His hand trembled as he approached the door to the containment chamber, each step measured and heavy with dread. If anyone—even the slightest suspicion—caught him in this act, a dozen bullets would be flying through the back of his skull before he could even raise his hands in surrender.
Shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot, he inserted his keycard into the slot, bracing for the signature loud hiss that signaled the door's opening. This was the moment when, if they wished him dead, they would act without hesitation. With both eyes squeezed shut, he waited with bated breath, his mind a maelstrom of fear and determination. He reminded himself: they would not kill him. He knew that soon. What he was about to do—meticulously planned down to the last detail—was inevitable.
Then, as quickly as the memory surged, it dissolved like mist at dawn, leaving him momentarily disoriented in the stark reality that awaited.
In a cramped, cluttered office at the station, Dr. Rhys Stane sat with his face etched in worry. Throughout the interrogation, his gaze remained fixed on the floor, deliberately avoiding Deputy Haturii's piercing stare. Just meters away, Haturii leaned casually on a nearby table—a silent challenge. It wasn't that the Foundation researcher couldn't lie with his eyes; he simply didn't think Stane was worthy of meeting his.
"Do you have any idea what you've done? The chaos you've unleashed on us? Why release something like that—a category 4, no less? The longer it's out there, the harder it will be to recapture and contain it without arousing public suspicion."
Stane's calm reply cut through the tension: "Except you don't want it contained. You're trying to kill it."
Haturii's frustration boiled over. "I'm only doing my job, and that involves protecting the lives of everyone. Good grief, even the lives of those who pull off reckless stunts like this. People like you!" With a swift, furious motion, he swept everything off the office table.
Fixing his gaze downward for a long moment, he spat, "That's what she wants you to believe. Where's Aomorii? I SHOULD be talking to her!"
"Chief Aomorii isn't here," Stane replied coolly, his patience thinning. "She left with a few others after receiving calls about people found comatose—bodies drained, devoid of Taiji. Know anything about that?" He paused, letting the silence stretch. "They said it's some sort of illness spreading like wildfire. But you and I know different. It's the Monster. It's doing something to them, isn't it?"
The man hesitated, and Haturii caught the evasive note in his reply. It wasn't a direct denial, nor a clear affirmation—only a vague, "I'm not sure what you mean."
That was the last straw.
Enraged, Haturii grabbed the researcher and forcefully pinned him against the wall. He had held back before, but now restraint was no longer an option. Letting the devil within seize control was becoming inevitable.
"Why? I want to know why!" Haturii demanded, his voice hardening. "Why did you do it? And don't you dare lie to me! Why release the creature? Are you trying to spell doom upon us? Are you trying to get us all killed? Is that it?"
"More like trying to save us from being killed," the researcher replied coolly.
"What?"
"Ever delved into optogenetics?" the researcher began, his voice gaining a strange, fervent edge. "It's a technique that allows us to selectively silence neurons—especially in the amygdala, the center of anxiety, and the hippocampus, the keeper of..."
"Memories. Precious memories," Haturii finished, his tone softening with understanding.
Stane nodded slowly. "Yes, you're familiar with it."
"Why?" Haturii pressed, fixing the researcher with an intense stare. "What drives them to pursue this? What are they aiming to achieve?"
"Because to remember, the brain must actively choose to forget."
"Remember what exactly?" Haturii asked, his eyes ablaze with curiosity.
The scientist leaned in. "The past. Its origins, its unfolding—everything. The procedure was designed to uncover buried memories, to unlock minds, their minds, extracting any shred of information that could lead us to answering the one question that might mean everything."
Haturii's voice trembled with realization. "Where do all these monsters come from?"
"If we could pinpoint their origin, we might just gain an edge over the others. But this approach, while intriguing, carries inherent risks—especially when applied to a creature of this nature. There's bound to be repercussions, unforeseen consequences."
"What sort of repercussions?" Haturii prodded further.
"Some of those memories—his memories—might be pleasant; others, less so. The surge of emotions could render him unstable, dangerous even. Unlike most anomalies, his senses and abilities are already heightened. To silence his neurons would be like shutting down the very human aspects that clash with his monstrous essence. Picture an untamed beast, unshackled and driven by raw aggression—devoid of self-awareness, yet consumed by its single purpose."
