My name is Hubris Willoughby Downfall, I am a researcher in the employ of Conglomerate, with its components listed as follows.

Lazarus Manufacturing, Mendel Genetics, and Cardboard Fish Entertainment Unlimited.

I have been brought in as a consultant for a recent venture pioneered by Dr. Extravaganza Ramirez, the study of Zone Mutants and their habitats and how we can best explore and/or exploit them. I was brought on for my experience in that field, having been in possession of a mutant child for the last few years. A young girl by the name of Specimen 37, who has rejected all my attempts at giving her a more human moniker though she begrudgingly accepts my calling her "Duckie" on most occasions the same way most people would accept being called "dear" or "honey" by a stranger.

Specimen 37's life prior to my care remains a mystery, the Uninhabitable Zone she was collected from was bombed into oblivion some time during the last World War, making any further study near impossible. Having been a toddler when she was acquired, 37 remembers very little of her life in the Zone except for increasingly vague memories of her "mother". In quotation marks for reasons I will not get into at this time, I have already spoken of 37 and her parents at length on various occasions and see no point in doing it again.

I'm here to talk about the Merlin Project, or Project Merlin, I can't remember which it is and I don't care enough to look it up. All the pedantry surrounding such "secretive" endeavors drives me insane, I see no point in it. If you're going to be a monster, then do it the right way and wear your monstrousness on your sleeve, don't hide it behind pretty words and fancy titles like a coward.

We butcher children here, we strip them of their innocence as easy as skin and act like we're serving some greater good when deep down we know we're being paid to throw science at the wall and see what sticks. Better to hurt children nobody wants than condemned criminals that could use their newfound abilities to escape and destroy us all I suppose.

I could lie and say such actions sicken me but I've been in this business too long to feel anything other than a sort of distant numbness wrapped around what's left of my morals, choking them out until there's nothing left for me to fret over. I'll take that numbness as a blessing and pretend I don't see tiny trembling faces every time I close my eyes at night. I have surrendered to my monstrosity and will let it consume what's left of me, before I break down and become something I can truly despise.

The Project has yielded promising results thus far and that's all my employers truly care about, so it's all I care about. The potential military and medical applications of what we have discovered are nearly limitless, but only if we can find a way to refine and control our experiments.

With the current trajectory we find ourselves careening towards, I doubt we'll be able to do either before the world comes crashing down around our ears.

The number of mishaps and casualties the project has suffered by this point hangs over its surviving staff like the blade of Damocles, I do not pity them.

What we are working with here are two of the most unstable forces known to man, radiation and children. To combine the two is an exercise in self destruction, but nobody listens when I talk so who cares! Go right ahead, expose developing bodies and minds to things that we as fully formed adults have yet to understand and see what happens! Maybe we'll make a quick buck off of it, and if we don't? Well, we'll know not to do that again.

The flagrant disregard for traditional scientific processes brings to mind the crimes of Aperture and Black Mesa, bought out by the Conglomerate and buried where no sane person could discover their desiccated remains.

But I digress.

The children of Project Merlin are remarkable in their desire to survive and grow despite their surroundings hinting at their inevitable destruction. It's almost admirable in a way, to watch them get up and continue on after the serum has distorted them beyond imagination. You can't help but root for them, even though you know deep in your heart that it doesn't matter.

The children are disposable, and so are you.

Uncanny comrades tipped headlong into the maw of some great beast made of paper and red tape that neither of you really understands. You know that you'll be pulled out last minute and dangled somewhere else just as dangerous because the Conglomerate still has use for you, but you can't stop yourself from reaching out and hoping that the tiny hand falling away from you can come too.

Jack is an anomaly of sorts.

A hand-me-down from a previous experiment done within the Facility, it's a wonder that he's lived as long as he has. Cybernetics make up around 80% of his body. You'd think that being so mechanical would disqualify him from the Project, but you'd be wrong. Jack was brought in as filler, to round out our test groups after a clerical error misplaced our original specimen, but Anza took a liking to him on that first day so he's stuck with us now for better or for worse.

