Code No. 22, Generation Two. The smiling man eyed the chained beast with an arrogant expression.

This is it? The fabled ‘monster’? Perhaps the organization really was losing its touch, sending them in for such a farce. What lay before him was no longer the thing of legends. An entire squadron hunting a broken beast, and even…

No. 22 paused as he finally reached his target.

Since the man had been slumped over the chair all the while, this was his first time actually observing it up close.

Scars.

White patches of marred skin crisscrossed its entire neck and face. Burn marks. Stabs. Slashes. A deep, jagged line down his forehead cut through his right eyelid, continuing across his cheek and jaw, before jamming into his collarbone. Another, fainter line was wrapped around the front of his throat, revealing an almost imperceptible indentation, shining under the florescence.

Knife. Maybe machete. Then a garotte wire.

It was missing an ear. The front of its nose. A large section of its hair was newly grown, and the rest would never grow again.

Half of the monster's lips had also been blown apart by some sort of explosion, leaving only an ugly, dark red ring of flesh.

No. 22 fell silent.

Code No. 8, Generation Zero. 'Beast'. The movies revered it as a 'messiah'. The brick foundation of [Caeleste Iudicium]. And the movies also condemned him like 'Judah', for he was their first experiment failure. The sole traitor of Generation Zero.

The smiling man's eyes filled subconsciously with contempt. But they filled with curiosity as well.

How did this monster do it? The organization's miracle drug, 'Mercy', which gave them unparalleled physical prowess and even Bloodlust, was exceptionally addictive, not to mention the horrible withdrawal symptoms. No. 22 didn't want to remember them, not a single bit. Getting it out of a person's system was near impossible.

And why? If it succeeded in escaping, then why? Why would it come back and fight them?

Face the organization? For what reason? Some petty fucking vengeance? What a joke!

If you escaped, then run! Hide! Why would you return? The smiling man's whole lips trembled. If given a choice, that is what he would do. And that was the reason he hated the man in front of him.

In his aggravation, the Number accidentally stepped on a glass syringe, cursing as he heard it crunch beneath his boot.

He wanted to interrogate it if possible. The method to escape the organization's clutches.

Afterwards, kill it, report back and receive his hard-earned promotion. Get a cushy position, and dip once he found a chance.

Numbers were expendable. No. 22 didn't want to be expendable.

The smiling man let out a deep breath, trying to reel in his heartbeat. He trained the gun unflinchingly on the unconscious man and waited for the drugs to wear off.

Drugged for over a weak, damaged from its assault on Factory 7, and without the aid of 'Mercy'... No. 22's system flooded with adrenaline. Apparently, the organization doctors deduced that No. 8 had retook Mercy once before. It couldn't do so again, not without experiencing extreme hemorrhaging, resulting in death.

Whew. What he longed for was so close now. So close he could smell it.

Focus. Focus. The smiling man concentrated, his eerie grin stretching wider and wider.

No. 22 scanned the room. Everything was as it should be. The doors, locked. The security cameras, out of service. The Doctor, lying on the floor, pale from blood loss, and probably from being generally deceased.

At this point, the main squad should've already arrived, spearheaded by the Captain.

The smiling man wondered what his reaction would be when he brought this monster's head to him.

After all, they were once on the same team together.

Rumble. Rumble. Hiss!

Humming lights crackled and popped above No. 22, as the prison itself seemed to quake, trembling as if a storm were passing through. The entire complex shuddered inside its framework, briefly throwing the smiling man off balance.

"What in the world... the fluctuations sure are fierce here." He mused.

The organization's knowledge of the [Tower] was minimal. About the exact same with the other forces of the world.

No one really knew what existed within it, since information rarely came out intact, if it did at all.

To himself, the [Tower] was just something that appeared one day and killed a lot of people.

Just another fucked up thing amidst a lottery wheel of fucked up things, waiting to be spun and released.

