The room was clean. Not even a single dust or mud could be seen. It was weird for him, to see a room this clean after living in slums. He was used to the musty smell of fungus and rot, used to dust particles flying in the air with his every move, and used to itchy sensations when they clung to his body.
This room was clean. Sterile. Even more than the laboratories he had been in. His gaze fell to the floor. It was made of black and white squares out of some kind of expensive material. It reminded him of the chessboard the doctors had.
Chess.
Poorer folk, especially children played it among themselves too. Of course, they didn’t have pieces or boards. The rules they used were also different as no one was educated enough to know the official rules. They would draw a board to the ground using the chalk they stole from the factories and find different colored rocks to use as pieces.
He looked at the square he was standing on. He was in the second row. It was a black square.
A pawn. If this was a chess board he would be a pawn.
He lifted his foot slowly and stepped forward to the next square. With how long his limbs were, he could easily step over it and skip it but he didn’t. He waited there for a second before moving to the next square. And the next one. And the next one.
He only stopped when he was in front of the door. It was large even for him as if it was made for someone inhumanly large.
Something inhumanly large.
The door loomed before him, a towering monolith of dark, weathered wood, reinforced with thick bands of wrought iron. Its existence contrasted with the pristine room. The handle, a large iron ring, was shaped like a serpent biting its own tail, its scales meticulously detailed. Hinges as thick as a man’s arm secured the door to the frame, their joints groaning softly as if in anticipation of movement.
“Could you have opened the door?”
The doctor asked him as he finished stitching his stomach. He threw his black blood-covered gloves to the trash and leaned on a table. The doctor stood before him, a figure of unsettling frailty yet undeniable presence. His bald head, covered with patches of age spots and veins, gleamed under the harsh light of the room. Deep wrinkles etched lines of hardship and cruelty into his face, devoid of any trace of kindness or empathy. His eyes, sunken into their sockets, bore a piercing gaze that seemed to strip away layers of pretense and pierce straight into one's soul. His posture, slightly hunched made him look shorter than he already was. His attire, a simple yet impeccably maintained white coat stained with the remnants of dark, viscous fluids, hung loosely over his emaciated frame, adding to his spectral appearance.
“Yes.”
The Black Dog answered after wearing his sweater while inspecting himself in the mirror. In many ways, he was similar to the doctor in front of him. The doctor’s skin looked devoid of water, dry, and clung to his skeleton. The Black Dog’s was just as damaged and messed up, just in another way. His skin just like all other Black Dogs couldn’t match the growth of his bones and muscles, stretching to its limit and tearing up in some places. That left him with scars and marks all over his body.
The Doctor smiled when he heard his response, revealing a toothless mouth.
“Why didn’t you then?”
The question hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications. It was not common for Black Dogs to hesitate or feel any kind of emotions which only caused Doctor’s smile to widen.
“Something would have changed.”
The Black Dog answered in a raspy voice. He wasn’t used to talking and describing the dreams he was constantly having put extra strain on his vocal cords.
“You were afraid of change?”
The doctor's gaze bore into him, his eyes filled with sadistic glee as if taking pleasure off the discomfort Black Dog was feeling. He, on the other hand, turned towards the doctor and met his gaze with eyes devoid of emotion.
“We can’t feel fear, Doctor Entress.”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed, his thin lips curling into a knowing smirk.
“If that was true, overflows wouldn’t have happened, you know.”
The Black Dog remained silent, unwilling to engage further verbally. It was a decision he made based on experience mostly as he knew that most things Doctor was he speaking to himself instead of speaking to him.
“Do you know what the oldest and most powerful emotion is, Kerberos?”
The Doctor asked while pulling out a bottle of liquor under his desk. Kerberos watched him wordlessly, completely still. In Doctor’s eyes, he looked like a well-trained dog.
“Fear.”
He poured it into a small cup and drank it in a single gulp without offering any to Kerberos.
“Every single being in this world is afraid of something.”
He lifted his hands high up, his sleeves rolled down, revealing his thin arms.
“It is deep inside. Inside our body, etched into our very DNA or perhaps soul, if something like that exists.”
He rambled to himself enthusiastically, chuckling from time to time.
