A few days after the last check up on him. One day they rolled him out of the small chamber without warning in a movable table. Gr1m1 was freaking out at the sudden movement out of nowhere. So they injected him with a few doses of tranquilizers they had prepared for this sort of occasion. So he had no other choice but stay put.

  The surface under his back shivered in short jolts, wheels catching on seams in the floor. A strap pressed across his chest. He could not feel his arms beneath it. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing answered. The effort went nowhere, like pushing against a wall inside his own skull.

  Light hit him first, in a blinding shine as if he came out to the sun for the first time. The previous room had been close, ceiling low, air heavy with herbs and metal. Here the ceiling climbed away from him, a wide vault of stone ribs and dark beams. Lines of lamps hung from chains, each flame trapped in glass. The brightness did not hurt his eyes, but it forced them to work. Shapes formed slowly. It had rows… So many rows he was fascinated by it.

  As he turned his head a bit a lot of people sat on benches that curved around the room in rising tiers. Hundreds. More. Heads turned as the table rolled forward. The cloth rustled. Wood creaked. Pens scratched against boards. The sound came in bursts, then blurred into a single crowded murmur filling the whole room of different voices all at the same time.

  Words reached him in pieces.

  "...phase of reconstruction..."

  "...allocation of... years already..."

  "...subject GR1m1..."

  His name landed cleanly. The rest broke apart, syllables slipping past before he could hold them. His hearing worked, but his mind lagged behind, catching only fragments that stuck for no clear reason.

  The table stopped. The sudden stillness made the strap across his chest feel heavier. He tried again to move his right arm. A faint pull answered somewhere near his shoulder, then nothing. No forearm… or even a hand... His left side gave him even less.

  He could feel his ribs rise and fall. Breath came shallow, but steady. Air smelled of ink, sweat, old stone, and something sharp from the alchemist's coat beside his head. Distilled alcohol combined with ground plants and some kind of burned metal.

  GR1m1 learn to differentiate certain plants and how they grew depending to their exposure to air and earthy smell after immense hours of the alchemist preparing concoctions in front of him.

  "Position him here." The alchemist's voice came from his right, close to his ear. Clear, clipped. "Angle the platform."

  The world tilted. His field of view shifted from ceiling to faces. The strap dug into his chest as gravity pulled him sideways. His torso obeyed the tilt, but his lower body felt distant, as if it belonged to another person on another table.

  He saw the first row of the assembly. Robes in different colors he could not identify them but surely were darker than others. Some wore leather aprons stained with the smell of their old work. Others had clean cloth, layered and marked with stitched symbols, showing their level of knowledge to the keen eye. A few had bare arms, inked with lines and circles that climbed from wrist to shoulder. Eyes tracked him down… Some narrowed… Others stayed flat. One pair flicked away quickly, as if the owner did not want to be caught staring.

  He grabbed him by the jaw and searching for mouths movements.

  "...structural integrity..."

  "...nerve lattice..."

  "...feeding cycle unnecessary..."

  The words came from different directions. His gaze tried to follow each voice with his eyes closed, but his neck refused to turn. Muscles along his spine sent a dull ache when he tried. The ache felt real. It meant something was still connected down the line.

  A man in the front row stood. He had a board in his hands and a pen between his fingers. His hair was cut short, his jaw rough with dark stubble. When he spoke, his voice carried without effort, and everything was in silence so his voice could be heard clearly.

  "We have invested several years in this subject." The word "several" landed hard. "Several years of material, labor, and access to restricted patterns. The question before us is simple. Do we proceed to full reconstruction, or do we finalize a functional, limited frame."

  Pens moved across boards. Heads bent. The room answered with a low wave of sound.

  "...limited frame..."

  "...waste of... if we..."

  "...organs... unnecessary..."

  GR1m1 tried to swallow. His throat worked, but the movement felt slow, as if the muscles had to remember their order. Saliva moved down. He felt it. That meant his throat still belonged to him and they hadn't carved out his skin yet. So they were contemplating what to do with him.

  He tried to speak out loud… Air left his lungs. His lips parted. No sound came. His tongue felt heavy, sluggish. He could not tell if it moved at all. The effort left a faint tremor in his chest, a small strain that made his next breath shorter.

  The alchemist leaned over him, blocking part of his view. Lines of fatigue marked the skin around the man's eyes. His hair had more gray than GR1m1 remembered from earlier sessions, though he could not place when those had been. Time inside the smaller room had blurred. He spent there what could be almost a lifetime for some people in that very room.

