#complex 27

Ash's breaths came shallow and quick, each one more rapid than the last. The cold, dark space barely allowed him to sit upright, his knees pressed tightly against his chest. Even when the vehicle was still, his shoulders brushed the unyielding walls. Now, with every bump and sway of the transport, his body jerked like a marionette to its chaotic rhythm.

"It’s not like it’s a person," Kerr had said, his tone casual, dismissive. The words lingered, louder than the growl of the engine, an echo that refused to fade.

He tried to focus on his breathing, his trembling hands clutching at his legs, fingers digging into muscle to anchor himself. But there was no escape from the darkness or the weight pressing down on his chest. The air was thick with rust and oil, each inhale a sharp reminder that he was nothing more than cargo now.

Another lurch of the transport sent him crashing against the side of the crate, pain sparking along his shoulder. He bit down on the cry that rose in his throat, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. Showing weakness, even here, felt like a betrayal of everything he had been taught to endure. But his body rebelled, nausea twisting his stomach as he pressed the back of his head against the cold metal wall. Bracing for the next jolt.

"You’re a weapon. Just a tool. Tools don’t feel." The words slipped from his cracked lips, quiet, automatic—a mantra to quell the storm brewing within.

But it wasn’t true.

He did feel.

The cold gnawed at his bones, a sharp, relentless ache that no amount of conditioning could numb. His stomach churned, bile clawing its way upward with every jolt of the transport. Muscles cramped painfully from confinement, a raw reminder of the body that refused to surrender entirely to its cage.

Another jolt rocked the crate, slamming him into the unyielding metal wall. Pain exploded along his arm, sharp and searing. The metallic tang of blood filled the stale air, grounding him momentarily in the grim reality of his existence. His eyes burned, stung, and tears streaked down his cheeks, unstoppable despite his clenched resolve.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” His voice cracked, hoarse and low, barely audible over the engine’s growl. “Cargo doesn’t cry.”

But he wasn’t cargo.

Not just a body in a box.

No matter what they told him, no matter how much they stripped away, something deeper remained, defiant and unyielding. That spark—the part of him that remembered how to fight, how to feel—burned fiercely against the darkness threatening to consume him.

The transport swayed violently, throwing him to the other side of the crate. He hissed in pain, the sound escaping unbidden, unrestrained.

Let them hear.

"Do you know what conditioning is?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice casual as he looked over at Alex sat on the worn sofa staring out of the broken window.

Alex shrugged, "Heard of it," his voice was flat, uninterested, "Charlie’s mentioned it. Ash too, I think."

Sam nodded, his gaze drifting over the sparse, decaying apartment. It was cleaner and tidier than when they first arrived, but still a long way from what he'd call a functioning base. "Yeah, that tracks," he murmured, running a hand through his hair. "It’s… hard to explain, but it’s what the facility did to us. To all of us. Not the same for everyone, but it was all about control." He leaned back in his chair, glancing briefly at Alex before looking away again. "What they called 'training'? It wasn’t really training. It was conditioning. It wasn’t about teaching us skills - about making us react the way they wanted us to. So deeply that we didn’t even realize it was happening."

Alex’s brow furrowed, his expression unreadable but Sam couldn't help but notice the way the frontliners hand twitched. "So... brainwashing?"

"Kind of," Sam replied, hesitating as he searched for the right words. "It’s… closer to creating automatic responses. Patterns that are so ingrained, they override your choices. You know how when you hear a sound you reach for your weapon? Or when you’re in a new room, you start mapping exits without even realizing it?"

Alex’s lips pressed into a thin line, he seemed to study Sam for a moment before replying, "Charlie called that hypervigilance," he muttered, his gaze turning away again.

Sam let out a soft laugh, "Yeah, that’s part of it. But hypervigilance is just a symptom. Conditioning’s deeper than that. It’s like…" Sam leaned forward, trying to find a way to explain. "Remember when we first got here... when Ash was yelled 84 at you? Even when you were hurt, he ordered you to stand, and you just... did it?"

Alex’s jaw tightened at the memory. His fists clenched, the command still echoing in his mind, the instinct to obey so deeply ingrained it made him sick. "Yes…" he growled, "It... it was like I stood before I even fully heard him."

Sam’s eyes softened, he leaned forward just a little more. "That’s conditioning, Alex. You didn’t have a choice. Your body just reacted. It wasn’t about choice, only response."

Alex’s hands trembled slightly, his chest tightening. "So all those times I just… followed orders without thinking? That wasn’t me. It was… just reflex."