The Black Dog, Kerberos, stood silently as Doctor Entress spoke, his eyes fixed on the erratic movements of the doctor's hands. The room felt colder now, despite its sterile cleanliness, as if a chill had settled in with the doctor's words.
“One day. One day we will get rid of it.”
The doctor continued, his voice now a low murmur as he paced the room, the scent of liquor mingling with the faint odor of antiseptic.
“Ah.”
The doctor sighed, seemingly snapping out of his mania.
“How many years? How long have you been a Black Dog, Kerberos?”
He twitched as he turned to face Kerberos.
“20 years, Doctor.”
Doctor licked his lips.
“A long time to not go mad.”
Doctor Entress’s words hung in the air, casting a heavy silence over the pristine room. Kerberos, accustomed to the eerie stillness that often followed their conversations, remained impassive, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the doctor's frail form.
“I do my job, Doctor.”
The doctor chuckled dryly, the sound echoing strangely against the sterile walls.
“Many of your kind went mad way before the 1-year mark.”
He hurriedly drank one more glass before approaching Kerberos. He looked at his eyes. It was something many avoided. None wanted to be dwarfed by Black Dogs or see the abyss in their eyes. Yet this frail old man had no problems doing both. The doctor’s gaze bore into Kerberos with an unsettling intensity, as if searching for something hidden deep within the Black Dog’s soul. Kerberos, in turn, met the doctor’s stare with an unwavering calm, his expression a mask of stoicism acquired years of suffering and danger.
“You do your job well, Kerberos,” the doctor murmured, his voice laced with a mixture of admiration and something darker, “perhaps too well.”
“Do you ever wonder,” the doctor continued, his tone almost conversational despite the gravity of their discourse, “about the futility of life? About how nothing we do matters?”
Kerberos shook his head.
“No.”
The doctor's grin widened, revealing a jagged gap where teeth had once been. He leaned in closer to Kerberos, his breath smelling of stale liquor and antiseptic.
“Ah, but you should, my dear Kerberos,” he whispered, the words slithering through the air like serpents. “Life is a cruel joke, played upon us by forces beyond our comprehension. We scurry about, fulfilling our duties, all the while oblivious to the meaninglessness of it all.”
Kerberos remained unmoved, his eyes betraying no emotion as he regarded the doctor with a cool detachment. He had heard the doctor’s philosophical musings before, each time tinged with a hint of madness that lurked beneath his veneer of clinical detachment.
“You are a pawn just like me, just like all of us, Kerberos,” the doctor continued, his voice low and conspiratorial. “A pawn in a grand game of cosmic proportions. Do you not yearn to break free from these shackles, to defy the roles thrust upon us? To rise above everyone, everything?”
“No.”
Kerberos replied evenly, his voice a low rumble. Doctor clenched his fists.
“I guess that’s your flaw. With all of your emotions dampened, your ambitions also fade along with your rage.”
He giggled.
“Rage. Rage against the dying of the light.”
Kerberos met the doctor’s unsettling gaze with a stoic calm, his demeanor unchanged by the doctor’s provocative words. The room seemed to close in around them, the air heavy with the weight of their shared existence within the city’s oppressive confines.
“You speak of ambitions and rage as if they are luxuries we can afford,” Kerberos remarked, his voice resonating with a hint of weariness. “In this place, survival is the only ambition worth pursuing.”
The doctor’s grin faltered momentarily, replaced by a flicker of annoyance that danced behind his sunken eyes.
“You speak like a peasant.”
"Peasants," he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with disdain. "Always preoccupied with the mundane necessities of life, of survival without trying to achieve greater things.”
“Have you ever gone a day without food, Doctor?”
Uncharacteristic of him, Kerberos asked a question. Doctor Entress's gaze flickered with annoyance at the unexpected interruption, but he recovered quickly, a sardonic smile curling his lips. He regarded Kerberos with a mixture of amusement and condescension.
"Ah, Kerberos," he chuckled, his voice carrying a patronizing edge. "You misunderstand. It's not about the absence of food or the trivialities of survival. It's about the principles we uphold, the pursuits we deem worthy of our time and intellect."
He gestured around the immaculate room as if inviting Kerberos to appreciate the stark contrast between their surroundings and the squalor of the slums.
