts were lost and unknown to the humans of the waking world.
But Hugo was an anomaly, as his very constitution was altered and thus fundamentally different from other people.
'So, maybe... just maybe... I don't have to wait for the Spell... maybe.'
He closed his eyes, diving deep within himself, seeking the wellspring of his own existence.
He sat there, motionless, for minutes that stretched into hours. He sought a sensation, a warmth, a pulse—anything that felt like the core of 'Hugo.'
'....'
He found nothing. Just the silent, dark expanse of nothing. No hidden power, no glowing core. Just the faint hum of his own thoughts.
'Yeah... this isn't working.'
He exhaled, the sound loud in the oppressive silence. A more immediate concern surfaced.
'I'm hungry.'
As if on cue, a section of the wall to his left, no larger than his palm, hissed open without warning. A single, large black eye of a Grey creature stared in for a moment before a single object was tossed through the opening. The aperture sealed instantly, returning the wall to its seamless, impenetrable state.
Hugo looked down. On the floor lay a slender stick, glowing with a soft, internal green light.
He didn't move a single muscle, his eyes fixed on the object with deep suspicion.
'What the hell is that?'
It could be food, poison, or a part of some experiment. The fact that it glowed was not reassuring.
Minutes ticked by. The stick did nothing and nobody told him to do anything with it...
It just laid there, pulsing gently.
With a sigh of resignation, Hugo stood and walked over picking it up. The material was unnervingly smooth, cool and slightly pliable humming with soft energy.
'Am I supposed to eat this?'
'Fuck it.' Starvation was a poorer option than potential poisoning. Frowning, he brought it to his mouth and took a small bite. The material came away easily as He chewed with a disgusted expression, but the taste was surprisingly, deceptively pleasant—cloyingly sweet even, With each swallow, the gnawing hunger in his stomach subsided, vanishing completely by the time he finished the stick.
'Huh. So it's synthetic paste, but far more advanced and tastier then the ones in the waking World.'
Gods knew these were awful.
His eyes returned to the section of wall that had opened.
'So that's the delivery chute. Interesting.' He committed its exact location and size due to his [Extraordinary Memory]. 'Trying to escape that way would be suicide... I need a better opportunity.'
Resigned, he returned to his stone bed and the futile meditation, the silence and isolation pressing in on him until, exhausted, he eventually fell into a troubled sleep.
---
He woke up elsewhere. Again.
'...Why do I always find myself somewhere else every time I wake up?' The thought was a weary groan in his mind.
This time, he was supine on a cold, hard table. sadly it was not the police station basement...
He tried to move, but his wrists, ankles, and torso were held fast by bands of unseen energy, humming with a palpable force, gluing him to the surface.
The ceiling above was a pristine, sterile white. He strained his neck, taking in the room. It was obviously a laboratory, a symphony of advanced alien technology. Sleek white machines, their surfaces alive with cascading patterns of emerald green light, lined the walls. The air smelled of ozone and something else, something metallic and clean.
'Green is slowly becoming my least favorite color. ' he thought with a grimace.
His gaze finally landed on the room's other occupant. It was one of the Grey creatures, but this one was different. It wore no armor, instead it was adorned in formal-looking robes of black and green that seemed to absorb the light. It observed him with its large, black, unblinking eyes.
It coughed, a dry, precise sound. "Ahem, ahem. Greetings, Prisoner 777. I am Albedo. One of the brightest Galvans in this realm and second only to the First Thinker, Azmuth. You have the honor to be examined and tested by me personally. So You should be pleasantly delighted."
Hugo kept his face a mask of neutrality, but beneath the calm, a furnace of hatred roared to life. These 'Galvans,' and this 'Albedo' in particular, were the architects of his helplessness.
Hugo finally spoke for the first time since the nightmare begun, his voice hoarse from disuse. "...Are you going to kill me?"
Albedo tilted his small head, a gesture of genuine, insulting confusion. "Why would I waste my time on killing you? I could ask a drone to do that. You're not worth the hassle, human."
'Yep. I'm going to kill you first,' Hugo thought, the resolution settling in his soul like a shard of ice.
Albedo, utterly unaware or indifferent to Hugo's silent vow, continued in his steady, monotone. "You have been chosen from the countless prisoners to be a test subject for the First Thinker's greatest creation. As I said, consider it an honor. And, quite frankly, it saved your life. If you had not possessed such a… uniquely erroneous anatomy, you would have been sent to the Null Void with the rest of the prisoners and forced to work your entire life to repent for your crimes."
