Dream 008 ✖
A twelve year old Frank stands in the center of a village; it seems to be located somewhere in South America. He takes in a staggered breath as he looks all around him. It's quiet. There's blood on his uniform that doesn't belong to him. There's blood everywhere; there are corpses scattered along the ground. Not even soldiers - the bodies of innocent men, women and children. Civilians. He's killed them all. His breath starts to come fast as he realizes what he's done.
Grabbing his head, Frank begins to scream. His fingers digging tightly into his scalp, desperately trying to claw his skin apart. He chokes for a moment on his own saliva before another strangled scream continues from his throat.
He collapses on the ground, his body convulsing as he thrashes around on his back. His nails have pushed through the leather of his gloves; gasping and crying out as blood seeps from the deep scratches he's created in his head. He rolls onto his stomach, bringing himself to his knees.
He can still see them. Corpses piling up all around him. They write and moan, the bodies shifting towards him. Crawling across the ground, dragging themselves; the faces of all the people he'd killed gazing up at him. Men, women, children -- all of them staring back at him, their eyes soulless and lost. The expressions they carried when he'd killed them. He can hear their screams; they way they plead, begging him to spare their lives. Their cries fell on deaf ears then... But he is listening now.
They erupt into a fit of wails, words getting lost to one and other.
“YOU KILLED ME--"
"MY... MY FAMILY--"
"OH GOD, PLEASE, NO--"
"PLEASE... SPARE ME--"
"FORGIVE ME LORD, PLEASE--"
"SPARE MY LIFE, PLEASE. MY FAMILY--"
It was all too much for the boy. His body shakes uncontrollably as he chokes, spitting up bile from the back of his throat. It burns his mouth but he can't stop coughing. He gasps, struggling to breathe but his chest feels too tight. He's overwhelmed; can't breathe, can't stop shaking, can't stop trying to scream.
Four men in military fatigues tackle him, pinning him down to the ground. He struggles against them as a fifth man in a lab coat approaches with a needle. It's injected into his neck and begins to work immediately. He feels numb. Once he's calmed down, one of the soldiers pick him up and carries him in their arms. All he can do is lay there, his limbs entirely useless from the drug. His vision starts to blur. He can still hear voices;
"Numbers Two and Five have fallen. Eight is all that remains."
"Eight suffered a breakdown on the course today; it seems the project is a failure."
"Don't fret. We have just finished constructing the tank. We're ready to test it on him. I believe we've figured out the correct dosage."
"Do you think so?"
"Of course. His memory will become a blank slate when he awakens. All he will remember is how to kill."
"And the Successor Project?"
"We have arranged for him to be present after Eight has been readjusted. He should have no issues receiving commands after the treatment."
Frank's eyes come into focus, the effect of the sedative already beginning to wear off. He is wrapped up in his straight jacket, two soldiers laying him down inside of a long box. It feels like a coffin.
"Just relax, Eight."
Frank's world instantly goes dark. Nothing but blackness surrounding him; he feels numb again - on the inside this time. He feels nothing; no joy, no sorrow, no hatred. The screams subside. There are no more corpses; just the darkness.
A voice pierces the silence around him. A soft yet masculine voice; smooth but commanding. Aurally pleasing, masking the sinister intent behind it:
"Rise, Null."
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*he's wide-awake after that dream. Looking closely, one can see him involuntarily twitching just a little bit. He stares straight ahead at nothing, unblinking.*