Although... he did hear that the creation of 'Mercy' was linked to it, but the facts didn't align well. It didn't matter. Not like it took anyone away from him. Not that he had anyone to begin with.

The organization was not a kind enough place for him to have a 'someone'.

'I am sorry, child.'

His grip on the gun tightened.

'I am truly—'

Bang!

He smashed his fist on the table.

Fuck. Why was he thinking about that old geezer's words now? The Number strongly pinched the bridge of his nose, irritated.

That son of a bitch. Did he really think that if he turned around and did some charity, went against the organization he goddamn helped build, and lent his services to a General who doesn't know his place, it would somehow alleviate his sin? He made them who they were. He made him. He made the Captain. He made the monster No. 22 had to kill today.

And yet he wanted to save it before he died?

'Mercy'.

The smiling man laughed sardonically. O' Mercy indeed.

Yes, that sweet, poisonous nectar. If it wasn't killing him from the inside and shackling him to the organization's will, he could've hardly bore losing that thrilling high and power. That sense of superiority. As if they were different from the others.

Its addictive nature was second to none. One hit, and you're done.

Pavlov's dog on a bloody leash.

The smiling man grimaced. Even now, he couldn't get the ache out of his head. It pounded against his psyche, heart beating in his throat, lips far too dry. No. 22 could almost smell it. Cloying, sickly sweet, yet pungent. Like fermented honey. His hand was trembling and— Wait. This was too much. The Number realized something odd.

He craved the drug, but this urge no longer felt like a simple trick of the mind.

Where?

Expression darkening, the smiling man suddenly lifted up his foot, alongside the crinkling of shattered glass.

He bent down and quickly touched the liquid substance oozing from the broken syringe.

Colorless. But not odorless.

What exactly killed the Doctor? The drug? Or his bullet?

And were the IV bags hooked onto that monster... really filled with saline? His heart silently skipped a beat.

Shit. He'd been had.

This was mutually assured destruction.

No. 22 bounded to his feet, an almost instantaneous movement, so fast and smooth that the puddle of 'Mercy' beneath his feet didn't even ripple. Yet in the Number's view, it was still far too slow. Sweat beaded on his forehead, as his mind descended into chaos, running amok. He aimed his gun at the monster's head. Shaking now, the floor rumbled dangerously beneath him.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Were those the fluctuations, or his heartbeat? The smiling man felt his neck throb as painfully his finger pressed on the trigger.

He gritted his teeth and pulled—

Bang!

A deafening crack echoed throughout the room.

Bouncing off every wall, its aftershocks reverberated through the empty space, as No. 22 stood there, motionless.

Motionless. Because the gun had not been fired at all.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

This time the Number knew it was his heart, beating out of his chest. His body froze as his vision gradually drifted downwards, towards the section of the floor below the monster's feet, and then to the heavy metal padlock, embedded straight through the white tiles. Then finally, back up, before coming to a dead halt, petrified. No. 22 witnessed 'it'.

A singular dark, bloodshot eye, staring at him from the shuddering wheelchair.

He pulled the trigger again. But the gun did not shoot. No, his finger wasn't moving. He couldn't move.

The smiling man no longer smiled. Instead, his mouth contorted into a soundless scream, as the red mist enveloped the room, drowning everything inside its crimson hue.

Bloodlust.

It dyed the world in front of him a sickening crimson. A bloody sea.

It encircled him. It trapped him. He thought he could see below the surface, see the faint outline of severed limbs peeking from its depths. See the almost indiscernible hint of a skull's pale white hue, floating beyond his vision. A decapitated head. His own, perhaps, placed comfortingly in a morbid family of fellow bones.

No. 22 could only watch as the shuddering wheelchair began to shake. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Snap. Snap. Snap! Links of metal chains broke apart, as its shackles cracked, and the heavy locks fell. One by one.

And that singular eye; it continued watching him. Observing him.

It didn't let him out of its sight for even a moment. The now un-smiling man lost it then and there.

