Everything ached when he woke up. Bruises and cuts covered his body, testaments to the beatings he had received. This however, had been going on for three weeks, the point was to help develop a super-human tolerance of pain. Fitting, seeing as he wasn't human. He was a weapon, and the hell he was currently subscribed to wasn't torture, in the minds of his creator and wardens. It was simply breaking in a new weapon. A living one, that required careful grooming and training to reach its full potential, and hence worth, to its owners. Whatever living damnation they subjected him to was always intended to make him stronger, faster, smarter, tougher, more obedient to them as his owners. Becoming so was his only choice. If he didn't adapt, didn't grow, he would die. No one would care, he would just be another failure that didn't make the cut. His corpse would be incinerated or reused along with the hundreds of other kids who fell to the program. Another sacrifice for the future of both human and faunas alike. It wasn't like he mattered though, he had no mother, no father, but was created in a test tube. Born from D.N.A of a huntsman and huntress that assisted in the program, smashed together in a machine, he was one of over a thousand "siblings" created and held together in cramped quarters. With such an endless supply of test subjects, the program aimed to create a super soldier, using chemicals alongside physical and mental training. Mortality rates of the subjects were extremely high, by this time he was one of only ten percent of the original batch that had survived. The rate of death could not phase the project overseers, and things learned from experimentation on each batch were applied to subsequent had he lived for five pain laden, chemical filled, mind breaking years. So would he continue to live. Even at five years however, he was tougher and more mentally developed than some adults, courtesy of the program. And as the cell door opened and he was dragged out of the room filled with dead and dying subjects, left as a form of psychological toughening and desensitizing, he remembered his goal. Escape. Not stupid enough to hope for revenge, he would feign obedience until the day he was free. His goal kept him alive. Gave him resolve.

The last thing one of the dying subjects saw before passing, was the look of grim determination in his eyes, as the doors shut behind him.


Okay, so the prologue has been updated you see... not by much. the biggest thing is that i made it fit the style i'm going to be using more and that i'm sticking this disclaimer in here, I do not own RWBY