A Gift of Pain

Disclaimer: This is a commission for LeadDeamons, who owns the character of Wesker, as well as the setting of Planet Scythe and beyond and all associated names and concepts.

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The planet of Scythe had suffered a great calamity. It devastated the world, rendering the lands inhospitable and almost the entirety of the population dead. The survivors had retreated into underground bunkers and ocean-bound cities, eking out a fragile and tenuous existence. These tiny pockets of civilization, valiantly trying to hold together as the desolate wastes around them tried to snuff them out, bred desperation... and that desperation twisted the minds of some within them. Yearning for a return to the bounty and stability of old, these warped minds sought a way to drag humanity back from extinction.

Their solution, in the end, was cloning. But not, as the word might imply, simply duplicating the humans who still lived now, perpetuating a few genetic lines. Such people were wholly unsuited to the environment outside their fragile shelters. They needed to be more resilient, faster, stronger- able to match and push back the world attempting to end them. And to achieve this would require a different type of clone.

I was the first of those.

My first memory was the cold sting of a ceramic floor on my naked body. As I awoke, my eyes were assaulted by light; dimly through the gleam I could just make out the white walls it was reflecting off of. As my eyes adjusted, I looked around, finding four identical walls, and a like floor and ceiling- a white cube, smooth and devoid of imperfections, empty of anyone but me.

Then... they came. At the time, I had no idea who or what they were- their forms were vaguely humanoid, but otherwise featureless and oddly shapen, as white as the surrounding walls and only distinguishable by their depth and movement. In time, I would learn that they were human like me, their true forms concealed by airtight suits- but in those first seconds, I knew only fear and panic as they surged over me, grabbing me and pulling me from my confinement.

That was when the tests began.

I was the first clone- the first to fully develop, at any rate- but I was far from the first attempt, and my existence alone marked me as special, a thing to study and test.

A prototype, as I heard some call me.

A punching bag, others might say.

A lab rat would be an apt comparison, not that I knew at the time.

But whatever title one wished to use, it came to the same thing. I was the first successful clone, created for the sole purpose of surviving the harsh new landscapes of Scythe, and that meant I had to be up to the task.

It started with beatings- I had to be combat-ready, after all, and they had to stress test my capacity to fight. Slashes came soon after- I wouldn't just be doing melee combat, after all, weapons would no doubt be involved. Starvation and thirst were common, to see how long I could hold up in times of scarcity. Drowning, can't forget that- the new world would often need a strong swimmer who could hold their breath. Burning and freezing, necessary in the unforgiving ever-changing climate.

Not that I was ever told these reasons. I was the guinea pig, not the one taking the notes. And one type of pain and misery tends to bleed into the next after a while, so ultimately all I knew was suffering, without a clue as to why. I sought release, of course, and I might have found it in death- but having not even fully wrapped my head around the concept of being alive before the tests began, that solution never even occurred to me. They certainly weren't going to give it to me.