Sam gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Exactly. It wasn’t you. It was the conditioning. It’s like muscle memory, but for your mind. You hear your number, you move. You hear an order, you obey. No hesitation, no room to question. You’ve been trained to react that way. It’s not even about your choices anymore. It’s about what they made you."

Alex stayed silent for a long moment, the weight of Sam’s words sinking in. His fingers twitched, and the familiar anger and helplessness rose in his chest. "I should’ve just told him to fuck off."

Sam exhaled through his nose, his voice softening. "Charlie and I yelled at him for that. If that helps at all." He paused, watching Alex with a quiet understanding. "But you didn’t have control over it. It wasn’t about obeying because you wanted to. It was… just how you were trained to react."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. Alex’s gaze dropped to his clenched fists. The memory of those reflexive actions - obedience without thought - gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. His hands trembled slightly, "Ash is right then? We are 'broken'?"

The words came out slowly, reluctant, as though admitting to something he wasn’t ready to face. Sam’s eyes narrowed, a flash of something sharp crossing his face. He pushed himself up from the chair, his crutch left forgotten on the floor as he limped closer, closing the distance between them. His voice dropped to a low, protective growl. “Ash told you that you’re broken?”

Alex didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on his hands, fingers curling into tighter fists as the words Ash had spoken echoed in his mind. We’re not like 83 and 85, they weren’t broken like we were. They are not killers. The words were blunt, harsh, but they weren’t entirely wrong. In Ash’s own detached way, he wasn’t trying to hurt Alex. And Alex could almost understand it. Ash wasn’t trying to be cruel—at least not consciously. He was just trying to connect, in the only way he knew how.

But the more Alex thought about it, the more it made him question everything. What was real. What was simply Ash’s own broken perspective. How much of his own understanding was true?

Finally he exhaled harshlyfrustration creeping into his chest, making the words come out heavier. "Yeah… He said it. He called us broken. Said we’re different from you and Charlie. That we’re… messed up." He stopped, his breath coming a little quicker as he tried to make sense of it all. “But… he’s dealing with his own shit right now. I’m not sure how much of what he says is accurate, or… even true.”

The hesitation in Alex’s voice, the uncertainty, was not lost on Sam. His stance softened a little, though the protective edge didn’t completely leave his expression. “Ash’s got a way of saying things, doesn’t he?” Sam’s tone was quieter now, more thoughtful. He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving Alex’s face. “But Alex… you’re not broken. You’re not messed up. You’re… hurt. We’re all hurt. What the facility did to us doesn’t define who we are now. It’s just something we have to unlearn.” He paused, letting the weight of those words settle between them. “I know it’s not easy, but I’m telling you, you’re not what they made you.”

Alex's jaw clenched as he met Sam's gaze. He felt a flicker of something inside—something raw, fragile, and almost foreign. Hope, maybe, or the beginnings of it. But he wasn’t sure if he could believe it. Not yet. Not after everything they’d been through. "Can we undo it? Can we ever get rid of this… 'conditioning'?"

Sam stood there for a moment, he didn’t speak for a long while, unsure how to answer. Finally, he let out a long breath, his voice soft but firm. "I wish I could say yes. But I don’t think you can just undo it, like flipping a switch." He paused, leaning back as he searched for the right words. "It’s too deep, too much a part of us. But…" He met Alex’s gaze. "We can push back against it. We can try to change the way we react. We’re not stuck like this."

Sam was quiet for a moment, shifting uncomfortably, the weight of Alex’s question pressing down on him. He stood there for a long time, finally letting out a sigh as he leaned back in his chair, looking up at the cracked ceiling. His voice was quieter now, more uncertain. "I don’t know if we’ll ever know for sure." He paused, his eyes flickering to the window before he looked back at Alex. "But maybe it’s less about what they made us and more about what we choose to keep. Maybe we get to decide what’s worth holding on to."

Alex held his gaze, and for the first time, Sam saw a glimmer of vulnerability behind his stoic exterior. "So… how do we know what’s us and what’s just… what they made us?"

Alex looked at Sam, a flicker of something new in his gaze—a tiny seed of understanding, or maybe just the first signs of a question that could grow into something more. "You really believe that?"

Sam offered a slight smile, tired but genuine. "I want to. I’m still figuring it out myself."

Alex gave a small, bitter laugh, the sound soft but sharp. "Not exactly reassuring."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "No, not exactly the pep talk you were hoping for, huh?"