Shoot. He needed to shoot it. Now. He needed to shoot it now! Whatever the fuck that thing is! Shoot, goddamn it, shoot!

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

A warped, distorted cry of agony escaped the Number's lips. His muscles strained to the point of breaking, as he excruciatingly lifted his gun to match the monster's height, now risen out of the chair. A lanky, starving body loomed over him, nearly 2 meters tall. Ribs showed through malnourished chest, peppered with star-shaped scars.

It looked down at No. 22, its blinded, milky eye staring into nowhere. Smiling a hollow grin with teeth stained by blood.

Before No. 8, the 'Beast', finally spoke:

"You."

It warbled, red dripping from its chin. The monster's speech was indistinct, slurred from the drugs, and its countless injuries.

"I don't recognize you." The words were blank. A statement made without any inflection, though the hollow smile never left its face. Spoken like a human. Articulated, like a human. Yet the Number couldn't see a trace of humanity inside that crimson eye.

Not a shred existed.

"But you are from the organization; I know that much." It gurgled, "You were here to kill me."

Were. As if he had already failed. Such confidence, so much so that one could even call it arrogance. It was a blunt insult. And a grave misconception. The fading embers of No. 22's will started burning once more. He couldn't die here. He wouldn't. Not a chance in hell, and not to a freak like this.

After all, a human's spirit burnt brightest when faced with imminent death.

The Number's pinky finger twitched then. Oh, ever so slightly, it twitched.

He needed time to acclimate. He needed to stall.

No. 8 tilted its head and looked at him, humming alongside the droning fluorescent lights, "Introduce yourself."

The monster spoke simply, jaw creaking with every word, as if it were unfamiliar with the process. The monster also seemed to be completely unfazed by the barrel of a gun pointing directly at its skull.

Good. It wanted to ask questions. Just like himself, it was curious too. No. 22 felt the corner of his lip twist upwards.

The half-smiling man forced open his chattering teeth:

"N-No. 22, from Generation Two. I was sent on a mission to assassinate No. 8 of Generation Zero, by order of the High Scale and the Divus Consul, for the sin of betrayal and blasphemy."

After he finished, No. 8 broke the last shackle binding it to the wheelchair, and seemingly mused over his words.

"For a second generation... you are rather pathetic." Those words, like cold steel, hung over the smiling man's head as the monster continued, "The organization would not send you alone. Tell me who has come." Its deep, abyss-like eyes looked at No. 22, twin whirlpools of darkness, and rot, and mold.

Inhuman.

He needed to act.

"T-the entirety of Squadron Ophanim, including me, totaling 40. We are in charge of your execution." His breathing had almost stabilized. "Delta Taskforce A and B, totaling 153. They were mobilized to ensure no further complications arose outside of the prison..."

The Number briefly paused. Just. Breathe.

Go. "All led by our Captain... your ex-comrade, No. 12 of Generation Zero."

His words rang throughout the pin-drop silence.

Drip. Drip. Droplets of sweat fell, pooling into a puddle upon the shining white tiles.

Gamble. This was a gamble. An action with a consequence no one could foresee.

Time ticked down excruciatingly.

Damn it. The monster's gaze had not wavered at all. His finger twitched helplessly on the trigger as he prepared for death.

But suddenly, a flitting flash of recognition passed through the monster's featureless face, as the number finally registered in its mind, subtly contorting its shattered features. And for just a moment. Just a fraction of a second! The invisible hand gripping his throat like a vice... became bearable.

Its Bloodlust weakened. Free.

". . ."

". . ."

They both instantly knew what had transpired, as the Number's muscles now tensed freely.

No. 8 and No. 22 stared at each other for a long while. Neither moved. Neither blinked, nor did they even breathe. Time flowed by about as quickly as a snail's pace, trickling so slowly, yet so dreadfully, away. It was as if the two were now sharing a pocket of existence, reserved solely for them. The smiling man's eyes gradually became irritated and watery.