"Peasants," he continued, his tone dripping with disdain, "they are fixated on their daily toils, blind to the enlightenment that could elevate them beyond mere existence."
Something rose deep inside from Kerberos. It was something cold and sharp.
It was rage.
Rage against ignorance and entitlement.
He couldn’t remember many things from his life before he became a Black Dog. But he remembered the hunger the relentless gnawing in his gut that no amount of stoicism or education could erase. It overrides what principle or pride one holds as a human being.
When someone was hungry enough, they would eat anything.
He remembered someone handing him a piece of bread. It was dry, stale, and tore his throat as it passed. But at that moment it felt like it was the most delicious thing in the world.
“What about you, ?!?’?’^+T+/*.”
He remembered asking something to the person who handed him the bread but his memory was covered with static.
“I ate at the factory.”
The person replied. At that moment the static spread all over his head. He touched his head as pain overtook his entire skull.
“Kerberos. KERBEROS!”
Kerberos blinked, the echo of memories fading as Doctor Entress's voice cut through the haze. He refocused on the doctor, the room around him snapping back into clarity.
"They announced for you. Haven’t you heard?” Doctor Entress’s tone was impatient, tinged with a hint of annoyance at Kerberos’s momentary lapse.
Kerberos shook his head slowly, his mind still grappling with the tendrils of the past that threatened to ensnare him. Kerberos nodded in acknowledgment, fixing his clothes before exiting out of the room. Or saying that he threw himself out of the room would been better.
"Overflow suspected. Black Dog Kerberos. Report to the main office," the announcement echoed in his mind, propelling him forward with a sense of urgency that belied the doctor's disdainful gaze.
He quickened his pace as the voice crackled over the intercom, his long strides echoing down the corridor as he made his way toward the main office. Each step Kerberos took echoed, the sound amplifying the emptiness of the space. His mind, however, was not empty. The lingering static from his fragmented memories buzzed like an incessant fly. He forced his focus on the task at hand: addressing the suspected overflow.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
As he approached the main office, the echoes of his steps grew louder, punctuated by the distant, muffled sounds of other Black Dogs and personnel moving about. He pushed open the heavy door, entering a room filled with a low hum of activity. The air here was thick with the scent of antiseptic, steel, and something unidentifiable—perhaps a remnant of the dark fluids the Black Dogs carried within them.
Everyone, including the other Black Dogs who were usually still as statues turned when he entered the room. Younger and less experienced ones directly averted their gazes, as if looking at him for too long would invite a fate they were not ready to face. At the center of the room stood the Commander, a figure of authority clad in a uniform that seemed more ceremonial than practical. He was clean shaved and Kerberos could smell the expensive cologne he sprayed all over himself. He was tall enough not to get dwarfed by Black Dogs and once he was muscular sufficient to match his height.
His eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto Kerberos as he entered. The Commander's gaze was hard, unyielding, a stark contrast to the uncertain glances of the others in the room.
“Kerberos.”
He loudly called out, his saggy skin shaking with vibrations.
“Number 47 was showing signs of overflow and was marked for termination. She didn’t return the previous night. 15 and 41 were sent out but they also went missing. She was at Sector 7B. Kill her and retrieve the body.”
Kerberos nodded sharply, understanding the severity of his task. Black Dogs were given numbers instead of names until they proved themselves useful. Number 47, like him, was a Black Dog—a soldier altered beyond human limits by the injection of Black Blood. He knew her. She was a twitchy, meek girl.
Everyone knew that she would break.
Without a word, Kerberos turned and exited the main office, his mind already calculating the quickest route to Sector 7B. The air outside the office was cooler, with black fog covering the sun. As Kerberos moved swiftly through the winding streets, the wretchedness clear with every step. The smell of decay and rot was omnipresent here, a constant reminder of the poverty and desperation that plagued the city's lower districts. Children played in the dirt, their faces smeared with grime, while adults huddled in groups, discussing whatever scraps of news they had managed to gather.
Their discussions ended the moment they saw him. Even though monsters only come out at night, the presence of a Black Dog meant one thing.
Trouble.