Alex’s lips twitched slightly, almost imperceptibly, and he returned his gaze to the window. "Guess I was hoping for more of a plan. Like, step one: ‘Recover your free will.’ Step two: ‘Enjoy a nice, peaceful life.’" He shot Sam a dry look. "Or as peaceful as it gets when everyone’s armed and seems to want us dead."

"Are you okay?"

84 stood motionless for a moment, his eyes fixed ahead, unblinking, as though the words had not fully registered. His expression was cold, detached—a perfect mask cultivated over years of training and suppression.

"I have not sustained any damage," he replied mechanically.

It was a response he had learned to give instinctively, trained into him until it was more a reflex than a conscious thought. His body—still his own in some distant sense—had become nothing more than a vessel for orders and efficiency. The mind within it, though still sharp, was a tool designed only for one thing: to execute commands. There had been no room for anything else. Not since the Facility had taken everything from him.

83 hesitated, shifting uncomfortably, his gaze softening. There was something in his blue eyes—something unfamiliar. Concern, perhaps? It felt like an intrusion, a crack in the perfect wall that 84 had built around himself. “I meant… emotionally,” 83 clarified gently, almost apologetically.

84 blinked once, and for a fraction of a second, his mind seemed to flicker. He almost considered the question, as if it were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. His gaze shifted briefly, but the answer came swiftly, mechanically, "Emotion?" he repeated, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. "I do not experience emotion. It is inefficient."

A cold, rational answer.

But 83 didn’t seem convinced. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now, more hesitant. “That's… not true. You have to feel something. You're not a robot, 84. Do you not feel anything when Carter gives you orders? When the sergeants insult you? When you’re made to kill?”

The walls inside 84’s mind trembled slightly. Feel something? Hishand twitched, but he forced them to still. For t armament it felt like the entire room was holding its breath, waiting for the answer that would never come.

He had been trained to suppress it all. To ignore the noise of humanity that still lingered deep within him. He had learned to shut down that part of himself so completely that it no longer felt real, just something distant, lost in time. And yet 83 - no Sam - kept cutting through the static, scraping at the surface of the walls.

"I am 84," he said, his voice hard now, "I am a weapon. I do not feel. There is no place for such distractions."

83 - no Sam - was still, studying 84 with a quiet intensity that made him uncomfortable. There was no anger in Sam’s gaze—just something softer, something that spoke of empathy, something that made 84 - Alex? - want to look away.

"You were someone before that," Sam continued, his voice gentle but firm. "You had a life, a family… a home, right?"

Alex’s breath hitched, but only slightly, a fleeting movement that was gone almost before it had been noticed. His chest tightened at the mention of the past. His mind fought against the memory, trying to smother it, to push it back into the recesses where it belonged. No. That wasn’t him anymore.

"I am 84," he repeated, the words spilling from his lips. His gaze hardened, the words a shield. "There is nothing before that."

A shadow crossed Sam’s face, but he didn’t back away. He wasn’t frightened of 84’s words. He wasn’t frightened of him, period. It was infuriating. 84 was a frontliner, Sam an infiltrator. Sam was meant to be afraid, at least intimidated. He wasn’t supposed to push. "I don’t believe you," Sam said softly, almost to himself. The words felt fragile, yet there was something firm behind them, as if he were reaching through the walls 84 had built. “You can’t just… erase everything. You have to feel something. You were something once. It can't be gone completely."

84’s expression flickered. For the briefest moment, a spark of doubt, of something human, flashed across his face. 84 - or Alex? His mind wavered, trying to grasp something—something from before. The memory was fleeting, but it was there, pressing against the walls he had so carefully constructed.

He wanted to shut it out.

Shut them all out.

But something was pulling at the edges of his mind, something he couldn’t ignore. A voice—faint, distant, almost lost to time—that reminded him of things he had buried so deeply.

“I don’t have the luxury of feeling,” 84 responded, his voice hollow. It was a line he had memorized, rehearsed until it was second nature. But now, it didn’t come with the same certainty. "Emotions… are not meant for me. I was designed to be efficient, to follow orders. I am not a person. I am 84. I am a weapon. I will endure."

The med wing was cold. It always was. The bright white walls reflected the harsh fluorescent lights, amplifying their sterile glow to an almost blinding intensity. Ash’s boots squeaked faintly against the polished floor, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. The air reeked of antiseptic and faintly metallic undertones, a stench that churned his stomach and clung to his skin.