He stared down the antiquated iron sights of the doctor's pistol like a man possessed.

While the prison rumbled tiredly beneath their feet.

And at last, upon the precipice of this warped time...

It was the monster who blinked first.

Bang!

A particularly egregious fluctuation crashed into the complex at that exact moment, sending sawdust flying from the ceiling, and shattering every glass instrument inside the room. The Number hastily dodged to the side, avoiding the medical tables that had been sent careening towards him by the explosion.

However, despite looking like a sorry, disheveled sight, the smiling man was grinning ear-to-ear.

'Direct hit.' No. 22 laughed heartily.

At this distance? He knew he didn't miss.

Dust flooded the room, drowning his exhausted senses. Did the roof above him collapse? It was hard to tell, but the plaster that crunched underneath his boot couldn't lie. The Number took the shot at a perfect time.

He ran his hand through white-flecked hair. Whew, thank goodness. He was about to start praying just now.

"Haha, ha!" No. 22 let his tension sink but kept the firearm up. "No harm in being careful," He muttered.

Navigating across the crumpled chamber, the smiling man scanned the area before him. Everything was indistinguishable from head to toe. He could only make out vague shapes of upturned furniture, medical equipment, and that damned wheelchair, torn apart with such ease the Number had trouble imagining it was a human who'd done it.

The center of the room revealed itself. Traces of fresh blood, smeared by dragging steps.

Still alive, it seemed. But there was a lot of blood. He needed to finish the job.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Steel-tipped boots knocked against the dusty floor as he tracked the red line. Was this what they meant in the storybooks? The monster, after sustaining a fatal injury, hobbles away to die, unseen by the world.

Huh. What an apt description.

More and more blood stained the white tiles, before growing fainter, and fainter.

No. 22 stopped abruptly. The smoke here was too dense. He waved his unarmed hand around, swatting at the air, but it would not budge, as if the dust and falling plaster had merged and congealed into something more.

Something vile. Showing hands of bloody gold.

Prickle.

A memory emerged. He suddenly remembered the first thing a candidate of [Caeleste Iudicium] was taught on initiation day.

"Trust your instincts."

On that day, where hundreds of children died in pits and in fields.

"Where all logic and reason fail, you will see a path forwards only by letting your ego drown."

On the day where his gut screamed left while his mind screamed right. He chose left... and survived.

"And bringing back the animal inside you."

The trail of blood had disappeared cleanly into the smoke.

Yet his gut did not scream today.

It merely whimpered:

'Too late.'

A scarred hand stretched out of the darkness and wrapped around the Number's skull, before closing into a half-clenched fist.

Crunch.

"Ah." Numbness immediately rippled across No. 22's head and neck, as he loosed a light gasp. The pounding fear from earlier was gone. So was the relief he'd felt from his false victory. In fact, there weren't many sensations he could feel right now. Blood began painting his vision almost immediately, pooling underneath his eyelids, seeping in between the cracks of his teeth.

And No. 8 simply stared at him from beyond all that redness.

The Number knew this, for he could still see it. He could see it through the hole his bullet had left on the monster's palm, a gory yet delightful sight, if only he could see it for longer.

"Ah... I think I get it..." The broken puppet groaned, breath a mist of red, "You know, I really do admire you."

"T-the strongest of the Numbers... the first success." His fingertips tingled.

"I wanted to escape too, like you did..." No. 22's vision was fading, yet the Beast's milky white eye still stood sharp within his sight, a lighthouse shining in an ocean of black, "But why?"

A futilely exclamation, burning precious seconds of life.

"Aren't we just the same?"

"Why did you come back!"

No. 8 looked slightly away from him for a moment, seeming almost distracted while he bled out in its grip. The expression on its face was... blank. Like an empty canvas, or the innocent ignorance of a newborn facing something unknown.

When it finally looked back, its singular eye had changed, as if something had clicked into place at last.

"What an interesting person you are." No. 8's speech felt much smoother than before.