At this, Haturii released his grip and stepped back, awe and apprehension mingling on his face.
"They had already initiated the procedure," the researcher continued solemnly after a pause, smoothing the creases of his lab coat. "Fortunately, I arrived in time. Or at least, I fervently hope I did."
Dr. Stane recalled a mantra that had echoed through the Foundation's corridors for years:
"RSCP: Rendezvous, Secure, Contain, and Protect. We catalogue, study, and secure thousands of phenomena. Destruction is always the last resort."
He wondered silently—had every option truly been exhausted?
Was the Foundation going to annihilate the creature along with me? A creature that had wrought untold havoc even before its recent breach—a being that should have been neutralized long ago by our standards?
Yet amidst these tumultuous thoughts, Stane focused on reassuring Haturii.
"And why are you telling me all this?" Haturii asked steadily.
"Because I need you to understand the gravity of what you're involved in, Deputy," Stane replied, stepping closer. "I was in charge of RSCP-004. I know it intimately. I need you to see past its monstrous facade—to look through its eyes, even if just for a moment."
"RSCP-004," Stane began, "appears as an ordinary 12-year-old boy—average height, with striking green hair and bright amber eyes. But that is where the semblance of humanity ends. His skin is entirely green, mottled with darker patches. A small, green horn juts from his right forehead, and his pulse—when it surges—triggers severe homicidal tendencies.
"RSCP-004 has a genius-level ability to absorb knowledge from his adversaries, making him exceptionally adaptable. Yet, he despises shedding blood. His agility and reflexes far surpass human limits, and when enraged, his resilience to damage is extraordinary. However, these superhuman traits are notably diminished in the absence of a full moon.
"From a distance, he might pass as human, albeit an unsettling, almost-human figure. But the closer you get, the less convincing the illusion becomes.
"RSCP-004 first caught our attention when it crash-landed on a remote mountainside far east of here. It arrived encased in a chamber pod—an intricate construct of metal and ivory. Its design evoked the machinery of the Industrial Revolution, yet it was far too complex for that era. At first, its nature eluded us. It emitted vibrant neon-blue particles, each pulse growing more and more potent—a mystery unfolding before our eyes.
"TAIJI," Stane concluded, the word hanging heavy in the air.
"Our observers at the crash site reported that whatever was inside that pod had the potential to either power anything or destroy everything. To some, it was an energy source; to others, a means to further their own selfish ambitions. I pleaded with them to act with restraint, but human nature is to seize and conquer. My superiors chose a more aggressive approach. We forced it out of hiding, but in doing so, we only fueled its anger. Once a docile creature, it showed no sign of wanting to escape—only to grieve. Then, in a sudden transformation, it erupted in battle rage, its fury leveling military encampments, launch facilities, and countless lives. Yet, amidst the carnage, the mission yielded crucial insights."
Haturii's voice softened with a mix of curiosity and dread. "What insights?"
Stane's eyes darkened. "We learned that the boy was guarding something. Despite sustaining damage from helicopter-mounted machine guns, it was as if his resistance was… trivial—like a cheap cream pie to the face. Unable to contain him any other way and desperate to stop his rampages, we resorted to extreme measures. High doses of halothane gas, delivered from a long-range aircraft, finally subdued him—but not without casualties. And so, we took him in to begin our experiments."
He paused, his next words heavy with regret. "The RSCP Foundation's mandate has always been to contain and study it's anomalies. This mission was fervent in our early days. Once the creature was secured, a team of overzealous scientists examined it, neglecting to question what it was so desperate to protect. That secret was forgotten—until one man discovered something that would forever alter his perception of 'monsters.' Whether genius or folly, it was a risky move. He went to the site and saw it for himself. In that moment, he knew the truth."
Haturii leaned in, his tone hushed. "What did he see?"
Stane reached into his lab coat and produced an old silver pocket watch. "And a dead body," he whispered. "A man's decomposing body."
The watch glinted ominously in the dim light—a relic from another era, now shrouded in mystery and death.