His shoulders hunched, his head bowed, as he stepped through the doorway. Kerr’s words echoed in his mind, heavy and suffocating: “You’re running out of chances.”

Ash hated the med wing. It wasn’t a place of healing—it was a place of maintenance. Here, he wasn’t a weapon or even Asset 77. He wasn’t Ash. He was nothing more than a malfunctioning object, stripped of purpose, waiting to be patched up and sent back out.

The examination room door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a lone medical asset inside. She glanced up, her hollow smile sharp and unnervingly bright, like sunlight on ice. Her pristine uniform and rigidly neat hair suggested routine, not personality.

“Asset 77!” she chirped, her voice saccharine, almost musical. “You’ve been flagged for maintenance. Please take a seat and remove the top half of your uniform.”

Ash hesitated, his jaw tightening, but his body moved before his mind could object. Obedience was automatic. His fingers worked stiffly at the buttons of his uniform, the fabric crinkling as it slid from his shoulders. He folded it neatly—more from habit than care—and sat down, the cold metal of the chair biting into his skin.

“Good!” the medical asset said, as though he’d passed some invisible test. She rolled a tray of instruments closer, the tools gleaming under the lights, their sterile perfection a mockery of his battered body. “Let’s get started.”

Ash fixed his gaze downward, his hands resting on his thighs. The first scan began with a low hum, the device passing over his torso. The medical asset’s smile didn’t waver as she reviewed the results, though her brow furrowed slightly.

“Oh dear,” she said in the same chipper tone, tapping at the data pad in her hand. “Malnutrition. Dehydration. Evidence of inadequate physical maintenance. Joint degradation is progressing faster than expected. We’ll requisition a brace for field missions—a temporary solution until you’re cycled out.”

Until you’re cycled out.

The phrase hit like a blow, but Ash kept his expression neutral, his hands still on his thighs despite the twitch of his fingers. Showing anything—anger, fear, frustration—would only make it worse.

“Extend your arm, please,” she said, her voice a sing-song command.

Ash obeyed, his muscles stiff as she tugged up his sleeve, revealing the faint seam of synthetic flesh near his elbow. The hiss of the port’s activation filled the air, the synthetic covering retracting to expose gleaming metal beneath.

“Port’s clean,” she noted, more to herself than to him. Her gloved hands moved quickly, attaching a diagnostic device. A faint pulse flared through his implant, the sensation cold and invasive. “No blockages,” she added, as though marking off a checklist. “Good response.”

The sting of supplements entering his bloodstream followed, cold and invasive. Ash swallowed hard as the metallic taste rose in his throat. He forced himself to stay still, silent, his nails biting into his palms as a flicker of anger surged.

The medical asset didn’t notice, or if she did, she didn’t care.

“You’re behind on calibration,” she said, a faint edge of scolding slipping into her tone. “If you’d adhered to protocol, this wouldn’t have deteriorated so quickly.”

Ash’s jaw clenched, his breathing shallow and steady. You don’t even look at me. The thought burned hot and bitter, but he buried it, as always. Anger wouldn’t help. It never did.

She moved to his shoulder blade next, her gloved hands prodding at the implant beneath his skin. He suppressed a flinch as she pressed against the reservoir, the sharp sensation more jarring than painful. The implant was just another piece of him—no, of it—that didn’t belong to him.

“Reservoir levels are low,” she muttered, her cheerful tone dipping into irritation. “Sergeant Kerr should have flagged this earlier.” She loaded a fresh vial into an injector and pressed it against his shoulder. The needle bit into his skin, and the chemical payload burned.

stayed still. Silent. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he stared at the far wall, his nails digging into his palms as the emptiness gnawed at him, hollow and unrelenting.

“You’re ready for redeployment,” she announced brightly, setting the injector aside with a crisp click. Her hands moved quickly, typing notes into the data pad. “Kerr will receive the report shortly, and appropriate nutrient packs will be authorized.”

Dismissed. Just like that.

Ash stood automatically, his body moving on instinct as her focus shifted elsewhere. She didn’t even glance at him as she gave her final instructions, her voice as detached as her hollow smile.

“Report to the supply wing for your brace. And adhere to your nutrient protocols this time, Asset 77. Unnecessary inefficiencies won’t be tolerated.”

The words scraped against his chest, but he kept his head down as he left the room. The door slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss, and the chill of the med wing lingered in his bones as he walked down the corridor.

His boots squeaked faintly against the polished floor. The antiseptic stench clung to him, as if marking him as the broken tool he was. He was a weapon.

A tool.