Kerberos moved through the crowd like a ghost, his presence parting the sea of humanity with a mixture of fear and awe. He could feel their eyes on him, some filled with dread, others with a flicker of hope, as if his appearance might bring some semblance of order to their chaotic lives. But he was not here to be a savior.
Sector 7B was a desolate part of the city, with light barely reaching even during the day, and the air was thick with the smell of rust and neglect. Kerberos's senses were on high alert as he entered the sector. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant clatter of debris or the soft rustle of rodents scurrying about. He knew he had to find Number 47 before her overflow could cause more harm. Overflow was a nightmare, transforming Black Dogs into something far more monstrous, their bodies and minds twisted by the very enhancements that gave them strength.
As he moved deeper into the sector, Kerberos’s mind drifted back to Number 47. She had been a quiet presence among the Black Dogs, always on the edge of breaking. He remembered her haunted eyes, the way she flinched at every loud noise. Her overflow was inevitable, a tragic end that was all too common among their kind.
Why?
One question filled his mind.
Why?
It was obvious that she would break. She would lose herself. Why turn her into a Black Dog? Why inject the Black Blood into her veins when it was clear that she would overflow?
Kerberos pushed the question from his mind, focusing instead on the task at hand. The streets of Sector 7B were eerily quiet, the usual background noise of the city replaced by an oppressive silence. He scanned the area, his heightened senses picking up on every movement, every whisper of sound.
Suddenly, a soft noise caught his attention—a faint, regular tapping, like the sound of a liquid dripping to the ground. He slowly grasped his sword as he walked like a predator, silent and hidden. He soon came across the body of Number 15. Viscous black blood covered the entire street and his body was torn into two pieces. Yet, despite his grievous wounds, he was still conscious.
“She… She is too far gone.”
Kerberos knelt beside Number 15, his eyes scanning the scene with a cold detachment. The younger Black Dog’s body was a gruesome sight, torn asunder by the ferocity of Number 47’s overflow. His face, pale and covered in sweat was twisted in pain, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes as he met Kerberos’s gaze.
“Number 47… she… she’s gone mad,” Number 15 whispered, his voice strained and filled with a desperate urgency. “She’s… stronger than we thought. Be careful…”
Kerberos nodded, his grip tightening on his sword. “Rest now. Your suffering is over.”
With a swift, merciful strike, he ended Number 15’s pain, his black blood mingling with the darkness that surrounded them. Kerberos rose to his feet, walking towards the dripping sound. His senses were on high alert, every nerve tingling with anticipation. The alley opened into a small courtyard, and there, bathed in the dim light filtering through the broken rooftops, stood Number 47.
Branches of thorny dried-up vines exiting out of her body wrapped the surrounding area, invasive and consuming. Several people were wrapped by them including Number 41. Their forms were barely recognizable, distorted by the twisted vines that emanated from Number 47's overflowing body. Vines entered every orifice they found, tearing and mingling the poor souls. The only reason Kerberos could recognize Number 41 was because, unlike others, the blood dripping down was black.
Number 47 herself was kneeling on the ground. Her hands covered her face while she made crying noises. Her body was still humanoid besides the branches exiting out of her body. Kerberos gripped his sword tightly. He would lunge forward and finish this in one, clean strike before she could detect her. It would be painless for both of them.
Just as he shifted his weight, she raised her head, blood falling on her face.
“Ah, it is raining.”
Kerberos hesitated.
Her voice was so innocent and childlike that for the first time in his life, Kerberos hesitated.
Even when he was against the biggest or most numerous monsters, he never hesitated. Yet, at that moment he froze up. The moment of hesitation felt like an eternity. Kerberos’s mind raced, grappling with the conflicting emotions that surged within him.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her eyes wide and filled with a strange mixture of fear and confusion. The vines around her writhed as if responding to her emotions, tightening their grip on the unfortunate souls entangled within them.
Kerberos took a cautious step forward, his grip on his sword firm but his movements slow and deliberate. “Number 47, you are in a state of overflow.”
She slowly raised her head, taking in her surroundings.
“Ah, I see.”
She started to giggle.
The giggling grew louder, echoing off the narrow walls of the courtyard. The sound was unsettling, a stark contrast to the eerie silence that had blanketed the area moments before. Number 47’s eyes darted around, taking in the sight of the twisted vines and the lifeless bodies they held.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said, her voice lilting with a childlike innocence that belied the horrors she had wrought.
