Test subject 731-Q

“Test subject 731-Q. Starting stress fracture regeneration test on the eighth vertebrae of the spinal column,” the insectoid bastard leaning over me says as he attaches a clamp to my exposed skin.

There’s a loud zapping electrical noise before a maddening rush of pain. The pain flies through my spine and starts spiraling outwards, up to my brain.

I feel a depressing numbness spreading through my legs and hips. Pain is still radiating upwards, but nothing below.

Growling out, I try to block the rush of anger that flows through me, but I can only contain so much of it. These tests have been increasing over the last couple of cycles. They’re pushing my body harder and harder through one extreme to another.

Stepping away from me, the technician grunts as he rips the metal clamp out of my spinal column. I feel a gush of warm liquid, and even in my paralyzed state, I can feel the skin slowly closing.

It’s painful healing so quickly from some wounds. It’s a curse if you ask me. We ‘gifted’ Argmaraths can heal from almost anything.

Anything except for the loss of our brain stem.

If we lose our heads, well, it’s to the stars with us.

Lying flat on my stomach on the medical table, I could try to look around at my surroundings, but there’s no point. The only things to see are sterile metal instruments, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and glass confinement cages.

Nothing here offers any sort of privacy.

All the work that’s done in this accursed facility is done out in the open. My captors, the Crima, could care less about sensibilities. Breeding, amputations, autopsies… it’s all done out in the open.

The only times I ever see a door that isn’t transparent is when it’s leading to their private offices.

The Crima don’t care that I don’t want to have my spine broken over and over. They don’t care that I don’t want to have my hand amputated.

They just want to see how far they can go until I no longer regenerate.

My own people could care less as well. Take a few of their outcasts and they don’t bother to revolt.

Why should they when they are stuck to the Crima’s teat?

Should they care about me? I no longer have the passion to care about myself.

I have no desire to do anything beyond hope for an easy day of testing. Or my death. I would prefer death.

Thirty-two days of testing and I have yet to stop regenerating. The bad days are when they do multiple breaks, or perform extreme damage to my body to see how much I can heal at one time.

All of it is quite fascinating to them. If they lose a limb, it’s gone forever. If I lose a limb, it grows back, but very slowly.

“Removal of test subject 731-Q’s toes from the left foot,” the chittering bug says as I feel my body being tugged down the table.

I feel nothing because of the paralysis caused by my broken spine, but I doubt that’s their intent. They just want to know which will heal first—the growing limb or the broken spinal column.

There’s a loud screech in the test cell next to mine. It’s high-pitched enough that I can tell without looking that it’s a female.

The bastards don’t limit their cruelty to one sex here, they treat us all the same—like we’re disposable trash.

Turning my head to the side, I blink slowly as I watch my neighbor turn away from watching the mutilation being carried out on my body to stare at something that’s been brought into his test cage.

He’s a grotesque looking reptile type of species. He has a long, pointed face with slightly curved incisors coming down from his upper lip. His skin is a pale, almost sickly color of blue, and a long reptilian tail weaves back and forth between his legs.

From what I’ve observed, he’s the resident breeder. He doesn’t sport the scars or missing body parts that many of us other captives do.

Another screech fills the air as whatever was shoved into his cage must get sight of his thin, reedy cock and its moving hooks.

Most of the races that get thrown into the Gararl’s cage have the same reaction. They also meet the same outcome—death.

The Gararls are good for nothing beyond breeding out mass amounts of mindless drone fighters for the Crima. Great little invasion forces to send in when you don’t care about a body count. Not so good at keeping civilians or surrendering forces alive.

“Toes have begun to regenerate at…” The Crima looks over to the screen next to my vitals monitor, checking on the progress of my spine.

If he would bother to ask me, I could tell him that my spine is slowly reconnecting the severed nerves, but I doubt he wants my insight.

The pain alone that has begun to lance up and down the nerves has me gritting my teeth.

“Test subject 731-Q’s spinal column has begun to fuse itself back together.”

Stabbing down quickly with a sharp blade, he punctures my calf muscle.

“Argh!” comes gasping from my lips as the newly repaired sensors scream in agony.

Twisting in my straps, I feel their weakness once again, but what’s the use of breaking them?

It’s not as if I have a place to escape to.

Pulling away from me, the technician pulls the sharp blade from my skin and sets it back down on the instrument table beside us.

He walks over to a terminal and begins to mutter to the overhead microphone about further testing of my body.

It will end with my death. Nothing else will stop the end that has begun.

Watching the Gararl, I see him slowly begin to circle around whatever creature they’ve left him with.

I first see her from the side as she slowly moves away from the Gararl. Her body is hairless, unlike mine, except for what’s on her head. There she has a massive amount of black hair and it’s sticking up all over the place.

By the looks of it, she hasn’t been bathed in quite some time.

Her skin is pale with a slight pink hue to it. Such a color is very alien in this facility. I’ve never seen the likes of it before.

She must be very rare.

Her face is pulled back in fear and revulsion as she turns towards me. Her big blue eyes move rapidly side to side, searching for a place to flee towards.

Gararls, by their nature, prefer to mate with a more docile race. They don’t have the tolerance to deal with more spirited females.

Judging from her looks, she is anything but docile.

