I’ve Become A Broken Experiment, A Girl

✦ Chapter 1 — Good Morning  ✦

「Translator – Creator」

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Good morning.

Truth be told, I just cannot tell if it’s morning, afternoon, or evening, but having just stirred from sleep, I’ve decided to call it morning.

Beyond these iron bars, the laboratory was pulsing with its usual rhythm of urgency. Researchers in pristine white coats were hurrying past, their arms cradling stacks of documents and boxes against their chests like precious things.

Some were diligently recording something on monitors with their tablets, while armed personnel stood listening to their radios. While everyone was working so industriously, I simply lay here sleeping like some privileged fool — how utterly shameful.

I’ve heard whispers that the people here earn fortunes beyond measure. It was something about developing mass production capabilities, but for someone like me… no, that’s not right. For refuse like myself, such sophisticated language dances beyond my grasp, lost in the fog of incomprehension. Unlike worthless detritus such as I, they must all be truly remarkable people. They must be conducting extraordinary research that benefits humanity.

In stark contrast, here in the isolation cell behind these iron bars was sitting a single, useless test subject, clothed in experimental garments now reduced to tatters, crawling pathetically across the floor; bandages, stained crimson, would wind their way around my limbs like serpents, and shackles on the ankles make free movement rather challenging.

Test Subject 34.

Snow-white hair falling limp, eyes as dark and lifeless as abandoned wells.

Nameless.

Whether forgotten or never bestowed, I simply cannot say, but everyone here calls me “34,” so I’ve adopted it like a borrowed identity.

Although I look now as this pitiful, fragile girl, surely in my past life—

*CRACKLE—*

…Ah?

Ah, it is the sound that echoes when I don’t take my medicine on time.

Like a stomach’s hungry growl, it serves as nature’s reminder to me.

The only difference is that it resonates unpleasantly and directly in my head — but it’s fine, I guess. Just as food silences a hungry belly, everything becomes alright when I take the medicine from the hospital.

No, in truth, it’s far from fine.

Medicine, you say?

Such things belong to those whose lives hold worth.

Perhaps it would be better if garbage like me simply ceased to be, right here and now. After all, test subjects that provide no value to experiments should naturally be disposed of.

I observe the bustling laboratory beyond the iron bars.

In the distance, someone who appeared to be the team leader was shouting at other researchers; though the ringing in my head made it difficult for me to understand it clearly, it looked like there was no progress in recent research.

How could it be otherwise?

I haven’t been able to participate in experiments for days now, having repeatedly blacked out from shock during recent trials.

Without specimens, naturally research cannot progress.

How could those researchers be at fault?

The blame lies entirely with me, who keeps fainting, unable to withstand the intensity of the experiments.

They could simply flood my system with stimulants until I rise, then continue forcing experiments until I collapse again.

Since they still consider me a useful object, not yet discarded, I must live up to their expectations.

Every minute, every second wasting away here feels unbearably precious.

I should quickly undergo more experiments, contribute something as a test subject—

“…Ugh.”

Today’s headache feels particularly… severe.

Until moments ago, it was just a throbbing pain, but now a static keeps invading my consciousness.

Go, go, you must go, it whispers incessantly.

Go where, I wonder? The laboratory? The isolation ward?

But test subjects must not leave designated areas without experimental purpose or direct orders.

Those are the rules.

No, more importantly, why am I contemplating these whispers at all?

Words from anyone other than researchers hold no value worth considering.

This is an ill omen.

A researcher once told me that too many unnecessary thoughts are detrimental to one’s health.

Then I must empty my mind quickly.

But how does one stop thinking?

No, is it even possible to halt thoughts completely?

A flood of anxiety washed over me.

Thoughts.

Too many thoughts.

The thoughts.

The static.

The whispers.

My head—

*CRACKLE—*

“…Heh.”

Good… morning.

END σϝ CHAPTER