“Daddy promised me that he would bring me roses. Red roses. Beautiful roses.”
Kerberos tightened his grip on his sword, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to release. He could see the madness in her eyes, the way her mind had fractured under the strain of the Black Blood. There was no saving her now, no bringing her back from the brink.
“But he never did. They said that lamps would protect us. They said that smell would avert the monsters. But it didn’t.”
“You must be put down,” Kerberos said, his voice steady. “It’s the only way to end your suffering.”
Number 47’s laughter abruptly stopped, and she looked at him with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. She then looked at her victims. Vines tightened around them, spraying gore and blood everywhere.
“Ah, red roses. Beautiful roses.”
Kerberos didn’t respond. He couldn’t afford to be drawn into her words, couldn’t allow himself to feel anything that might weaken his resolve. He took a step forward, raising his sword.
“Farewell, 47.”
With a swift, fluid motion, he lunged at her, his sword slicing through the air with lethal precision. But just as he was about to strike, the vines exploded into motion, writhing and twisting in a chaotic dance. They lashed out at him, forcing him to parry and dodge.
Number 47 screamed, a sound of pure agony and rage, and the vines grew thicker and more aggressive. Kerberos was forced to retreat, his movements quick and calculated as he avoided the deadly tendrils. He could feel the dark energy radiating from her, the power of the Black Blood gone wild.
Emotions.
Black Dogs were trained to suppress their emotions. What emotion present was beaten out of them during their training, way before Black Blood was administered. They were starved, beaten, and tortured to make them lose the ability to feel. The aim of their training was to turn them into blank states.
The reason was in front of him.
If a Black Dog felt emotion the Black Blood overflowed from their body.
As Kerberos dodged the vines, Number 47 shed the last remains of her humanity.
Her body was still vaguely humanoid, but it had undergone a radical and terrifying transformation. Her skin, once smooth and pale, had taken on a bark-like texture, rough and gnarled, with patches of thorny vines erupting from beneath. These vines twisted and coiled around her limbs, merging with her flesh in a symbiotic embrace that gave her an eerie, otherworldly appearance. The branches and vines that sprouted from her body were covered in thorns, each one dripping with a dark, viscous sap that resembled blood. These vines moved with a life of their own, writhing and undulating in a constant state of agitation as if they were an extension of her rage and pain.
Kerberos moved with deadly grace, his sword slashing through the air, severing vines with each stroke. Yet, the vines seemed endless, regenerating faster than he could cut them down. Number 47's eyes followed his every movement, her gaze a mixture of sorrow and madness.
With a powerful surge, Kerberos broke through the web of vines, closing the distance between himself and Number 47. His sword gleamed with a dark, lethal light as he brought it down in a decisive strike. But in that moment, the vines surged again, a wall of thorns rising to meet his blade.
The impact threw him back, his sword shuddering in his grip. Number 47 stood amidst the chaos, her body a twisted mass of thorns and branches. Her laughter echoed through the courtyard, a sound that seemed to pierce the very air.
“A new toy. Just for me.”
Kerberos didn’t answer, his focus unwavering. His training and instincts drove him forward, his mind a steely fortress against her words. He knew better than to engage with the broken logic of an overflowing Black Dog. Every second of hesitation could be fatal.
He gritted his teeth, launching himself at Number 47 once more. This time, his movements were not just precise but fueled by an unyielding resolve. He dodged and weaved through the vines, each strike of his sword cleaving through the thicket with deadly efficiency.
Number 47’s vines lashed out in desperation, but Kerberos was relentless. He could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the cracks in her defense growing wider with each passing moment. With a final, powerful swing, he severed the last of the vines, his blade plunging into her chest.
Number 47 gasped, her eyes widening in shock. For a moment, the madness seemed to lift, and she looked at Kerberos with a clarity that had been absent for so long.
“It is under the city. I can feel it. The source of our suffering. The door…”
Kerberos withdrew his sword, the black blood staining its edge. He watched as Number 47’s body crumpled to the ground, the vines withering away to nothing. The courtyard fell silent once more, the oppressive stillness returning.