Chapter 2

His eyes were wide open, hardly breathing, whole body had no strength left, and feeling as though his spirit temporarily departed from his body. He was like in a wide immensurable depth of an ocean, letting the water aimlessly drift his body elsewhere he wouldn’t want to know. That’s how he felt when the barangay officers brutally dropped him from the car they were riding in earlier. He could barely breathe as though his lungs reached their limit. His eyes were dimming, almost sightless. He was dizzy as well—perhaps because of the dosage of the drug the officer had injected into his neck back in the abandoned building.

He was likely to lose consciousness and could vomit any time. The drug certainly sucked the remaining energy in his body almost nothing left. He had not the vigour to stand steadily anymore so even if the officers drag him anywhere they wanted, he couldn’t fight back.

For all that he had difficulty seeing because of his blurred eyes, he struggled to observe the vicinity where the officers had taken him. The four-story building they entered was of a size of a steamship; large looking from the outside. The lights from one floor were open, one was off, and one had it twinkling like there was some sort of queer experiment going on on that floor. The building was positioned in a quiet and discreet surrounding, in the middle of the woods, where only the strong wind and the flapping of the leaves of the plants and trees could be heard.

“Where. . . are we?” he struggled to ask, gasping for air to breathe.

“He’s still awake?” asked the fat officer who had driven the car.

“Don’t mind him, he’ll lose it later,” replied the thin but tall officer who was at his side, the arm was on his shoulder, supporting him to walk.

Praxis was laid on a gurney before being pulled inside the building. Although the gurney felt soft, his mind emotionally couldn’t calm down. His right hand was violently shaking because of extreme nervousness. He felt like there was a long needle pierced in his wrist and a sudden pain no word could describe ran through.

They went through many doors inside the building before they come to a stop. Then, he was handed to two men wearing lab gowns, in which they struck someone as scientists, and propelled his gurney into several more rooms. They climbed floors through the elevator before stopping one more time. He apparently could not even speak because his eyes were getting dimmer and dimmer the more everything around him moves. And for some unknown reason, the pain on his right hand grew more powerful. But even so, he certainly could not inveigh against it. His body condition felt like a withered vegetable—there was no energy left in his body even for a groan.

They entered in a very ample chamber. He had no way of confirming but thought they were in a very large laboratory. There were some devices around that he couldn’t recognize and perceive the use of. There was a huge blackboard on the right of the room, written on it was ‘Stage 1’. On the left side were assorted colors of liquids placed in varying sizes of beakers and graduated cylinders. In the middle to the front of the room, there were also people lying on a stretcher, all unconscious.

A few minutes before the two men, who seemed to be scientists, who escorted him into this room leave, an old man also wearing a lab gown entered. The old man was wearing rectangular glasses, and his hair and eyebrows were already winter-white. His face was timeworn, wrinkled all over. And he had a scarily friendly smile. When the old man’s eyes turned to Praxis, they locked in a staring contest. The contest subsisted until the old scientist broke and smiled which made Praxis at sixes and sevens.

“This will be the first time I will take care of a conscious patient,” the man said in a casual tone, starting a conversation, still smiling at him as if he had seen a valuable treasure. And Praxis took note of how disturbing the words ‘take care' and ‘patient’ sounded.

“What is this. . . place?” he insistently spoke with his numbing throat, voice almost cracking.

“You are in the laboratory. Here we take care of those like you who still wandered at night even a curfew had been implemented,” the man replied with a voice gravely and old while preparing something near the steel table near the gurney Praxis was lying.

“So this is just a punishment?”

“No,” he answered unequivocally. “We will not waste our time punishing people like you.”

“So this is all for what?” Praxis did not know where all his energy to ask questions coming from. His mind was in outright shambles and while he knew he wouldn’t obtain much, getting at least something would help.

“Just think of it as a science project,” the man analogized, and Praxis could feel his smile. “And you are our rats.”

“Will you. . . kill us?” Praxis’s direct questions stopped what the old scientist was doing. He turned to him and smiled like a clown, a disgusting grin he had only seen this time in his life.

“Yes and no. We’re the ones who will do the experiment, and it’s all up to your body to resist and survive.” The man pulled out a large syringe with a long needle from the steel table. It contained a frightfully hair-raising viscous silvery liquid. The scientist advanced toward him, pulling his right hand that had been hurting all this time.

“W-What’s that?” His voice was hoarse, trying to withdraw his right hand but his force was sorely lacking he couldn’t do anything.

“This will sting like a bee, close your eyes,” minaciously warned the man.

Without hesitation, the scientist injected the long needle of the syringe into Praxis’s aching right hand. Only could he initially do was moan, but when he felt the needle pierced his muscle that stimulated a burning sensation, he cried out in great pain. It was like a giant needle pierced through his right hand, through the bones. He screamed at the top of his lungs until almost nothing came out of his mouth. His tears began flowing not just because of the pain, but also because he could do nothing but let the scientist do whatever he wanted.