Nothing more.

The Desensitisation Room, dubbed the "Death Room" by the assets, often felt more like a morgue than a training room. Its metallic walls glinted dully under harsh lights, casting deep shadows across the space. Every surface was cold steel, from the grated floor - designed to allow blood and fluids to drain away into unseen gutters - to the rows of hooks hanging from the ceiling, reminiscent of a butcher’s shop.

Along one wall stood a large, heavy metal table, its surface scarred from years of use. Thick leather restraints hung from each corner, ready to hold down whatever—or whoever—found itself subjected to the cold dissection blade. Above, an array of tools hung neatly: surgical saws, scalpels, forceps, and clamps, all gleaming under the flickering lights. They were meticulously organized, each one in its place—a grotesque parody of an operating room.

Today, a failure from D Block lay on the table, a living weapon with hollow, dim eyes. But they still lived.

For now.

Asset 77 stood in line, rigid, disciplined, with four other young assets each clad in the black uniform of C Block. Around each of their necks sat a shock collar—heavy and oppressive, a constant threat. The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air, but it was the anticipation—the electric charge in the room—that made their skin prickle. Eyes downcast but alert, his short brown hair sticking to his forehead in nervous sweat. Next to him, Asset 47 was a statue—his face hard, unreadable. They both knew what was coming. There was no avoiding it. No denying it.

They had seen the films, watched the dispassionate executions and dissections, but today was different.

It was real now.

Ahead of them, the first trainee - Asset 51 - was handed a knife that looked too large in his trembling hand. He stared at the blade as if hoping it would disappear, his wide, terrified eyes darting between the instructors and the restrained figure on the table.

“Do it,” the instructor barked. The voice was sharp and clipped, cutting through the room like a knife.

The instructor towered over them, tall and imposing in a pristine dark blue uniform. Every button was fastened, every crease sharp. Their expression was one of cool disinterest, as though the suffering before them was no different from a routine drill. With hands clasped loosely behind their back, they radiated an unmistakable air of dominance. Shoulders back, chin slightly raised, the instructor seemed to dare any of the trainees to step out of line. Cold, calculating eyes swept over the room, lingering on each asset just long enough to remind them of who held the power.

“Remember, you are here to learn to eliminate, not to hesitate. You should be proud. The Facility sees your potential.” The disdain dripped from their voice, especially as they studied 51’s quivering form. “Do you understand? Failure is a stain that never washes away.”

51 didn’t move. The instructor’s jaw tightened slightly, a muscle flickering beneath their skin. They didn’t need to yell; their authority was not in volume but in control—absolute and unwavering. A single, deliberate step forward echoed on the cold, grated floor, sending a shiver down Asset 77’s spine.

“I said, do it.” The instructor's voice lowered, laced with quiet menace.

The room fell into an oppressive silence. 51’s hand shook violently, his breathing erratic, eyes wide with fear. The tension crackled, amplifying the fear that hung in the air.

Then, without warning, 51's shock collar activated.

A sharp crackle of electricity erupted, followed by a choked cry. 51 convulsed, his body seizing as the shock coursed through him. The knife slipped from his hand, clattering against the grated floor. He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath, his face a mask of pain and terror.

Asset 77 flinched at the sound, muscles tensing instinctively. His gaze shot to 51’s crumpled form. For just a second, he imagined himself there, on the ground, the electricity still dancing through his body. His fingers twitched at his sides, dread bubbling up in his throat, he felt his body flinch again.

A small sign of fear, of emotion, of weakness.

That was enough.

Everything went black. A jolt. Electricity. Pain. Pure, unrelenting pain. It engulfed him, took him. No air. No thought.

His knees buckled, but the floor didn’t matter anymore; all that existed was the agony. Bright white spots danced across his vision, a dizzying blur of light and pain, as if his skull might crack under the pressure. Breathe. He couldn’t—there was no air. His throat tightened, choking him from within.

He clawed at the floor, but his hands felt distant, useless. His mind shattered into fragments. Stop. Please, stop. Were the words real or just echoes in his head? The burning in his neck stretched and twisted, every muscle locking into place until his body was no longer his own. His heartbeat pounded loud in his ears, a drum beating him into submission. All he could taste was metal—blood, maybe? Was that blood?

Pain.

Blinding.

It clawed at him. Not just his neck. Everywhere.

Fire in his veins.

