Chapter Text
Number 69 took a deep breath as footsteps approached his cell, reminding himself yet again to just go along with it, that struggling or resisting would only bring more pain, that walking to the operating table would be his only way to retain the last bit of dignity and control he had left.
So long as he survived so they could keep testing on him instead of bringing in more children, he’d be content.
Or at least that’s what he told himself. He doubted he would even be able to escape in the state he was in now. Maybe when he was first brought in, healthy and training fresh in his mind, he’d have managed, but now… now he didn’t even know the way out.
His eyes widened as he looked up, a boy around his own age between the two doctors, his eyes darting this way and that even as resignation dulled them. It didn’t take a genius to tell he’d already been through hell before being dragged here, just like him.
Whatever. It wouldn’t matter. At least he was older, so he might actually last more than a week, the prospect of such more a curse than blessing.
But all it meant was that he’d failed as Project Number 69 yet again, not good enough to keep them from kidnapping another innocent person to use. He just had to show them he could take whatever they needed, that they could count on him, and him alone. Or at least him and whoever No. 70 was. He still heard their footsteps sometimes and how doctors would talk about him when they didn’t think he was listening.
Ice ran through him as Moreau came into view, a smile splitting his face in half as he twirled, his two assistants pushing the boy into the cell. Great, now he wouldn’t even be able to suffer by himself in peace.
“Number 69, Number 69!” Moreau sang, clapping his hands and meaty hands gripping the bars to their cell. “I got you another test subject to be roommates with! I’ve noticed you’ve been so lonely since Number 71 expired so I made sure to get one stronger to last longer! Aren’t you happy!”
He wanted to throw up, swallowing it all down as he clapped a hand to his mouth and eyes wide, his vision going blurry. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t give him that sick satisfaction.
“You’re always so good, so happy early birthday or maybe late birthday? You’ve never told me, but I’ll give you two a uhh… how does an hour sound to get acquainted before our next experiment? I really hope he gives you the strength to pull through again, oh I just can’t wait!” Moreau rambled, already walking away, his voice echoing through the compound. Number 69 didn’t want to hear another word.
Silence settled over their cell as the mad doctor’s voice faded away. If what Moreau had said had any merit to it, he might just die or expire as the scientists liked to call it, on the operating table in an hour. Hopefully No. 70 would be able to pull through when he was gone, but that would also mean that his new cellmate would probably expire quicker without him to take at least some of the experiments. He’d have to pull through somehow to stop it all.
“I’m Noé,” the other boy said, breaking the silence.
Number 69 only heard himself scoffing, an all too familiar bitterness hardening his heart once again. Better initiate him before his possible demise soon, he knew how tough it was to figure this place all out on his own.
“You’re name’s Number 73 now, got it?” he bit out instead. It had been years since Misha, no, Number 71 expired, not died because they were all nothing more than test subjects now, nothing more than glorified lab rats. Even now he found that fact hard to hammer through his head, but accepting things as they were helped. Better to go along with it than struggle and break. “The man that’s in charge, that’s Doctor Moreau and he won’t care about whatever you call yourself. We’re nothing more than test subjects here.”
“And I’m not the doctor, so what’s your name?” Noé, no, Number 73 said instead, glaring at him. Fuck. Where had the resignation gone? At least that sense of helplessness might have helped him last longer.
“I’m just Number 69, got it?”
In truth, he could barely even remember his old name. He’d blocked out his old memories long ago, letting the grays of the lab overtake him, the only break in the muted colors of bright red blood. And worst of all, it helped. It helped to barely remember the before, to accept this as his new life if such an existence could even be called that.
It hurt to remember now, so he didn’t. Maybe his old name was on the tip of his tongue, itching to be let out once again, but he refused. He was No.69 now. Nothing more and nothing less.
The boy’s face drained of color. “You really… you really believe that, don’t you?”
“Well it’s the truth here so you better get used to it. I’ve been here for years and I’ve seen too many others break. The more hope you have, the faster and harder it happens.”
“So you don’t even…” he trailed off, eyes wide and hope snuffed out. Good. Better to get it over with.
“No, I don’t remember my old name anymore, it's been that long,” he said instead, crossing his arms and leveling him with a glare. He’d fully given it up after they carted Misha’s body away, so little under the bloodsoaked cloth. “There's no point so get used to it.”
Silence for a beat. Maybe he’d done a good enough job of pushing him away. It would be better for the both of them if they kept their relationship to cellmates and nothing more. He wouldn’t go through that pain again, of seeing once again how everyone he ever so much as cared for died. It was better for him to be locked away and experimented on. At least this way no one else would die for him.
