Subject 23 - a short story.

We saw the aftermath of it's release, we know it's potency. But what really happened to the controversial Subject 23 that made it so valuable as it was?


”Be silent” the lieutenant hissed, and the nervous chatter ceased. The four scouts looked at their leader, awaiting something that resembled an order. They all seemed more than eager to move on, and not one of the senior pathfinders could remain still. These forests weren't exactly for the lighthearted, not even for the seasoned lookouts.
The lieutenant of the group, a short, muscular fellow with deep-set eyebrows and thick, unruly hair that had been tied strictly into a ponytail, looked from person to person. His eyes stopped over the youngest of his comrades, a small, quirky fellow from the area.
”Eldeman. You're on point. Find a way home for us. We'll remain here for another night. Be hasty.”
The lieutenant grunted dismissively, and the scout, now with a task at hand, uttered a quick ”yes sir” and equipped himself with bow and arrow, then hurried into the thick pine woods while the others began to steel themselves for another, howling night in these accursed woods.
For six weeks now, they had prowled around in the Glades, more or less in vain. The only discovery that they had made was a succesful ambush against a courier, on which they found a missive to some professor in Brill. Decrypting wasn't an option for them – the language in which it was written was similar yet different to Common – almost like a mixture of the dwarven and Common grammar and spelling.
The only thing that they could deduce from it, was that some man in the Undercity had made something, and they wanted this professor to see it.
After they obtained this letter, they had set up a camp in the south-western part of the woods, a place they were sure would be ridden of those infernal corpse-men. They had barely seen a single of them since they exitted Silverpine, and the only one they had a close encounter with, was the courier, and he was surprisingly easy to cut down. Of course, they had disposed of body after the fight, and had expected a few patrols in the area due to the missing courier. Clearly not, because for the two weeks they had spent in this hideout, no Forsaken had been met.
Unbeknownst to them, however, they had been been watched since the morning of that day.

Slitherblade and Duskwade were two Deathstalkers of the Queen. They didn't rank particularly high, and was for that reason stationed in Tirisfal in counter-espionage search-and-destroy. They had gained the scent of the group as soon as they found the corpse of the missing courier.
Now, they were watching the camp from a few distant bushes, quietly debating their plan of action for how to capture as many of them. They both were highly disciplined and experienced killers, but like most Forsaken, they lacked initiative when it came to major decisions. They needed a superior's guidance to be as efficient as possible. That's not to say they're not capable of doing things on their own, but they were most efficient with a higher ranked to give them orders.
”The leader is our target”, the slimy voice of Duskwade resonated.
”Yes. Watch, one is leaving. Now is the time for -. Wait, they're all preparing to leave. Should we strike now while they are vulnerable, or hunt them down while they are on the move?”
Duskwade grunted wearily, a hoarse sound followed by short cough.
”I say, take them now. We'll get a better chance to search their belongings.”
Slitherblade ran a dry, pointed tongue across his rotten jaw.
”Let's move.” he hissed, and they both set into motion, silently crawling like a predator poised to strike. They got surprisingly close, considering that their targets were trained spotters, and drew their weapons as they got nearer – strange dagger-blades forged in unholy fire and caked with dry blood and coated in green, mucusy venom.
”You think we staying here for long, Haye?”
”No. As soon as Eldeman returns, we're out of this rotten pit.”
The four scouts were sharpening blades and stringing their bows, with the lieutenant helping them out as needed.
”Agreed”, another joined in with, ”the sooner we're outta here, the better. This place gives me the damn chills.”

Slitherblade threw Duskwade a short handsign, and after a count of three, the two shades burst out of the bushes and into the small clearing, drawing several, startled yells from the humans. Two of them were stabbed and killed almost simultanously when the undead appeared, frothing and gagging wildly from the poison and the pain as they collapsed. The two remaining humans were quicker to react, drawing their own weapons and meeting the restless dead head-on, knives locked against knives.
The ensuing combat was short-lived, the unyielding and tireless undead superior in both dexterity and equipment, and the scouts had been caught off guard. Unfortunately for the Stalkers, they had killed one and severely wounded the other, rather than capturing them alive.