All there was, all that ever existed, was the collar and the fire it forced into him.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

He gasped, air flooding back into his lungs, but it burned like acid. His chest heaved, and he collapsed fully onto the floor, coughing and shaking uncontrollably. His limbs twitched, the aftershock of electricity still lingering in his muscles like tiny knives poking from within. Vision blurred, but he could see the dull, cold steel beneath him. His fingers flexed against it. Real. He was still here.

The collar stopped, releasing 77 from its cruel grip. He sucked in a sharp breath, coughing as the air returned to his lungs, the burn still smouldering deep inside him. He tasted copper. Blood.

Somewhere nearby, he could feel 47’s eyes on him, but he said nothing. 47 knew better than to react. Knew better than to flinch. Asset 77 hated him for it. 47 was always so composed.

The instructor’s voice sliced through the haze of pain. "Get up 77."

His fingers curled into fists against the cold steel floor, his body still trembling. But he forced himself to rise, legs shaky beneath him, unwilling to show any more weakness. The instructor’s gaze lingered on him for a second longer, as if daring him to flinch again, to falter, before their attention returned to 51 - still on the ground, gasping for breath, tears streaking his cheeks.

No one moved to help him. The instructor stepped forward, retrieving the fallen knife and shoving it back into the boy’s hand.

“Do. It.”

The trembling in 51’s hands intensified, the knife slipping in his slick, sweaty grip. On his knees now, he stared up at the figure strapped to the table, face pale and drawn. The failure didn’t struggle. Didn’t plead. Barely reacted. As if they had already accepted their fate.

The silence dragged on for what felt like hours, broken only be 51’s ragged breathing.

“Do you want this to be your fate?” The instructors voice was smooth, dangerously calm, dripping with authority. “Make your choice.”

Another flick of the instructor’s finger sent a fresh jolt through 51’s collar.

The scream that followed was louder, raw, and full of agony. His body writhed on the floor, fingers clawing at the air in desperation. When the shock stopped, he lay limp, sobs echoing through the sterile room, a sound of defeat that reverberated off the cold, unforgiving walls.

Asset 77’s throat tightened at the sight. He knew what would come next. If 51 didn’t act, the knife would be passed down the line. Each of them would face this moment sooner or later. The phantom burn of the collar still fresh in his mind, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

But 51 didn’t get up this time.

Instead, the instructor’s gaze shifted to the next trainee in line, then to Asset 77.

The living weapon producers

The Facility: The Largest Living Weapon Producer

The Facility is the largest and most feared producer of living weapons globally, with 50 complexes specializing in transforming children into military assets. Their goal is to create obedient soldiers through a combination of psychological manipulation, physical conditioning, and harsh punishment.

Key Characteristics:

Training Starts Early: Children are recruited as young as 8 years old and subjected to years of gruelling training. By the age of 15 to 20, they are deployed into active service.

Ranked System: Assets are ranked by their combat specialization and performance, which fosters intense competition and hostility. Higher-ranked assets receive marginally better treatment, while lower ranks are often deemed expendable.

Psychological Manipulation: The Facility relies on extreme measures—drugging, solitary confinement, and shock collars—to enforce obedience. These methods strip away individuality and reinforce a sense of dehumanisation.

Lack of Autonomy: Controlled entirely by their handlers, the assets have no personal freedom. Every aspect of their lives is dictated by the Facility's strict regimen of orders, punishments, and rewards.

Impact on Liberated Assets:

Former Facility assets frequently struggle with feelings of worthlessness, fear, and emotional detachment. Conditioned to suppress their emotions and autonomy, they often require extensive psychological support to regain a sense of self. Expect initial resistance, as many view vulnerability as weakness. Patience is key.

The Forge: A Cult of Strength and Loyalty

The Forge produces living weapons through sheer brute force, recruiting adults with military backgrounds, prisoners of war, or those manipulated into joining. The Forge emphasizes physical strength and unyielding loyalty, breaking individuals down through brutal training programs.

Key Characteristics:

Brutal Training Programs: Recruits endure extreme physical and mental challenges, akin to a boot camp with higher stakes. Shared suffering bonds the recruits, fostering loyalty to The Forge’s cause.

Memory Erasure and Manipulation: To ensure absolute loyalty, The Forge often uses memory suppression, erasing much of a recruit’s past to rebuild them as devoted soldiers.

Brotherhood and Rivalry: While unity is encouraged, intense competition for rank creates deep rivalries. This often leads to violence, further entrenching rivalries between recruits.

Impact on Liberated Assets:

Former Forge assets struggle with identity issues and conflicting loyalties. Some may regain fragments of their old lives, but many will need to reconstruct their sense of self from scratch. Intensive support is needed to help them transition from the rigid, violent world of The Forge.