“How did you get here?” No. 73 asked, prodding once again.
He sighed. Whatever would satisfy his curiosity and get him to stop asking him useless questions. “Got kidnapped along the catacombs.”
Hopefully that would be good enough and he wouldn’t ask why he’d been in the catacombs. He didn’t like explaining his past with the Chaussures much less why he was there in the first place.
“Going to Paris was supposed to be my eighteenth birthday present,” 73 said, looking down and eyes so full of sorrow it almost made Number 69 feel some sort of sympathy for him. Almost. “I went into an alleyway because someone was in trouble and was helping them up, but next thing I knew I was being dragged somewhere with a bag over my head. I think it should still be the same day, but…”
Probably was. Well happy fucking birthday to him, then. Maybe he’d be able to get some bread with extra worms in it or something to celebrate.
“How old are you? You look around my age,” 73 asked, that quiet and soft tone of voice already beginning to get on 69’s nerves. He hated that someone might almost care even the slightest bit about anything to do with him.
“Sixteen,” he spat, refusing to say anything more, much less say that he was almost seventeen. He already knew how childish it was to push the classic ‘soon to be’ bullshit. It didn’t matter that he made a point of catching sight of the calendar in the operating room before the torture would begin, that deep down he hoped to somehow make it to eighteen, even that a seemingly impossible task. He’d probably be lucky if he finally expired this experiment so his pain would end once and for all.
The realization Misha would be ten now if he’d survived that operation sent pain through 69’s heart. He’d never even made it to double digits, his body so tiny under the bloody sheet they’d pulled over him before most likely dissecting him for any and all data they could somehow get.
Maybe if he’d been strong enough, had been able to form the words to volunteer yet again for him, Misha would have survived. But he hadn’t. He’d managed to pull through at least three different experiments in one go, never leaving that table and fighting for consciousness throughout the entire thing just so he could volunteer again to keep Misha safe in their cell.
But everything he’d done, sharing his portions of food so maybe Misha would be strong enough for the experiments even he’d be unable to take for him, all the times he’d volunteered himself and even his hopeless prayers hadn’t mattered in the end. He should blame the scientists and doctors, maybe even the Church for not investigating further, but he couldn’t, any anger he directed toward them drying up in minutes only to eat him alive from the inside out.
He should have been stronger, tried harder, he would have carved himself to his very bones if it had meant Misha would still be here, but he’d failed.
He’d failed and at least now he knew not to get attached to anyone ever again. At least this way, they might not be under the curse sure to be following him around. At least this way he wouldn’t have to feel the all consuming pain when they died.
At least Moreau had only taken two more test subjects since then, 69 durable and valuable enough to take it all in the place of new ones. If it meant being trapped down here forever to keep all the pain to himself and no one else, he’d endure it. He wouldn’t let anyone else die for him.
He looked up, footsteps coming their way.
Moreau must have something planned, the hour having probably turned into only half that time if not less. Hopefully his broken body would be able to take it. Hopefully No.73 wouldn’t become his new replacement.
He got to his feet, the scientists just opening the door to their cell and waiting for him, knowing he’d walk right into their arms of his own free will. They hadn’t had to drag him away for years now, no matter how much pain he was in or how hard he had to fight down his panic.
He shot a smile in No.73’s direction, the boy all too obviously terrified if his wide eyes and now pale face had anything to say. He’d be lying if he denied he was feeling the same, his hands trembling ever so minutely and the room swirling around him as he turned before the world twisted right again, the vertigo making his knees weak.
Good thing he’d always been a liar.
“See you after. Maybe,” he got out, smiling all the while and winking before he turned to the scientists, allowing them to lead him to that familiar room yet again.
“What… what are you going to do to him, what are you —” No. 73 began to scream, his voice little more than a whisper at first, gradually building till he’d leapt from his bed, banging on the bars as if that alone would change their minds. As if whatever they had planned wouldn’t happen one way or another.
His yelling dimmed as the operating room door closed behind them and 69 climbed onto the table himself, positioning his wrists and feet to the correct places so they could strap him down, so he wouldn’t move too much and ruin everything. He was No. 69. Moreau’s favorite, the best test subject they’d ever had. He’d find a way to survive, to make good on his words to 73, to Noé.
He closed his eyes as the first needle stuck through his skin, hissing as pain began to web from his arm, every muscle in his body seizing, crushing his bones, crushing him from the inside out, someone screaming, the sound deafening, all around him, his throat tearing and blood soon gurgling in his throat.
Ah, so the screams were him.
He should have known.
It wasn’t long till everything went dark around him.