Every… Single… Sound… It was all the same. The rhythmic ticking of the clock, the squeak of shoes on sanitised tile floors, the baseless chatter of other subjects in neighbouring “rooms” (glorified jail cells, really), it all blended together in a repetitive cacophony that simultaneously grated on Subject 79’s ears and faded into a dull buzz he barely registered anymore. Day by day and week after week, this was all he heard as he gazed at the discoloured paint job on his wall where a window was once present. But they had to take that too.

Repeating, repeating, repeating…

Something changed.

It was insignificant to anyone else’s ears, the same melody that played in this linoleum hellscape he’s called a “home,” or as close to one as he’s ever had. But he picked up on it. It was impossible not to.

The new sound triggered a spark in his mind. For months now he had settled into a monotonous rhythm, every little detail of the three smooth walls and glass pane separating him from the outside world committed to memory, the excitement of something new fizzing out within seconds. However, this seemed… Promising. It wasn’t just a new voice demanding to be let out of the cell, a voice belonging to a face he’d never be free enough to see. No, this was a new set of footsteps. Somebody new. A scientist, judging by the squeak of their shoes; Subjects weren’t given the luxury of footwear.

Within moments he was at the thick pane of glass that served as a fourth wall, watching the new arrival stop in front of his room. He didn’t bother to greet them. Their name tag read Anon. That was all he needed to know about them. But needs were different for wants, and even he found himself wanting to know more, if only to fill the void for the moment. Bored, mismatched eyes blinked as he watched the scientist shuffle through his file. He could only wonder what it said. Painting him as a failed attempt at greatness, he was sure. A scrapped project, meant to be replaced with a newer, more advanced model when they gained the resources back.

Finally, they turned back to him, and he took two long strides backward as they unlocked the door to his room; empty, spare for a bed in the corner and a few books and puzzles that lay discarded, completed multiple times. Toys, as if I’m a dog, he thinks to himself, wrinkling his nose at the idea. Dogs have more freedom. As Anon walks inside, he simply tilts his head to the side, waiting for them to speak, to state their business.