His screaming came to a halt when the man finally pulled out the needle. “Finished.”

“What did you. . . inject me?” his voice rose but giving no sound.  He swallowed one after another, keeping in mind that his body would only be able to handle it a few minutes before he passed out.

“Hush! That wasn’t the effect yet.”

As soon as the man uttered, Praxis instantaneously felt the effect in his right hand. It felt scorching with an extremely red-hot splash because of the liquid inside. His tears streamed once more he had to close his eyes to stop it. His body was so weak he could no longer scream and only the disgruntled compliant sobs came out of his mouth.

The scientist grabbed his right hand insensitively with both hands, shook it as if congratulating him. Praxis could not do anything but to breathe slowly, deeply.

“Congratulations, son, for you have successfully been injected. I, Dr. Conscire, the president of this organization, am congratulating you for becoming an official part of the experiment Ianua. Please survive.”

***

It was dark, black as a night. He could hardly see anything anywhere. It felt just as he was in a deep, dark of a water. He could breathe but the depth was suffocating him. He still lacked the energy he could barely move his hands and feet. And the silence of this place—it was intensely deafening. At that very moment, seeing he was not in the laboratory, he felt his whole body calmed down a bit. But it later sank in, he realized where he was—in the midst of dark, cold, and vast emptiness.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Can somebody hear me?” Those cries of his just echoed around the corner. 

“Don’t be loud, Praxis.”

He heard a child’s voice, tiny yet apathetic. He looked around and found a little boy hugging his own knees, head bent down, and eyes filled with anxiety.

Slowly, Praxis approached the boy. “What’s you—”

The boy suddenly raised his head, taking Praxis somewhat aback a little. Staring expressionlessly yet full of curious inquiry at the kid’s face, he unmistakably could recognize him. He knew the kid from every inch. His sharp nose, his cheeky face, his thin pink lips, and his determined but emotionless eyes. He knew the boy very well.

“Wake up, Praxis,” whispered the boy, dropping a touch of insistent dictation covered by its tiny tone.

“Where are we?” he inquired.

“Wake up, Praxis.”

“Wake up!”

The boy repeatedly hissed, but Praxis could fully understand nothing. The boy started it from a simple whisper that grew louder and louder until he screamed from the top of his lungs. It reverberated all around, each and every part of the abyss, entered inside his ears that covering it would still persistently make its way in. The echoes entering his head made him felt a bit unsteady. For countless times, his body seemed to have weakened again. He sat on the ground, eyes wide open, get laid on the floor, and until the deafening echoes enveloped the chasm.

A dream. It was all a dream.

For the second time, he opened his eyes. It was not dark anymore. His surrounding was full of dancing lights. Some were blinking and some were statically focused on him. He could hear some men talking with each other and not minding him. He could not see it clearly but he thought the men were wearing white lab gowns, identical to those scientists who put him in much trouble. He scanned the place where he was now. There were several wires attached to his head. A round object was covering his nose and mouth supplying oxygen, allowing him to breathe. He was not wearing clothes or anything else to cover his naked body. And his body was floating in a huge glass tank full of water crystal clear.

He cautiously moved his arms, feeling heavy of his own body. He carelessly tapped the glass tank he was in and when he had enough force, he forcibly punched it. He punched it repeatedly, harder and harder until it created a noise that caught the attention of the men outside the tank.

“A patient woke up!”

“Please prepare a syringe!”

“Check the recovery percentage, please!”

“Hurry up!”

“Fifty percent, doctor!”

“Call Dr. Conscire immediately!”

He saw some men hastily running in one direction. Then, two scientists approached the glass tank he was floating in. Punching the glass tank again, he didn’t know where his strength was coming from. Perhaps because his energy had returned and now that he had the strength to conclusively decide what he should do, he got angry and felt indignant about his situation.

“Calm down, Tango,” said one of the scientists who approached the glass tank. “Don’t waste your effort; even a bullet can’t break that.”

“Where the hell am I? Let me out of here!” Praxis bellowed, but his voice quite inaudible because of the thickness of the glass and the round thing covering his mouth.

“Fifty percent.”

“It’s below average, but we can already release him.”

Suddenly the automatic metal door flung open and Dr. Conscire, the doctor who injected the drug, set foot in. He had slept for a long time, which he figured out by the intensity of his headache, but he could still remember what the doctor looked like. And he wouldn’t be able to forget it the day the drug was injected onwards.

Shortly after Dr. Conscire had entered, they locked in a staring contest again. With all the emotions he was feeling, Praxis clenched his hands into fists. He was shaking because of anger and lividity, his heart rate increasing. Annoyed when he saw the doctor, he ardently punched the glass tank once more. He’s feeling the resentment creeping up in his head. Now that his strength had returned, because of the rage he was feeling, he wanted to smash the faces of every doctor in that room.