He has responded well to testing, although "well" in this context is highly subjective. We shot him up with goo that made several small animals exsanguinate themselves and he didn't immediately die, so I suppose "well" is an apt description. Jack is the only test subject (we know of) to pull off a full body transformation.

Coronet, our patient zero, has shown promise yes but her transformations seem limited to her arms and face. So far we have discovered that Coronet's transformations are triggered by a sharp drop in oxytocin, that is to say it only happens when she's angry to some degree. Her scales and claws are incredibly dense and durable, capable of deflecting small caliber bullets easily, but her most curious ability is her control over blood. Her blood, your blood, animal blood, it's almost like she can talk to it and bend it to her will. It's fascinating, really.

Coronet does not like Jack, the mere mention of his name has brought about sudden changes in her form on multiple occasions. When questioned as to why she reacts so violently to the other child Nettie simply shrugged and said "He just pisses me off." She also refused to apologize for nearly killing him during a dodgeball match some weeks ago, saying that he deserved it but declined to explain why.

I have advised Anza to keep the two of them apart for obvious reasons.

It's almost comedic, they way they have him trussed up when I arrive. My colleagues have strapped a child to a chair, a print-locked muzzle fastened firmly to his face. Someone has even gone the extra mile and pinned Jack's new tail to the back of the chair with a length of duct tape. He raises his head as I approach, the twisted snarl of wires snaking from the back of his head slither eerily as he moves. He's plugged into half a dozen different machines meant to monitor everything from his vitals to the type and amount of hormones in his system.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

The machines whine, slowly coming together into a chorus of voices that make my skin crawl.

It's disjointed at first, gibberish and scattered thoughts splashing in the shallows of his cognition like too many fish in a bucket, but one phrase floats to the surface fast enough to be heard.

"Am… I… going… to die?" It's more of a whimper than a roar, the defeated whisper of a wire-bitten child and not some uncontrollable monster.

"Oh we're all going to die someday, but if you mean right this minute I would certainly hope not, I'd have nightmares for days." I smile, the gold caps on my incisors glinting in the harsh overhead lights.

When Jack looks at me, his eyes have no pupils. Flat disks of glinting silver set in inky pools shot through with neon blue veins. He doesn't look human, to be fair he never looked human but this is something entirely different.

His face has changed, his wide nose flattened into something lagomorphic and vaguely triangular. His top lip has split and curled like an animal's, it makes him look dreadfully wrong like something pretending to be a child. Luminous sweat soaks into the fabric of his shirt, he smells sour like vomit and unwashed skin.

"You can… hear me?" Jack's ears twitch with interest, his eyes searching mine for understanding.

"Yes, I can hear you just fine." I settle into the uncomfortable desk chair across from him and cross one leg over the other. "How are you doing that, if you don't mind me asking?" I indicate the machines and see that their screens are full of eyes, it's only for a heartbeat, just long enough for me to blink and think I'm hallucinating but I still feel my blood run cold.

Jack just shrugs at my question, it's not much of an answer but I nod like it is.

Neither of us moves for what feels like a long time, the silence settling over us like a blanket until a low gurgling whine breaks it and I recognize the rumbling of an empty belly.

"Let's get you something to eat, what are you in the mood for?" I hop to my feet and clap my hands together.

Jack flinches at the sound. "...I don't think anything I eat is gonna stay put long, my stomach hurts."

"How about some broth then? In a nice mug with a fun straw, that sound good?" I'm being softer than I realize but it's too late to reel it in now.

The child nods timidly and I make my way out of the room. I come back later with my electric kettle, two mugs, and a nutrient block tucked under one arm. I flake a few pieces off the block into a mug and top it off with hot water, stirring the murky liquid with the end of a crazy straw until the chunks at the bottom had mostly dissolved.

It was then when I realized my error.

The muzzle won't accept my fingerprints but the other restraints behave themselves and soon Jack's hands are free. He takes the mug gratefully, maneuvering the straw until it fits through one of the gaps in his muzzle. I watch him sip in silence until I'm sure he's taken care of and make myself a cup of black tea without a word.