The Crucible: Where Technology Meets Combat

The Crucible pushes the boundaries between human and machine, creating highly efficient soldiers through cybernetic enhancements and advanced training. Unlike The Facility or The Forge, The Crucible focuses on technological superiority and adaptability.

Key Characteristics:

Technological Augmentation: Crucible assets undergo invasive procedures to receive cybernetic implants, neural upgrades, and other enhancements, significantly increasing their physical and cognitive capabilities.

Blurring of Human and Machine: These augmentations cause many Crucible assets to question their humanity, leading to severe identity crises.

Advanced Combat Training: Assets are trained in both traditional and high-tech combat.

Impact on Liberated Assets:

Former Crucible assets often experience severe identity issues due to their cybernetic modifications. It is critical to remind them of their humanity beyond their mechanical augmentations, they may require a mix of medical and psychological support to address both the physical and emotional aspects of their recovery.

The Liberation Force: Our Role in Healing and Recovery

At The Liberation Force, we are committed to helping liberated assets heal from the trauma they have endured. Our mission includes:

Medical and Psychological Care: We specialize in treating both the physical and emotional trauma that liberated individuals experience. Our teams are trained to address the unique challenges these individuals face.

Safe Houses and Bases of Operation: Our network of safe houses provides immediate shelter and care for those recently liberated. Long-term rehabilitation takes place at larger bases, offering the time and space for complete resocialisation.

Former Assets as Team Members:

A significant number of our team members are former living weapons and assets. It is essential that you treat these individuals with the same respect and equality as you would any other team member. They bring invaluable insights and perspectives that are crucial in our efforts to support and rehabilitate liberated assets. Many have opted to keep their designation tattoos, typically located on their wrist or neck, as a symbol of their journey and resilience. However, it is important not to make assumptions about how they wish to be addressed or what their designation numbers mean to them. Everyone's experience is unique, and their preferences for names or titles may vary greatly. To foster an inclusive and respectful environment, always take a moment to ask these individuals how they prefer to be addressed.

Organisational Structure

Leadership Team: Directs our strategic vision and oversees all operations.

Medical Unit: Provides comprehensive physical and mental health care for liberated individuals.

Rehabilitation Team: Focuses on psychological recovery and social reintegration.

Operations Team: Handles logistics, security, and mission coordination.

Liberation Unit: Conducts extractions from living weapon production centers and conflict zones, rescuing assets and weapons.

Support Staff: Includes administrative roles, trainers, and others essential to daily operations.

Security Protocols

Your safety, as well as the safety of our liberated individuals, is our highest priority. Please adhere to the following guidelines:

ID Badges: Must be visible at all times while in our facilities.

Restricted Areas: Access is determined by your role and clearance level.

Incident Reporting: Immediately report any suspicious activity or security breaches.

Emergency Procedures: Be familiar with evacuation routes and emergency contacts in case of an emergency.

Code of Conduct

Respect and Empathy: Every interaction with liberated individuals must be rooted in respect, empathy, and understanding. Recognising their experiences and challenges is essential for building trust and fostering a supportive environment.

Confidentiality: Protecting the privacy and dignity of our liberated assets is paramount. All staff members must adhere to strict confidentiality protocols regarding sensitive information shared during recovery and rehabilitation.

Non-Discrimination: We embrace diversity within our team and the individuals we serve. All staff members are expected to treat everyone with fairness, regardless of their backgrounds or past experiences.

We are thrilled to have you on board with The Liberation Force. Your commitment to our mission of healing and rehabilitation is vital in the fight against the exploitation of living weapons. Together, we can provide a pathway to freedom and recovery for those who have suffered under the oppressive systems of living weapon production.

The room hummed with the sterile scent of chemicals, punctuated by the low hiss of gas. Dull lights flickered overhead, casting wavering shadows on the metal walls. Ash sat rigid, chest tight, muscles coiled with tension. His wrists and ankles were securely fastened to the chair, a plastic mask clamped over his mouth and nose, the cold gas pressing against his skin.

Don’t inhale.

"Don’t struggle, just breathe it in,” Sergeant Kerr’s voice cut through the low hum, too calm, too smooth. He stood, arms clasped behind his back, every movement measured, orchestrating the scene.

Ash tightened his lips into a thin line, his jaw clenched so tightly he could feel the muscles in his neck straining. His body trembled with the effort to fight against the instincts screaming at him to breathe.