Dr. Conscire walked closer with hands on his back to the tank where Praxis was in. He saw the doctor’s smile again, the grin he consistently hated.

“Release him,” Dr. Conscire ordered. “Inject sedatives right away.”

The two doctors in the same room nodded and handled a machine near the glass tank. In a few seconds, Praxis could feel the water being sucked up by the platform inside the tank. When the water finally ran out, the round thing on his nose and the wires stuck to his head rose and completely got removed. Praxis tried to punch the glass again and seeing he could not even make a scratch, he stopped. He suddenly lost his balance when the platform of the tank itself rose. He breathed more loosely when the platform lifted him and once he was at the top of the tank, he felt like a snake had bitten him from behind. It was so sudden and rapid he had no time to react at all. Turning around, he saw a scientist holding an empty syringe.

“Sedatives,” Dr. Conscire blurted. “It will attack your central nervous system and slow down the brain activity. Typically used to treat anxiety or panic attacks. That will relax your body.”

When the doctor informed, the medicine injected seemed to have worked in a flash. He mildly rubbed his own neck, bit his lips, and not even a minute after, he got all perplexed and could not comprehend the situation. He did not weaken—but it felt like he was about to faint. He knew for sure that it was because of the medicine that he quickly lost the will to fight and speak. Then, two scientists supported his hands so he could get off the platform safely. He trudged naked, still with the lead of the scientists, onto the nearest gurney. There he was laid by Dr. Conscire in which he simply complied, and he was handcuffed unopposed.

“Your name will be Tango,” Dr. Conscire started.

“Tango for what?” Praxis asked unusually calm in this circumstance. He thought he was exhausted, but he knew there was no change in his energy. It was still filled the same. He did not know what the sedatives did to his brain but it suddenly slowed down that he thought he was barely functioning.

“You are the twentieth of all that we have experimented this year,” remarked Dr. Conscire. “And you are yet the only one who had woken up amongst all them.”

Praxis was forcibly resisting the sedative. He tried to keep up with what the doctor was saying, but he failed. He understood what the utterances were about but his body was not reacting at all.

“Congratulations,” the doctor said, smiling. “You survived.”

“I survived?”

“Fifteen out of twenty-six were unlucky enough. Some woke up but lost their heart stopped beating quickly,” explained the doctor. Praxis could see the doctor turning his back, rearranging the syringes on the steel table.

“How about the others?”

“Their bodies couldn’t resist the dose. As soon as it entered the veins, their temperature rises, and they stop breathing,” said the doctor bluntly. “The others, six of them, were still in their tank. No results. They could be dead any time soon.”

Praxis’s mind calmed down a bit. He didn’t know but even though the drug had slowed down his brain, he was now able to comprehend everything. He saw that as an advantage. The doctor seemed to be magnanimous enough to say a lot, and Praxis saw that as an opportunity to gather helpful information while his body was in its relaxed state.

“So, what this all is for? A government order?” Praxis asked, voice was expressionless and hoarse and tired.

“This was all for science—an experimented part of human evolution. You won’t understand even if I explain it,” answered the doctor emptily, contentless. “But this is not a government order. This is a private study. The government can’t—and will not intervene.”

Praxis knew he was suddenly horrified by what Dr. Conscire had said, but his body was unable to react. “You mean the government knew you were doing this?”

“Yes, yes,” the doctor replied quickly. “But they can’t stop us. Even if they want, they can’t do it because of me.”

“They can’t? What do you have?”

Dr. Conscire’s eyes narrowed, seemed to have challenged by the question Praxis threw. “In the next year, or in a decade, or in a century from now. . . there could be another world war. No one knows when it will happen, even the government.”

“World war?”

“Right!” The doctor turned to Praxis, holding a small syringe this time, smiling. “And when that time comes, because the government is useless, they don’t have a concrete plan for that.”

“But. . . what is this all for? A part of Darwin’s theory?”

“You won’t understand as I said.” The doctor’s tone turned serious. Dr. Conscire grabbed the right hand of Praxis which he unwillingly gave. “But you know you are a fool if you think you can extract information from me.”

The doctor injected the syringe he was holding without a word. Praxis felt the needle entering his wrist, but his brain prevented him from reacting much. Perhaps his body became accustomed to the number of syringes injected into him he couldn’t react. He let the doctor do whatever he wanted to do with him.

“I knew you’d be careful.” Praxis’s voice started to faint, probably an effect of the new drug injected into him. “Last question.”

“Speak.”

“How many days have I been in the tank?”

The doctor was thinking, counting in his mind. “Three.”

Praxis was caught up in deep thought. He felt lightheaded again because of the new medicine. His world started to spin like he was in a carousel at all speed. He thought of Tony, his father. Tony’s face entered his mind, his mother, his sister. All of them, together. And there was a white light flashed before his eyes and everything turned into black.