After a brief debate on whether or not to drag the lieutenant, Duskwade tied the man briskly, almost to the point of dislocating his limbs, and harshly dragged him after them.
During this, he sweaved in and out of consciousness, partly from his wounds and the loss of blood, partly from the constant battering from the rough forest floor, but also from knowing that he was captured by the undead. Horrific and spine-chilling stories emerged from their laboratories, and he was about to experience it all first hand.

At some stage on his voyage, his captors met another scout, who was quickly overwhelmed, and he too was bound and dragged along, It was Eldeman, the scout that was going to find a way home. Now nobody would ever know what had happened to them, and with that thought repeating itself over and over again, he fell into a deep comatose state, in which he remained for the rest of the trip.

When he woke up, he thought he was still dreaming. Or at least, having a nightmare.
They, Eldeman and him, were in a small room of sorts where total darkness reigned. He couldn't see anything, but could hear Eldeman's deep, rasping breath somewhere behind him. When he tried to move, electric jolts of pain flooded through his burning limps, and he soon discovered that he was bound.
Gradually, his hearing recovered, and now he truly wished that he was in a dream. All around him, he heard slippery dripping sounds, like thick goo or blood, muffled, monstrous voices sometimes replaced with a more refined tone, but still very much undead, and occasionally, he could hear groaning or pleads for help. Even more occasionally, he could hear chains rattle in the distance, sometimes accompanied by a static, electrical zap.
He didn't even need to see anything before he knew where he was, or where he dreamt he was. Eldeman was still asleep, or unconscious, judging by the unbroken, heavy breath coming from his direction.

The darkness lasted for eternally long, until a scraping sound became audible, and a clumsy ringle followed, probably keys. A door swung open with a loud creak, and a quiet shuffle became louder and louder. Then it was as though the fabric of reality itself shuddered, streaks of light appearing and disappearing, and finally, the cover was removed.

The visual nightmare was far worse than the audible.
They were in a barbed cage suspended mid-air, surrounded by a maze of cages of strangely quiet prisoners. Their appearance frightened him more than their submissiveness – some bore monstrous blemishes, others were missing limbs, others had all sorts of rashes, though most of them had the same type of deformity on their arms – discolouration. Some arms were blue, some oddly green, but they were all even horrendously ill. And yet, they had no expression of pain or sorrow on their shaved heads, no signs of will or resistance, just total apathy – staring blankly through the bars with eyes (those that still had them) lacking any comprehension. Like slaves of their own discipline.
Was this what awaited him?

Behind him was Eldeman, with a terrible, barely bandaged gash across his forehead, and several wounds which oozed strange, white froth, and yet he seemed to sleep so painlessly...
Then he saw the individual that had removed the cover.

It was an undead, no doubt, but this macabre monster lacked both his lower jaw and his right arm – fleshy outcroppings hung from from both of the rotten wounds, and yet he didn't seem to mind the obvious disease that manifested in him. But then, he -was- undead – pale white skin with a green tint, and glowing, golden orbs instead of eyes.
He, assuming it's a he, was staring rather intently at Haye, almost hungrily.
Oh Light, were they going to eat him?

But then, he was joined by another individual who seemed far more prosperous, or at least of some significant rank, though he too was missing the lower half of his face.
It was he who spoke first, and to Haye's surprise, he spoke Common.

”That one.”
”Are you sure?” the other one joined in with, in Common.
It was strange that they could talk at all, with no jaw, though he suspected some magical spell of sorts.
”Yes. Look at him – strong, young, endurant, and he's already awake. Yes, yes. Him.”
”As you wish, Master Apothecary” the one-armed abomination grunted, and ruffled through a bundle of keys, but soon hesitated.
”What is it?”
”What about the other one?”
The Master Apothecary paced to the other side of the cage, and inspected the sleeping Eldeman through the bars.
”He's alive, breathing normally. The poison was a numbing one, thankfully. Well, he seems too young and frail to make a powerful carrier. Mindwash him and degenderfy him. Then throw him in with the rest.”
Degenderfy? Mindwash?
”And what of me?!” Haye suddenly errupted with, much to the surprise of the two undead.
”He can speak? He must've heard...” the skulking one spat.
”No bother”, the prominent one began with, then redirected his attention to Haye.
”You're a very important part of my jigsaw. What is your name?”
Haye glared suspiciously at the apothecary, and said nothing.
”Hmrph. No matter. Don't need your intelligence, after all.” he said with a somewhat amused tone.
”Keeves, black him out and leave him on my desk. We must begin at once.”
The last thing he felt was a sharp prick in his shoulder, and then dizzy blackness.