"Why is your name Downfall?" He asks.

"Why is your name Jack?" I reply.

"I picked it myself."

"Well then, so did I." I smile. "My Nan used to say 'hubris will be your downfall', and I thought that sounded cool at the time so when I was old enough I had my name changed to Hubris Willoughby Downfall just to spite the old bat. She was a Bible thumping Catholic and I was not, not that you understand what any of that means but it does add a bit of weight to my decision that wouldn't be there otherwise."

"...what was your name before?" Jack's head tilts.

"David, what was yours?" My old name tastes wrong on my tongue, like milk that's just about to spoil but hasn't gotten there yet.

"I don't remember." Jack's face crumples, ears back and eyes searching as if this singular realization was another bullet in the chamber of his misery.

"Ah, that's OK," I pat his shoulder without meaning to, we both freeze as if anticipating harm from the other. I remove my hand and Jack relaxes. "Names are like teeth, we shed them as we grow."

Until recently, Jack went by specimen ID number exclusively and a glance at his file tells me why. There is no name listed, no date of birth, or anything regarding his life before coming here.

It is unknown if this is merely an error within the system, or if this was purposefully scrubbed from his file, but it's as if someone does not want us to know the true identity of this child for whatever reason.

I have no drive to dig any deeper into this matter at present, the new name suits him just fine and I will continue to use it until he tells me not to.

"Is she mad at me?" Jack whimpers, the leering screens behind him leak something vicious and blue from the gaps in their plastic shells. Like a child's idea of tears.

"Who?" I can guess who he means but it's better to be sure.

"37."

"Now Why would she be mad at you?" I know why, I've seen the footage, I also know that Duckie has no idea that the "eyeball creature" and Jack are the one and the same.

"She was so afraid of me…"

"She didn't know it was you, it's not your fault." I'm trying to be soothing and sympathetic but my voice naturally makes everything I say sound sleazy and sarcastic, though Jack doesn't seem to mind.

"Oh… are we still friends?"

"Duckie seems to think so, she misses you terribly." My eyebrow raises as I pour myself another cup of tea. "But I have to ask, why were you chasing her like that?"

"I thought she was hurt, I… forgot what she could do." Jack fiddles with his straw, avoiding my gaze.

"...I forget sometimes too, it's alright." I refill Jack's empty mug with more broth. The color has returned to his cheeks, the color is blue of course but it suits him.

Following the attempt on his life by Nettie, Jack had been placed in stasis, both in an attempt to speed up the healing of his organic components and to see if he would possibly regenerate any of the tissue lost to the experimentation done on him previously.

A truly baseless assumption.

Specimen 37 considers Jack her friend and insisted on visiting him whenever possible. She would talk to him for hours despite his unresponsiveness, and bring him things he might like, including several of her specimen jars and his peculiar stuffed bear.

A prototype of a canceled toy meant to soothe children with separation anxiety, the bear's apparent lack of facial features and ears, paired with the synthetic organs it contains (used to generate body heat, and produce breathing and heartbeat noises in an attempt to simulate human contact) reportedly frightened focus groups and investors alike.

Many of my colleagues and the other staff members find the toy to be unsettling, but I personally find it endearing. Much like Jack himself.

Out of desperation or some misplaced sense of love Specimen 37 fed Jack her blood, causing some sort of… mutation or a clash with the serum in his system. He rapidly grew in size, escaping the stasis chamber and going on a rampage through the lower levels of the Facility. Knowing that he was trying to protect Specimen 37 adds a certain… something to the interaction.

Was Jack trying to protect her because they're friends, or was it 37's blood calling out to him, wanting to be whole again? I'll likely never know but it's a fun hypothetical to mull over.

"Am I in trouble?" Jack is looking at me again with those eyes so like and unlike 37's it makes my chest tighten

"No, not necessarily." I say, it feels like a lie.

"Then why am I tied up?"