Chapter 7 – Shaping perfection.
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In all things there is perfection. Especially love, even if it is twisted.
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The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing across the stone walls as flickering torches illuminated a trio of figures. Unlike the rest of the cultist scurrying around, they stood, cloaked in dark robes and bound together by a singular, obsessive purpose, the creation of the perfect being. In front of them lay their subject, restrained and unmoving, though each breath betrayed the fight still left in him.
The cultists had performed countless experiments before, each failure a reminder of how fragile human life was. But this subject… he was different.
It had been seven years since Subject 17 first arrived in their hands, a small, trembling child barely worth a second glance. The cultists had expected his fate to mirror those before him: a swift collapse under the strain of the transformations they inflicted. Yet, against all odds, he had survived and more than that, he had thrived.
They had begun with calculated caution, not expecting much from such a frail vessel. Only his abnormal resistance status gave them a bit of hope. The initial injections of succubus blood were incremental, each one a drop of poison into his veins. Every child they had tested before had crumbled quickly, reduced to an unrecognizable heap after only a few sessions. But Subject 17 no, he was resilient, tenacious, maddeningly so.
Each dose should have shattered him, should have ravaged his mind and warped his body beyond coherence. Yet, after each session, his body absorbed it, adapted to it. The cultists watched in awe as he defied all predictions, his frame gradually softening, his features becoming otherworldly, both beautiful and chilling. His hair, once dark and matted, had slowly lightened until it was an ethereal shade of silver, gleaming like moonlight in the dim light of their ritual chambers.
Master Zareth was the first to recognize the potential of what was happening. “Observe him closely,” he murmured to his colleagues as he leaned over the iron bound restraints holding Subject 17 in place. “This is no mere experiment now. This… this is progress.”
They had no way of knowing if this would truly yield the perfect being they sought, but the thrill of discovery had ensnared them all. Day by day, the cultists began to shed their initial hesitance, replaced by a burning curiosity that bordered on obsession. Subject 17’s body had begun to transform with remarkable speed after the fourth dose, his form shedding any remnants of his former self. His face, once forgettable, had become a vision of strange, magnetic allure. His skin turned pale, unblemished, and his eyes took on an unnatural, piercing quality amber flecked with traces of crimson, the marks of both the succubus and vampire blood coalescing within him.
And then, there was the most notable change, Subject 17 was no longer a boy.
Lady Ysara, observing him as he writhed under the restraints, couldn’t resist a dark smile.
“Do you see how perfect she is becoming?” she whispered to her colleagues, her voice dripping with something between reverence and greed. The cultists no longer referred to the subject in masculine terms; the transformations had been progressing smoothly. Every injection, every cut and stitch of their work, had reshaped him, leaving no trace of the frail child that had once been.
Therin, usually restrained in his enthusiasm, found himself leaning closer as well. “Look at the way her body is changing. The succubus blood has refined her physique, softened her limbs, elongated her fingers… It’s as if she were carved from marble.”
Each injection of vampire blood further reshaped the subject, fortifying her bones, strengthening her muscles, and sharpening her senses. The cultists noted that her senses grew unnaturally heightened, the slightest sound causing her to flinch, her gaze darting with an unnerving intensity that only encouraged them further.
“She is becoming everything we hoped for,” Zareth said, his voice a mixture of triumph and awe as he watched Subject 17 thrash in response to the latest dose of vampire blood. They had tethered her to the altar, thick iron restraints around her wrists and ankles, yet her strength continued to challenge them. With every new procedure, every ounce of torment they inflicted, she only grew stronger, her resilience defying reason.
“Truly remarkable,” Ysara breathed, her eyes gleaming with pride. “Where others faltered, she has risen. This strength… she is no longer human… this is no longer merely survival. It’s evolution.”
…
Days turned into months, months into years, as they continued to push Subject 17’s limits. They moved from simple injections to more elaborate enchantments, experiments and rituals that invoked ancient demons to force further transformations, rituals that used dark stones to amplify the succubus blood’s effects, further enhancing her form. Each new experiment seemed to draw her closer to the apex of their twisted ideals.
Their experiments were laced with cruel excitement, each new agony inflicted on the subject a step closer to their vision of perfection. They no longer cared to hide their sadistic pleasure in watching her squirm and writhe in pain. Her cries echoed in the stone chambers, each one met with cold smiles and appraising eyes.
“She endures,” Therin would say, almost wistfully, as they watched Subject 17 struggle, straining against the shackles. “Even her suffering has a certain beauty, wouldn’t you agree?”
Ysara, her face twisted with pride and something darker, nodded. “It’s a testament to the strength of our work. Every moment she endures brings us closer to our goal.”
Master Zareth, never one to indulge in sentiment, saw their success in numbers and metrics. He tracked each rise in her resistance stat with meticulous precision, noting every uptick in strength, every drop of fear left in her. “She was built for this,” he remarked, his tone devoid of anything resembling empathy. “Our tools the enchanted needles, the blood-binding crystals are working better than I could have anticipated.”
And so, the cultists pressed on, each new ritual a brutal symphony of magic and pain, each new test designed to strip away what remained of her humanity. As they twisted her mind and body further, they whispered of her impending perfection, of the glory she would bring to their cause.
“She is no longer merely a vessel,” Ysara declared, watching the subject with reverence. “She is becoming our ideal.”
Zareth nodded, his gaze unwavering as he looked down at her restrained form. “The suffering only polishes the final creation. She will emerge flawless, our masterpiece.”
The cultists worked with a renewed fervor, certain that the pinnacle of their twisted ambitions was within reach. They had not simply created a new form, a new being; they had created something resilient, something timeless.
…
These past seven years had been one miracle after another. And yet, even as they delighted in their triumph, none of them noticed the last flicker of defiance that lingered in Subject 17’s eyes a spark that refused to be extinguished, no matter how long they chipped away at her.