To Be Human
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D-5497 ‘s breathing grew heavy and rapid. The searing pain from the bullet in their left leg made running incredibly difficult, but then again, they called D-5497 “The Bear” for a reason. Nearly tripping down a flight of stairs, D-5497 lost their balance and slammed into a wall of lockers. The metal clanged and their arm wracked with pain. Hardly missing a beat, D-5497 ran down the hallway, feeling what they had never felt before.

D-5497 found joy at their local bar, earning their money by beating foolish challengers to a bloody pulp on the makeshift kickboxing ring that the manager had built some years ago. It used to be cleaned and repaired after each night, but after several particularly destructive fights he gave up and let the jagged splinters and broken wire fences be. Besides, to D-5497, that made the fighting much more fun.

D-5497 remembered a young skinny lad, barely older than 25, stepping into the ring. D-5497 had guffawed at his pathetic sight, and couldn’t help but find extreme pleasure in the boy’s shaking knees and teary eyes. Apparently, the boy had hit rock bottom: wife gone, job lost, student loans piling up, family abandoned. He needed the $54,000 cash prize that would be awarded to whomever could beat The Bear in a fair fight.

D-5497 had snapped both of the boys arms in half after just 13 seconds.

The festivities were put to an end when the police were tipped off by a disgruntled passerby, who heard the shouts and screams and made a noise complaint. Several patrons, the manager, and D-5497 were arrested and charged, D-5497 under several felonies and misdemeanors. They sent them to Death Row.

That’s when someone calling himself “The Foundation” stepped in, offering D-5497 “a chance at freedom.” Of course The Bear jumped at this opportunity. So they took them and a large group of prisoners away and shoved them into tiny cells, giving them numbers. D-5497 was lucky to get their own room. Well, lucky that they made it their own room.

The Bear was then told by men with guns to follow them. D-5496 and about four other prisoners were led through a series of hallways and doors, too complex for him to remember. They were all placed into a white room with some weird shit on the walls and a small container in the middle. When they opened it, the others started to get cut and bruised, screaming for help. Once they all seemed to be dead, they left D-5497 in there for a long time. The Bear sat there for what seemed like half an hour, wondering when they could get to go back to their cell to sleep. They let The Bear out, appearing to be astonished at their lack of injury. D-5497 started getting thrown into different chambers every week, coming out almost unscathed in every single one. The men in the coats and with the guns started to pick up The Bear’s nickname, and they promptly forgot his number due to how often they were called “The Bear.”

A month passed. Then two. All the prisoners he had been with were either dead or relocated, a new batch of them came in. Some guy in fancy clothes set up his own kickboxing ring in their quarters, and this delighted The Bear. The men in coats and with guns and with fancy clothes started betting on that weeks results, most of them betting for The Bear to win. They, of course, rose to the top of the arena, pummeling prisoner after prisoner. One night, an especially fancy-clothed man approached the fence during a break. He introduced himself as Doctor Someone-or-Other (D-5497 couldn’t remember), and offered The Bear what he called ”real freedom.” D-5497 had no desire to leave this paradise, and threatened to snap his neck if he ever mentioned it to them again. Doctor Someone-or-Other smirked at this, and walked away.

D-5497 killed twice as many men in the arena that night.

Four months passed and the operation was shut down. Doctor Someone-or-Other was seen stealing files or something, and they traced his movements back to the place where the ring was, and most of the men were killed or relocated for it.

The Bear was let out of their room, but no gunmen were there. The Bear saw no fancy clothes or white coats. The loudspeaker boomed:

“SCP-ownyzziszzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz breazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz contazzment. Allzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz unzzzil rezzzzzzzzntzz.”

Suddenly, the door to the cell blocks burst open and in ran a group of gunmen. The Bear recognized the dark-haired one immediately, as he usually escorted D-5497 to the fighting rink each night.

“D-5497! They’re alive!”

“Of course they’re alive, dimwit. Have you seen it test?”

“D-5497. Come with us. We need you alive.” The dark-haired one said. The Bear followed without a second thought, thinking they’d get to punch something again.

They ended up in a helicopter over some school. Not exactly what D-5497 had pictured, but The Bear had never been in a helicopter before, so that was fun. They landed it on the roof, and the gunmen handcuffed D-5497 and left then with the dark-haired one. They went inside and moved down the stairs, all the while making sure D-5497 was in the back with the dark-haired one. They made their way towards the sounds of shouting and gunfire, and every step closer made The Bear increasingly more excited.

Then that damned thing tore through some gunman. The Bear saw the blood fly and heard the bones crack as the man’s torso was viciously separated from their legs. Somehow, he lived, and spent his last moments screaming for someone to help. Before D-5497 could see how it ended, the dark-haired one grabbed his head and threw him behind a wall, yelling about a face.

“You need to leave here, Damian. We didn’t need you. You can’t do anything to that thing.”

Who was Damian.

“Listen. You’re the only-”

The screaming drowned out his words.

“-om was wrong to tre-”’

The gunfire drowned out his words.

“-but we know that f-”

The crunching of bones drowned out his words.

“-ck together. Don’t they? Take-”

The screaming drowned out his words. He handed Damian something. No. The Bear. D-5497. What was happening? He threw the object out of his hands. They threw it. No. He. No. The Bear. Damian stood and practically threw himself down the stairs.

Fear? Anger? Sadness? They- No. He. He knew the meaning of those words. Damian was feeling. He didn’t understand it. He hit the lockers. He felt pain shoot through his arm. Damian was frightened. He missed his home, his family, his life. He ran into a locker room, scrambling for a mirror. His dark hair glistened with sweat and blood and his face filled with tears. He stepped into a shower and hid behind a curtain, trying his best to smother his noises.

His rapid heartbeat slowed. He realized what he was.

Human.

Footsteps.

Damian smiled. It took all this blood, all this murder, for him to be treated human. He turned on the shower. He washed away the blood and the sweat and the past, laughing the whole time. Damian was more than a number or a nickname. He was more than muscle and endurance.
Footsteps.
He was a person! With feelings and nerves and emotions and pain and love and hate and fear and happiness and footsteps.
“I am human!”
The shower curtain tore open. He looked death in the face, smiling and laughing until he couldn’t.