  "The subject is conscious," the alchemist said. "Perception appears partial. Motor response limited from head to torso, with a slight activity on the right arm. Limbs remain incomplete."

  "...does he understand..." someone asked from the second row.

  "Enough," the alchemist replied. "Not fully, he reacts to actions not words so far language remains physical"

  GR1m1 watched his mouth move. The words reached him a heartbeat later. “Enough. Not fully”. The gap between sound and meaning felt wide, but he could still cross it.

  He tried again to move his right shoulder. A faint twitch answered. The strap across his chest shifted a fraction. The alchemist's gaze dropped to the movement, then back to the assembly.

  "You see," he said. "There is a response."

  A woman in a dark robe raised her hand. She did not wait to be acknowledged.

  "We do not need him to eat," she said. Her voice had a sharp edge that cut through the general murmur. "We do not need him to excrete. Those systems consume resources and introduce failure points. If we remove the digestive tract and associated organs, we free space for reinforcement and storage. He can draw what he needs from direct infusion."

  "...agreed..."

  "...less maintenance..."

  "...no waste management..."

  The words "eat" and "waste" stuck. Images tried to form behind his eyes. A bowl. A spoon. The feel of something solid between his teeth. The memory slipped away before he could hold it. He could not tell if it belonged to him or to some pattern laid into his mind during earlier work.

  Another voice spoke, older, rougher.

  "And if we remove those systems, we remove a layer of control. Hunger is a tether. So is thirst. A construct that does not need either is harder to predict."

  GR1m1 could not see the speaker. The sound came from higher up, somewhere in the middle rows. He stared at the ceiling beams while the room argued beneath them.

  "...not a construct, a subject..."

  "...tool, not citizen..."

  "...ethics board already ruled..."

  "...function over sentiment..."

  The word "tool" landed and stayed. It did not feel new. It felt worn, used many times before.

  He tried to lift his head. Muscles along his neck strained. The effort sent a sharp line of pain from the base of his skull to his shoulders. His head rose a finger's width from the table, then dropped back. The impact was small, but it made his vision blur for a moment.

  The alchemist's hand came into view, fingers resting on the edge of the table near GR1m1's shoulder. He did not touch him. The hand stayed close, as if ready to steady him if he tried again.

  "His current frame cannot support full organ load," the alchemist said. "Bone density is still below target. Muscle fiber is incomplete in all limbs. If we insist on a full biological system, we extend the project by at least three years."

  "...three more..."

  "...funding will not..."

  "...council will never..."

  The man with the board in the front row raised his hand. The room quieted in uneven patches, sound dropping in steps rather than all at once.

  "We are not here to debate his status as a tool or subject," he said. "That has been settled. We are here to decide the configuration that best serves the work. The proposal on the table is as follows."

  He glanced down at his board.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "Retain respiratory and circulatory systems. Partially remove digestive and excretory systems. Find species to combine with infusion ports and filtration nodes. Make sure that compatibility is high. Maintain partial endocrine function for stability. No reproductive capacity. No unnecessary redundancy."

  GR1m1 did not understand any term, but certain words hit with weight. Remove… Retain… No reproductive capacity was not in his vocabulary... The last phrase felt distant, like a concept from a language he had once known and then forgotten.

  He tried to move his toes. He could not feel his feet at all. He could not tell if they existed.

  The woman in the dark robe spoke again. "This configuration allows him to remain active for extended periods without rest. He will not need to stop for food or waste. He will not be bound by the same cycles as the rest of us. That is an advantage."

  "That is also a risk," the older voice replied. "A being that does not share our cycles may not share our limits."

  GR1m1 listened to them talk about him as if he were a set of diagrams on the wall. Each sentence carved away or added something to a body he could not fully feel. He tried to find anger, fear, anything with a clear edge. Instead he found only the steady rise and fall of his chest, the strap across it, the ache in his neck, the weight of eyes on his face.

  He focused on the alchemist's profile. The man did not sit. He stayed beside the table, shoulders slightly forward, as if braced for impact that never came. His jaw worked once, a small clench, then relaxed. His gaze moved between GR1m1 and the assembly, measuring both.

  "Without full systems," the older voice continued, "he will not experience certain drives. That may affect his capacity to understand those who do."

  "We are not building an empath," the woman said. "We are building a reliable operative."

  The word "operative" slid into place next to "tool." They sat together, heavy and familiar.

  The man with the board lifted his pen.

  "We will vote," he said. "Option one: full reconstruction, including all major biological systems. Option two: limited reconstruction as outlined. Option three: terminate project and salvage materials."

