1
The door of the C-130 Hercules transport aircraft opened. The salty smell of the ocean rushed into the vast cargo bay of the beastly machine. A squad of five armed troopers forced a naked slender man with shortish crimson hair out of the plane. After he stumbled off the loading ramp, the man shielded his eyes from the intense sunlight; he had spent most of the past seven years indoors, and while the compound he had stayed at was well lit, the artificial light simply could not compare to the sheer power of the sun.
Before the man stood a massive steel building—a complex that he would be contained in for however long the organization that owned it needed him to be there. It was an imposing structure that struck fear and awe into whoever gazed upon it. It was a compound similar to the one that the red-haired man had stayed in for the past seven years. The only difference was that he knew where the first compound was—somewhere around the coastline of America, for each year he had been allowed a few days outside of the building to unwind and get accustomed to culture there—while he had no idea where he was now. He knew he would find out soon enough, but that meant entering the compound, and even though he had been growing used to the way these people had been treating him, he dreaded facing the torture and testing that would surely fill up his daily schedule in the years to come.
"Come on! Move it!" said one of the man's armed escorts. He jabbed the man in the back with the muzzle of his M4A1 assault rifle. This caught the man off guard and caused him to stumble forward and fall flat on his face.
"That's enough!" another trooper shouted at the first one. "He's had enough for one day. He hasn't eaten since we left America."
"Yeah, asshole," said the unfortunate man, picking himself back up and dusting himself off. "Cut me a break, will ya?"
"Silence," a third trooper snapped. "You will speak only when necessary."
"Whatever happened to free speech?" said the crimson-haired prisoner, turning his head back in the direction of the complex. The next thing he knew, there was a sharp pain in the back of his head and he was falling to the ground. He hit the concrete with a dull and heavy thud. Though his head was ringing, he was able to turn his gaze upwards toward his assailant. The third trooper had smashed him with the butt of his M16.
"I said quiet!" the third escort barked. "Neoclonii have no rights!"
"You heard the man," said the second trooper—the one who had hazed the first trooper for his actions—to the third in a scolding manner. "He's having enough trouble as it is. Cut him a break."
"I'm glad you're on my side," the abused man said, getting back up once again.
"Shut up and keep moving," said the second trooper, giving the man a firm—but relatively gentle—nudge in the back with the barrel of his rifle. The man stumbled a bit, but remained in control of his balance.
So much for cutting me a break, thought the redhead as he moved forward, receiving an occasional jab in the back to spur him onwards.
It must have been an hour later, though there were no clocks where the man was in the compound, so he couldn't be sure. He had been called down to a room where he would be registered in the building's computer network—the organization needed his information so they could perform the right "tests" on him. When he had gotten to the room, he was asked to sit down by a man working on a computer. This man wore small, horn-rimmed glasses and a neat white shirt, like any computer geek might. The red-haired man sat down soundlessly as the information specialist typed away.
"Kazuto Mishikawa?" the computer man droned in an almost monotone voice. He didn't even look away from the computer screen.
"You can just call me Kazuto," replied the crimson-haired man. "Given how long I've been in your so-called 'program,' you've taken away all need for me to use my family name."
"Whatever," he said as his fingers clacked away at the keyboard. "Age?"
"Twenty, I think," Kazuto said. "I can only be sure whenever they tell me it's my birthday. Not like they really care."
The man at the computer let out a short chuckle. Kazuto was shocked that the man could show any emotion at all. "Been in America a little too long, eh?" the man asked.
"Hmm?"
"Your accent?"
"I have an accent?" Kazuto asked to himself, primarily to hear his own voice. "Whoa, you're right! It does sound American." Even though Kazuto was born in Japan, he had spent so much time in America that he had nearly perfected his English speaking to the point that he sounded like an American. As a result, he now spoke Japanese with a thick American accent.
"You're a Neoclonius, right?" the information man inquired.
"That's what they keep calling me," Kazuto said with an air of scorn. "Just because I'm different from other Diclonii." "Neoclonius" was a relatively new species classification that referred to individuals who possessed similarities to the evolutionary offshoot species of humans known as "Diclonius," but differed in terms of physical appearance and/or other properties. Kazuto, being a Neoclonius, was indeed very different from his Diclonius relatives. Instead of two triangular horn-like protrusions sticking out of his head, he had three: two placed above the ears, where they normally would be on a regular Diclonius (these were easily hidden by a hat or cap), and one shorter one in the center of his forehead, which he often covered up with a headband. Also, he did not have the invisible telekinetic arms—called "vectors" by this organization and other institutions that failed long ago—that normal Diclonii had: his entire body could act as one. Just by thinking, he could give any part of his body vector-like qualities, i.e. he could turn a limb nearly invisible, pass it through many solid objects, stop most bullets and tear people apart with it.
"I see," said the man with the horn-rimmed glasses after Kazuto had explained his abilities to him. "One moment please." Just perfect, thought Kazuto sarcastically. All I have to do is wait. Whoop-dee-freaking-doo.
"Done," said the computer man after a few minutes. "From now on, you will be registered as 'Number 42.' I understand your surrogate mother from America accompanied you on your trip here, yes?" Kazuto confirmed that. "Alright, then. You will be meeting with her shortly in your first test chamber. Your armed escort will be arriving momentarily."
"Just a second, sir," said Kazuto. "Do you mind telling me where this compound is located?"
"Japan, naturally," replied the computer man. "In fact, as I understand, we are in close vicinity to your hometown, is that correct?"
"Kamakura!?" spat Kazuto in surprise. Memories began flooding back to him, including those of his Diclonius mother, of the friends he left behind, and of the great food that he loved his entire life. For once, he felt that there was hope in his life. He practically had to lock his hands onto his bare thighs to keep them from grabbing onto the collar of the registration man's crisp white shirt. "Is it possible for you to take me there sometime this week?"
"That is something you will have to ask your surrogate mother, and that she will have to discuss with her boss. Ah, here's your escort," the man said as three armed men walked into the room. "Good luck, Number 42."
"Yeah, right," Kazuto said as he stood up, ready to be taken by his train of guards. He knew that while these people may believe that sentence "good luck" meant something along the lines of "good luck bearing the pain of your next test." Or "good luck staying sane." It didn't much matter. The only thing about that statement that Kazuto was certain about was that it meant anything but "good luck."
"Move along," said the head guard with a jab of his gun. Kazuto was beginning to get used to this. But as he took his first step forward, a voice called out:
"Hold on, guards." It was the man at the computer again. Kazuto found it rude that the guy never took his eyes away from the screen.
"Yes?" asked the head guard.
"In my personal opinion, I think it is a little dangerous to be walking around with an apparently irritated man who can use his entire body as a vector," said the man in a very matter-of-fact manner. "He is liable to tear you all apart and escape, doing insurmountable damage to the facility, its subjects, and its staff."
"So what are you supposing we do?" asked the escort.
"Eliminate said hazard," he said indifferently without parting his eyes from the monitor.
The guard paced the room, clearly in deep thought. As he walked around the front of Kazuto, he stopped to speak. "You know what?" he said, looking Kazuto directly in the eye. "He's absolutely right."
The very next second, all Kazuto could feel was the sting of the butt of the guard's gun on his forehead. As he fell backwards, he felt another gun butt crash into his stomach. He cringed, and then was promptly smashed in the chin, sending him backwards onto the floor. His head was reeling, his view was blurred and he was vomiting blood, but he was still conscious. But one final, brutal kick in the cheek from another guard put his lights out. Everything faded to black.
End of 1