There’s been a couple of hiccups when our ‘betters’ put the wrong type of race in there with him. As evidenced by the still smeared body fluids on the wall to the right.

She briefly turns towards me, and on her chest I see two prominent round muscles topped with pink nipples. Only two, that’s interesting…

The women of my race have six nipples and three sets of breasts.

Her slender hips grab my attention. She looks so slender and wild at the same time that a small part of my mind tickles at the thought of her needing to be tamed.

Why should I even care though? What would be the point?

I slowly start to look away just as she looks me directly in the eyes. She starts to scream and pound on the glass. Her body smashes up against the wall as she tries to break through it.

It’s no use. I’ve seen bigger races try to do that.

She’s beautiful in her fury though, beautiful in her warrior’s rage.

“Test subject 731-Q’s bone density appears to be a constant even when freshly grown material occurs.”

Yeah, we’re as solid as rocks on my planet. We have to be with the density of our gravity. But unlike a lot of races that have high-density, we aren’t short or squat beings.

I tower over most of the races here in the facility, and even some of the Crima.

When I first came to the facility, I was treated as if I was a berserking monster, ready to destroy all that was around me at the twitch of my arms.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Not for me. I arrived accepting my life as a short existence, ready to be snuffed out so that I may rejoin the stars from which all beings are made of.

Over time they relaxed my confinements, knowing I cared little for escape or violence.

Pain is inevitable, why fight?

The female’s movements are slowing as she comes to realize that there is no way for her to break through the wall.

There’s a small electrical zap. The Crima testing on me is checking the nerve reflexes in my foot.

It hurts, not enough to bother me, but it does.

It hurts when I watch the fragile female slump to the floor, her eyes wide in terror as she turns towards the Gararl. She’s going to be fucked by the monster behind her, and she’ll most likely die after the mating.

But if she doesn’t, she will most certainly pass during the gestation of its eggs.

Why does she fight it? Why won’t she allow the stars to take her?

My body shivers slightly, but I haven’t felt a cool draft. My cell is maintained at an optimal temperature.

My teeth are chattering, and I feel the numbness in my legs fully receding. I can smell something beyond the blood and burning of flesh.

It’s a small scent, one I’ve never smelled before.

I can feel the scent causing the hairs on my body to stand on end. My hands clench into fists. The straps holding me down groan.

I take a deep breath and turn to where the smell is coming from.

It’s directly across from me.

The sweaty female, her naked body has the scent attached to it. It’s musty, almost tangy in the smell. It’s not her fear though, no it’s something more primal.

It’s just her.

Shaking my head, I try to clear my nose of this smell. I do not need to smell something so inviting—it only brings about desire. Desire brings wants and needs. What use are those to someone who is an outcast?

But I can’t clear the damnable smell. No, it continues to invade my senses. If only I could get away from it. Get off this damn table and away from it.

Pulling my arm up as hard as I can, I hear the sound of metal and plastic shearing themselves apart.

First one arm, then the second.

The technician beside me stands there, staring down at me in shock.

“St—Stop! Subject 731-Q, stop this now,” it chitters in a whiny voice.

I hate that voice. I hate it with a rage I have never felt. The rage momentarily overcomes the desire to get closer to the scent.

“Silence!” I bellow as I rip my legs up from their cuffed state.

To the stars with the pain. Pain is inevitable, but it also can serve me a purpose.

My naked form leaps off the table as I strike out at the tall bug-like creature. It has the legs of an insect, the general shape of a humanoid, though its torso is much thinner and covered in a hard outer shell, and the massive head of a bug with large bulbous eyes and antenna.

Screaming in fear, it tries to dart towards the door, but I grab its humanoid hand in one of mine, stopping it.

Squeezing down on the hand, I feel its delicate bones crush.

There’s a sickly pop and a dirty, sticky goo fills my fist.

The screeching in my ears is no longer coming from the female. No, it’s coming from this detestable bug.

I can only look at the bug for a moment before I catch the scent of the female again.

My body shivers and my mouth fills with spit.

My teeth are chattering now and my body is shaking as if I have a chill. A sharp stab in my arm brings me back to the bug and I watch as he tries to feebly get away from me.

Too late for that.

Turning to where I know the cameras are watching over my cell, I look into them. “Bring me the woman.”

I turn next to the glass wall between our two cells.

Dropping the bug’s hand, I grab the wretched thing by its short neck and slam it face first into the wall.

The first thump of the body shakes the glass, and I smile for the first time since I entered this facility’s doors.

Rearing back, I slam the body back into the wall again and again.

Each time the bug connects, a spot of goo hits the glass.

By the time the bug’s body is no longer serviceable as a battering instrument, I have switched to my thick, rock hard fists.

Over and over, I slam them into the wall and each time I bellow.

I know not the words that come from my mouth, but I foam with them as I continue to try to tear down my world.

I want her. I want her now. Her scent is the only thing in my mind that makes sense.

It is my night and day, and I will destroy the world to get her in my presence.

Suddenly the glass cracks mightily. The crack is a large spiral of soon-to-be shattered little pieces.

I stop then and look up to the camera, panting heavily. My fists clench as the blood that was flowing from them quickly stops. The wounds healing.

“Bring her to me.”