  The last option hung in the air. No one repeated it. Pens scratched. Boards shifted. Some heads turned toward GR1m1 again, as if seeing whether he reacted.

  He tried to speak once more… Air moved through his throat. His tongue pushed against his teeth. A sound emerged this time, a rough scrape that might have been a syllable. It broke apart before it reached shape. The effort sent a sharp ache through his chest. His next breath came shorter, then steadied.

  The alchemist looked down at him. For a moment, their eyes met. The man's gaze did not soften or harden. It simply held.

  "Do you wish to address the assembly, subject GR1m1?" the man with the board asked. His tone did not change. It sounded like a formality.

  Laughter did not follow. No one smiled. The question hung there, not as mockery but as a test.

  GR1m1 tried again.

  He pulled air in, forced it out with as much control as he could gather. His throat scraped. A single sound came, rough and broken.

  "Help..."

  The word surprised him. It surprised the entire room. The murmur cut off in several places at once. Pens stopped... A few bodies leaned forward to check on the creature

  The alchemist's hand finally touched his shoulder, light pressure through cloth and strap.

  "Can you repeat what you just said" the man with the board said.

  GR1m1 gathered breath. Each attempt cost him. His chest felt tight, not from emotion but from strain. He forced the next word out in two pieces.

  "Help...me… why…"

  The older voice spoke, not to him but to the room.

  "He asks why. He is asking for help."

  "We selected him for resilience," the woman in the dark robe said. "For pattern compatibility. For prior exposure."

  None of those words answered him. They answered each other.

  The alchemist's fingers pressed a little more firmly into his shoulder.

  "You were chosen because you survived the first trial," he said quietly, close to GR1m1's ear. "Because your body did not fail when others did."

  Images flickered at the edge of GR1m1's awareness. A corridor... Heat... A fall... Hands pulling him out of something he could not name. The images slipped away before they could settle.

  The man with the board cleared his throat.

  "His question does not alter the agenda," he said. "We proceed to vote."

  Boards lifted, each showing marks. Some had one line. Some had two. A few remained blank for a moment longer, then filled.

  The alchemist's hand left GR1m1's shoulder. He straightened, eyes on the front row.

  "Count," the man with the board said.

  A scribe near the front stood and began to read off numbers.

  "Option one: thirty-two. Option two: sixty-eight. Option three: ten."

  The room shifted. The decision moved through it like a physical thing, changing the way people sat, the way they held their pens, the way they looked at the table.

  Limited reconstruction. We will search for optimal organs to be as productive as possible so he doesn't require the use of whole organs to function. Not necessary for him to consume food daily… making sure he can eat raw food so in case of longer and in all environments no food is wasted.

  The older voice spoke again, quieter now.

  "So it is decided."

  The woman in the dark robe nodded once, satisfied.

  "We proceed with option two," the man with the board said. "Alchemist, you will adjust your plans accordingly. Begin preparations for removal of nonessential systems and installation of infusion and filtration structures. Timeline: six months to functional deployment."

  Six months. The number meant nothing to GR1m1. Time inside the small room had not followed clear lines. Days had blurred into sessions, sessions into procedures. Six months could be a breath or a lifetime.

  The alchemist inclined his head.

  "I will need additional materials," he said. "And access to the lower vault patterns."

  "You will have them," the man with the board replied. "Failure is not acceptable at this stage."

  The assembly began to break apart. Benches creaked as people stood. Cloth brushed against cloth. Voices rose again, this time in smaller clusters, talking about schedules, supplies, other projects. GR1m1's name faded from their words as they moved on.

  The alchemist stayed where he was.

  He looked down at GR1m1 again, studying the incomplete limbs, the strap, the chest that still rose and fell on its own.

  "You heard enough," he said quietly. "Even if not all."

  GR1m1 watched his mouth. The words reached him a moment later. He did not try to answer. His throat felt raw from the two words he had forced out.

  The alchemist signaled to the assistants at the foot of the table.

  "Take him back to the lab," he said. "We begin structural mapping tomorrow."

  Hands gripped the sides of the table. Wheels squeaked. The platform shifted, then rolled backward. The ceiling moved across GR1m1's field of view again, beams sliding past one by one.

  As they turned him toward the exit, he caught one last glimpse of the assembly.

  The man with the board was already speaking to another group, his back half-turned to the table. The woman in the dark robe walked toward a side door, her steps brisk, her board tucked under her arm. The older man remained seated for a moment longer, eyes on GR1m1, then finally looked away.