"I've seen people express many facets of themselves upon facing death, but admiration is a far cry from common."

"Crying. Begging. Bargaining. Raging. Despairing. Would you have shown me more if I had pushed further?"

"...Nevermind."

The crimson eye locked onto his own for the first time, as if just now realizing his existence.

"No. 12 taught you well." The monster shook its head, pointing at the faint indentation on its glabella, "Very good. Accuracy, tempo, and trickery, all good." A crushed lead bullet dropped from the palm of its uninjured hand, "Yet such training breeds uniformity, and uniformity, means predictability."

"You went for the head. I don't blame you."

"They all do."

". . ." The broken puppet no longer possessed the strength to reply.

"Hm." No. 8 hummed a sigh, "Sorry for playing around, I wanted to see what kind of expressions you would make."

"As for why I came back?"

The monster lifted its finger to point at a particular scar, the one slashing through its right eye.

"I'm searching for something, much like how you're searching for your freedom."

"Yet regrettably, we are not the same at all, not to mention..."

"Ah." It suddenly paused. "I guess there's no need for a corpse to hear this."

The monster took note of the motionless, unbreathing puppet in its hand, and shook its head. Even the lingering warmth began to depart, and would soon leave behind a cold shell of what once was.

A half-clenched fist now closed fully.

Crack.

Splat.

And No. 22's lifeless corpse crumpled to the floor, missing its head.

". . ."

The eyes of the Beast quietly glinted as he looked towards the tattered ceiling.

"So you're really here."

He slowly limped forwards, bending down when he reached one of the many overturned surgery tables, and picking something off from the plaster riddled floor. A 'something' that glinted sharply even inside the murky haze.

He briefly glanced at the Doctor, lying dead at a corner of the room, pinned under a gurney.

Then at the veins of his arms, which were beginning to turn purple.

The Doctor had failed at giving him the required dosage. The efficiency of Mercy had been cut by half, and instead of the 200% that he required, only 150% remained, whilst shortening his new lease on life a lot quicker.

Two hours. He would die after that.

"Okay."

No. 8 held the scalpel tightly in his hands and muttered:

"I hope you can show me something truly spectacular today."

"No. 12."

________________________________________________________________

[At the entrance of the prison complex]

"Sir, a report."

"Go."

"The scout is dead."

"The scout? Oh, No. 22?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it seems that he's awake. No. 22 made a foolish decision and paid for it. I can't say I'm surprised."

"Sir, Squadron Ophanim is ready for deployment. Delta Taskforce A has sustained heavy damages, but Taskforce B is in good condition, and will merge with Ophanim upon arrival."

"Should we proceed with the operation, sir? I suggest a frontal assault."

"It will decrease our potential losses, while preventing the target from escaping once we surround them."

"Rather crisp, but a good analysis. I just have one single question to ask:"

"When is a tiger most dangerous for the hunter?"

There was an abrupt silence.

"...when it's hungry, sir? Perhaps when it is backed into a corner."

"Yes. Exactly." A set of metal teeth gleamed in the dark, "A tiger is dangerous when it is cornered."

"But what is even more dangerous than that..."

"Is a tiger who has lost its mind, a tiger who kills no matter what, without regard for survival."

"No. 8 will not run. He won't hide. He will face us head on like his moniker suggests. Because he is injured, especially because he is injured. The 'Beast' will kill as many of us as he can before dying."

The clawed fingers of a nano-fiber prosthetic curled up into a fist.

"Because that is who he is."

As a gaunt face, with scarred lips and similar shattered features, revealed itself under the droning florescent lights.

The man wearing a black eyepatch lifted out a cigar from his pocket and lit it, before taking a long drag.

"We will lure him here. Send the members of Delta B one by one along this path. Do not worry about the casualties."

"To hunt a one-eyed tiger, one must have sufficient bait."

Gray smoke wafted through the air, dancing amidst blood and dust.

"Since they possess a madness that is unlike any other in this world."