For the next long time, he sweaved in and out of forced unconsciousness, barely detecting anything that happened to him. For the short durations that he was conscious, he was blind and deaf, but could register an excruciating pain from... Everywhere. Usually, only a second of this would last, and then back into the soothing blackness.

Until one time, where he woke up. He was deaf, though he had regained his sight, and fortunately, his body was numbed from pain.
Through his swimming eyes, he saw that he was in a cage, though smaller than his previous, and that two people were standing in front of him – one resembled the Master Apothecary, and the other was an unknown, mask-wearing individual.
They were conversing over something, and their frequent gestures towards him made the subject of their chatter clear.
His head hurted tremendously, like something hammering against his skull, and for a few moments, he feared that his brain would burst through.
On top of that, he was paralysed, only capable of moving his eyes, and that in itself was a frightening feeling; looking down himself, he saw strange attachments to his limb arms, and his legs were oddly bloated and blue, but he could feel none of it. It was as though he wasn't in his own body.

Slowly, his hearing returned to him, and he could vaguely make out the conversation through a droning siren in his ears. They were speaking in Common, again.

”... though it leaves the user in complete paralysis after use, both mentally and physically, and as you can see, it causes severe disfigurement if used in excessive quantity. Not something that you'd want to experience on the battlefield.”
It was the Master Apothecary who was talking, not noticing the awakening Haye.
Then the other person began to speak, and the deepness and hollowness of his words were almost frightening Haye, despite the circumstances. He sounded like a husk of decay and rot at the same time as someone of obvious prominence and rank.
”You forget, Faranell, that this is still a very early stage in development. The errors will be rooted out eventually.”
”Yes, yes, I know. But I remain sceptical. The incubation period for this batch was more than a week. How long does the bacteria need to culture before it's usable? A week? A month? A year? We do not have that long. Her patience is not to be tested.”
”Do not question my loyalty, Faranell” the masked one suddenly proclaimed, raising a finger threateningly. Faranell sighed as a result.
”You forget your position.”
The masked one sighed just as hopelessly.
”Yes, yes. Either way – the incubation period is irrelevant for now. We can always add additional feed if necessary, or a booster. What matters are the effects. My suggestion is to increase the pathogeneis period from seven days to ten, and collide a culture of this to a mixture of Black's Epidemic.”
”But wouldn't BE kill off SRPE?”
”No. BE is not an invasive bacteria. SRPE is, however. Leave the conflicting mixtures for a night, and you'll see that the SRPE will have picked up the traits of BE. Trust me.”
”Trust you?” Faranell laughed hoarsely. ”Those are words I won't hear often. Very well, can't hurt trying.”
”That's the spiri- he's awake.”
”Hmm?”
They both turned to look at Haye, and he felt despair overtake him. How on Azeroth could anyone see through a mask like that?
”Curses! We have to wipe his mind now, he knows too much!”
”No. The effects of SRPE will be affected. Leave him as he is.”
And they did.

After that, he went back into the semi-comatose state of wandering between consciousness and unconsciousness, but he felt something grow on him, gradually, like a parasite on his subconsciousness – something about the injections he once in a while felt, did something not just to his body, but to the rest of him. By the end of the month, he assumed it was, his very soul was crying out for mercy, but found none for too long.

But even the most tormented soul finds salvation, sometimes through other means than death.
It was one of the usual sessions of injections when something suddenly happened – through his twitching eyes, he saw a shadow shift unnaturally, a moving cloud. Saw the face of Keever hover over his face, whispering a quiet ”What is it?” followed by a grimace of pain. Then the disfigured undead simply fell flat on his face, with a strange, hooded figure hovering over him.
”Morning, sunshine” she grinned quietly, and removed the straps and chains from his wrists and ankles. She lifted him with a grunt, protesting over how heavy he was, and carried him out from the infernal room. Though then he lost consciousness, and awoke only for a fraction of a moment much, much later, with the kind eyes of a -living- human looking into his.

”He lives. Good. Now to induce coma.”
He barely registered the prick, and then everything faded to white.
His soul rejoyced for the last fraction of consciousness, and he felt it loosen itself from his rotten corpse of a body. He was free, at last.