  The door to the smaller chamber waited ahead, frame marked with chalk lines from previous passages. The air grew cooler as they approached, the sound of the hall fading behind him.

  The wheels turned again, but the table didn’t leave the hall. Instead, the assistants angled it toward a raised platform near the side wall. A cluster of robed figures waited there, gathered around a tall man whose coat carried more stitching, more metal clasps, more deliberate detail than any other garment in the room. GR1m1’s eyes caught on the man’s sleeves first. The cloth had a faint sheen, as if treated with something that repelled dust. The others stepped back when he moved.

  Headmaster… The word formed without certainty, only from the way the others watched him.

  One of the assistants locked the table in place. The strap across GR1m1’s chest pressed deeper as the platform tilted again, raising his view toward the demonstration area. His limbs gave him nothing. His torso shifted with the angle, ribs straining against the belt.

  The tall man lifted a glass cylinder from a tray beside him. Inside it, something pale and shapeless clung to the walls. It slid downward when he tilted the container, leaving a wet trail behind. No core or structure. Just a mass that moved as if searching for a place to settle.

  “…mask prototype…” someone said behind him.

  “…symbiote strain… same batch as the grafts…”

  “…still responsive without a core…”

  The tall man set the cylinder on a stand. He tapped the glass once with a metal rod. The mass inside reacted, pulling upward in a slow ripple. A few people leaned closer. Pens hovered over boards.

  GR1m1 tried to swallow. His throat worked, but the sound of it felt loud inside his head.

  The tall man spoke. His voice carried easily, not loud, just steady.

  “This is the current iteration. No core… without any independent will. It responds to nerve patterns when applied to living tissue.”

  He lifted a second object from the tray. A strip of flesh, thin and curved, mounted on a wooden frame. Nerves dangled from one end, preserved in some kind of clear gel. The assistants around him watched with the stillness of people who had seen this many times but did not want to miss a single movement.

  “…face layer…” someone whispered.

  “…nerve link… direct mimicry…”

  “…espionage potential…”

  The tall man pressed the strip of flesh against the glass. The mass inside surged toward it, flattening itself along the surface. It spread until it matched the shape of the strip, then held still.

  A few people murmured. One of them scribbled quickly.

  GR1m1’s breath shortened. He could not tell if it came from strain or something else. The strap across his chest felt tighter than before.

  The tall man continued.

  “When placed on a subject, it forms a temporary bond with the facial nerves. It takes the shape of whatever pattern the subject holds most strongly in mind.”

  He paused. His gaze moved across the room, then settled briefly on GR1m1.

  “Compatibility with the symbiote grafts is promising.”

  The assistants near the table shifted. One of them glanced at GR1m1’s face, then at the cylinder, then back again. The meaning of the look was unclear, but the timing made it feel connected.

  “…test on him…” someone whispered from the second row.

  “…not yet… need the control tool…”

  “…mages still calibrating…”

  The tall man raised a small metal device. Thin wires extended from its sides, ending in tiny hooks. A faint hum came from it, steady and low.

  “Control interface,” he said. “Same principle used on bonded labor. Modified for biological mimicry.”

  The hum grew sharper when he adjusted a dial. The mass inside the cylinder twitched, then settled again.

  GR1m1 felt a faint pressure behind his eyes. Not pain. Not exactly. More like the moment before a muscle cramps.

  The tall man lowered the device.

  “Once the reconstruction is complete, we will test full integration.”

  A few heads turned toward GR1m1 again. Their eyes moved across his incomplete limbs, his strapped torso, his face.

  “…he survived the grafts…”

  “…best candidate…”

  “…if the mask holds…”

  The tall man returned the device to the tray.

  “We proceed when his frame stabilizes.”

  He did not look at GR1m1 when he said it. He spoke to the room, but the words landed on the table like weight.

  The assistants unlocked the wheels.

  The platform tilted back to level.

  The strap loosened slightly as gravity shifted.

  The tall man stepped aside.

  “Take him,” he said.

  The table moved again, rolling away from the platform. The cylinder, the flesh strip, the control device… all of it slid out of GR1m1’s view as the hall’s noise swallowed the space behind him.

  He caught one last fragment of speech.

  “…mask for infiltration…”

  “…or for obedience…”

  The door to the smaller chamber waited ahead, its frame marked with chalk lines from earlier passages. The air cooled as they approached.

  The wheels squeaked.

  The strap held.

  “???????? ??? ???????... ?????? ???? ?? ???????? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ?? ?????????...”

  “Monsters are mirrors... showing only the darkness we refuse to see in ourselves...”

  How was it??