Don’t breathe.

His lungs burned, the ache spreading through his chest like fire, every second an eternity. His vision blurred at the edges, fingers digging into the metal armrests as his body twitched under the strain, muscles taut like drawn wires. He could hear the faint creak of the bindings around his wrists cutting into his skin as tremors rippled through his arms.

Kerr’s boots echoed on the floor as he stepped closer, hands still clasped behind his back, his gaze sharp and steady. His head tilted slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as if amused by Ash’s defiance. “Stubborn as ever. Admirable,” Kerr murmured, leaning down until his face was inches from Ash’s, “but useless.”

Ash’s chest spasmed, his ribs aching as he tried to push through the overwhelming pressure building inside him. His throat convulsed with the effort, and sweat beaded along his hairline, running in slow rivulets down the sides of his face. He could feel Kerr’s presence, but it felt muted, like looking at a figure from behind glass.

The thought flickered - Is this real?

Kerr crouched down, his calm demeanor never wavering as his eyes scanned Ash's face. "This isn’t personal." His voice was low, almost gentle. “You just… need correcting.”

His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything. The pain in his chest clawed at him, unbearable. Muscles screamed for oxygen. Still, he held on. His knuckles were white. Fingers scraped the chair’s surface, but his gaze staying locked on Kerr.

"You’ll give in," Kerr whispered, his tone dripping with certainty. “It’s just nature. Even the strongest can’t outrun it.”

His body trembled, every nerve alight. His vision darkened, black spots swirling. The ache in his lungs morphed into a sharp, stabbing pain. Sweat soaking the back of his neck.

Not yet.

Kerr’s face twisted in irritation. “Still fighting.” His voice was a low hiss. “I suppose that’s what earned you the top rank, isn’t it?” He leaned in close, gripping Ash's chin and lifting his head, forcing eye contact, “But that rank won’t matter if you’re dead.”

The jab in Ash’s side came fast, pain exploding through the bruise from his last mission. He gasped. Involuntary. Lungs burning as cold gas rushed into his chest. His body convulsing, coughing as the gas scorched its way through him.

Everything hit at once—pain, gas, air—and Ash felt the world shatter around him.

Not now. Not here.

The lightheadedness hit him like a wave, his muscles slackening as the tension unraveled. For a second, his thoughts flared, desperate to hold on, fight, but the drug pulled it all away - everything slipping beyond his reach. The room, Kerr, the chair - they all seemed to blur into something indistinct, shapeless.

None of this is real. It’s not happening. Not again.

Kerr's hand let go of his chin, letting his head droop. The gas hissed louder, pressing in on him, the burning ache in his chest fading into a distant, dull throb. He watched Kerr through heavy-lidded eyes, the man’s face swimming before him, like watching someone through deep water.

“Much better,” Kerr said, almost soothingly, his voice a mockery of comfort. He adjusted the gas levels with a flick of his wrist, keeping Ash groggy, disoriented, but painfully conscious.

Ash’s pulse pounded in his ears, but the sound seemed to come from somewhere else. His body felt heavy, like it was sinking into the chair, yet he still strained against the restraints, feeling them only faintly. His limbs wouldn’t listen. Not mine.

“You see how much easier things are when you comply?” Kerr’s voice hovered over him, his hand brushing Ash’s sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead, almost gently.

Ash’s fingers twitched against the chair, his nails scraping weakly at the metal as he fought to keep his focus, but everything was slipping. His mind drifted in and out, tethered by the sharp, suffocating edge of the gas and the low hum of Kerr’s voice.

“Now,” Kerr continued, walking over to the table to retrieve a syringe, “let’s deal with that overactive mind of yours.”

Ash’s eyes flickered, trying to follow Kerr’s movements, but his body felt distant, heavy. He tried to speak, his words slurring from the fog in his mind. “What…?”

Kerr returned, wiping antiseptic over Ash’s arm. “It’s just a little something to help you. You see, 77,” Kerr murmured as he slid the needle into Ash’s skin, “For all your skil and ability… You think too much. That’s your problem.”

No. Not again. Not...

The cool metal bit into Ash’s arm, and he felt the rush of the drug as it slid into his veins, pulling him further into the haze. His thoughts, already fragmented, began to dissolve entirely, swallowed by a wave of cold calm. His body went slack in the chair, his breathing evening out as the drug took hold.

“Just relax,” Kerr’s voice echoed in the distance. “Stop resisting. It’ll only make things harder for you.”