'The Null Void? A prison? So the body I inhabit is that of a criminal... one horrible enough to be sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor.' The irony was bitter. 'And I was spared that fate only to become a lab rat. Wow. How lucky.'
But another part of Albedo's speech snagged his attention: the 'First Thinker's greatest creation. Which sugguested this azmuth possessed some sort of magnum opus And Hugo was to be its test subject.
Albedo walked closer, then, with an effortless grace, began to float, rising until he was level with Hugo on the table. "You are truly a peculiar existence... Even the Nobel creatures we captured were not as fundamentally bizzare as you are." He eyed Hugo as one would a fascinating bug. "Your blood is all wrong, its cellular structure and energy matrix functioning in ways that defy biological law. Your bones and flesh are a patchwork of incomprehensible densities, with some sectors as dense as neutron star matter, others as soft as aerogel. But it is your mind that fascinates me the most. By all logical metrics, its chaotic neural pathways should have resulted in you being mentally retarded, yet you display cogent, even sharp, intelligence.." he paused for a moment "well some sort of intelligence at least. At first, I theorized it was a compensatory effect of your soul, spirit, and shadow's unique constitutions, but that was not the case. Your entire being physically and spiritually is a cascade of errors, all interconnected by a strange, unseen thread that somehow maintains your cohesion. It is… magnificent in its wrongness."
As he spoke, a holographic screen materialized before him, streaming with data Hugo couldn't comprehend.
"Well, enough talk. We should begin..."
Hugo's eyes narrowed. "Begin what?"
Albedo's lipless mouth stretched into a small, chilling smile.
"The experiment, of course." As he said the words, seven tall needles of polished white metal descended from the ceiling like silent, articulated arms. They were long, terrifyingly thick and tipped with points that seemed to shimmer, distorting the air around them. They positioned themselves over his chest, his limbs, his forehead.
"Wait! Please!" Hugo pleaded, his voice cracking with raw undisguised horror. It was a futile sound, swallowed by the sterile silence of the lab.
The needles struck.
The pain was not a single sensation, but a symphony of agony. It was a cold, invasive fire that erupted at each point of entry, burrowing deep into his tissue. He felt them grinding against his bones, seeking pathways through his flesh and his blood being assaulted by an unknown force
A scream torn from the very core of his being ripped from his throat—a raw, animalistic sound of utter terror and pain.
But it was only the beginning. The needles didn't stop at the physical. They pushed deeper, into a realm of sensation Hugo had never known. He felt them pierce the veil of his soul, a violation so profound it dwarfed the physical torment. It was like having the core of his identity scraped raw. His spirit frayed and snapped under the onslaught, and on the table beneath him, his own shadow writhed and twisted as It was was pierced by the shadow of the long needles.
Through the overwhelming pain, he felt something foreign being injected. It was not a liquid, but a raw, concentrated potential, an alien energy that sought to rewrite his essence. And horrifyingly, his body, his soul, his spirit and his shadow did not fight it. Instead They accepted it betraying him instantly, drinking deeply of the invading substance with a terrifying insatiable hunger.
It was as if the fundamental alteration described by his Aspect had made him a barren field, and this violation was a torrential, poisonous rain he was desperate to absorb.
His senses overloaded. He felt his cells screaming as they mutated, his soul swelling to the point of fracture, his spirit breaking and reforming in jagged new patterns, his shadow stretching and contorting to encompass the entire room in its silent, suffering mimicry. The pain was so absolute he could not even welcome the relief of unconsciousness; the foreign energy and his own ravenous aspects kept him brutally, excruciatingly aware.
Faintly, as if from a million miles away, the voice of the Spell resonated in his skull, a cold notification through the inferno.
[You have gained an attribute.]
[You have gained an attribute.]
[You have gained an attribute.]
The words were meaningless, drowned in the agony.
Eventually, the needles retracted, leaving him a broken, twitching mess on the cold table. But the ordeal was not over, An unseen telekinetic force lifted his limp body, floating him through the laboratory before unceremoniously dropping him into a waiting vertical pod. It was filled with a viscous, glowing green liquid that immediately closed over his head.
Hugo's eyes, wide with residual pain and shock, remained open, staring out through the green haze. He was drowning, but not dying, trapped in a suffocating, conscious limbo. His gaze, blurred and burning, found Albedo, who was calmly observing the data on his screen.
In that moment, Hugo's pain crystallized into something pure and eternal. A hatred so deep, so cold, and so vast it felt like it could shatter worlds. It was a promise, etched into his soul with the needles' points.
And yet, that world-shattering hatred could do nothing for its master, who was trapped, sundered, and slowly drowning in a silent, green hell.