Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E. (The Parazodiac Nexus #1)

5. The Life Of An Omega Lab Rat

5

THE LIFE OF AN OMEGA LAB RAT

~NYX~

T he water burns.

My lungs scream for air as I force myself to hold on, caught in this glass prison they call a testing chamber.

Three minutes feels like an eternity when you're drowning; when every cell in your body begs for oxygen while white-coated figures watch through the cylinder’s walls, documenting your suffering with clinical precision.

I’m sure they’ll tell me they’re going easy on me. That I could easily recall the few times I’ve been forced to hold my breath for ten minutes.

To be grateful…

How are you supposed to be grateful for not being taken by death from this cycle of torture?

Instances like these force me to question my resistance. Why am I so stubborn and defiant that my body, mind, and soul won’t allow me to give up and die?

To not give these mother fuckers the satisfaction of my survival.

Kill them . Make them scream like they make you scream .

The shadows.

Their voices are my only comfort in this hell, even if I'm never quite sure whether they're real or just another symptom of whatever these trials have done to my mind.

Today, despite the torture I’m enduring, I can think clearer. Formulate, articulate, and process what’s happening like a “normal” person. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I don’t feel like a caged animal…at least, not yet.

Ironic in the current circumstances. Trapped in this cylinder that was filled with water that should have killed me from the pressure difference alone.

That’s the point of all of this.

To push me past the brink of human limits. However, to these beings in lab coats, they think I’ve surpassed the “human” level of sacrificial lamb.

Omegas are at the bottom of the food chain.

Animals are treated better than us.

That’s why they don’t mind treating us like the trash they label us as. What consequences would they possibly face when this is surely founded by the very government desperate to keep us contained to benefit the Alphas that rule them?

That’s why my shadows hate them.

All of these fuckers who dare hurt me.

They understand the rage that burns hotter than any of the scalding waters they've subjected me to. They know the darkness that grows with each new torture.

These moments of excruciating agony are when I fight hard for my mind to not slip away. To resort back to that short sentence processing mind that sees the world through a frightened lens and begs for a form of salvation and freedom.

That I must remember the number of who she is to have some form of identity.

My wrists strain against the metal cuffs, the restraints cutting into flesh that never gets a chance to heal.

Blood clouds the water around my arms, a crimson dance that makes the shadows sing louder.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, so violent I'm amazed it hasn't shattered my ribcage and burst straight through my chest to paint the glass with its fury.

Just when black spots start to consume my vision, when my body begins to betray me with involuntary attempts to breathe, the water level starts to drop.

Thank God!

Sweet, burning air rushes into my lungs as my head breaks through the surface with a loud gasp of breath. Each inhale is agony, my throat raw from screaming during earlier trials, but it's a pain that proves I'm still alive.

Still fighting.

As the mist begins to clear from the glass, I see them – my tormentors in their pristine white coats, untouched by the suffering they inflict.

They stand in their usual semi-circle, an audience to their own cruelty, scratching observations onto charts that probably detail how long I lasted this time, and how much abuse this broken body can take before it gives out.

Remember their numbers . Add them to your list .

My eyes lock onto their identification tags, burning each number into my memory. These aren't names – they don't deserve names. They're just figures to be tallied, debts to be paid in blood and screaming.

Each one gets added to my mental ledger of vengeance:

Subject 89 with his clinical smile and dead eyes.

Subject 156 who takes such detailed notes of my pain.

Subject 223 whose hands never shake when he cuts.

Subject 471 who watches with barely concealed excitement.

The remaining water drains away, and for a moment I almost feel relief – until the familiar mechanical whir signals the next phase of torment. The floor drops out beneath me without warning, and a shriek tears from my raw throat before I can stop it.

My body dangles from the restraints, all my weight suddenly hanging from wrists already mangled by countless similar trials.

Don't let them see your pain ! Never let them see you break .

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches, squeezing my eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall.

My shoulders scream in protest as the position strains muscles and tendons already pushed far past their limits. I've seen what happens if you hang too long like this – the slow death of circulation being cut off, nerves dying from lack of blood flow, and the eventual dislocation of shoulders that can't take the strain.

Think.

I have to think through the pain.

To act before the numbness starts and my hands lose all feeling — unit I can't grip anything anymore. It’s a ticking time bomb before the muscle death sets in and parts of me start to die while I'm still conscious enough to feel it.

No.

I didn’t survive this long to ensure such an agonizingly slow death.

With trembling muscles, I force my legs up, using my core strength and fighting to time my breaths so I can lift them enough to press my feet against the glass cylinder.

The movement tears open barely-healed wounds from yesterday's trials with scalding water, fresh blood joining the constellation of scars that map out my torture. But it takes some weight off my wrists and gives me a chance to catch my breath while they document my desperate bid for survival.

Through the glass, I watch them observe me.

Subject 89 makes a note, probably about my adaptive responses to stress. Subject 156 nods along, always eager to please his superiors. Subject 223 maintains that mask of clinical detachment, while Subject 471 doesn't even try to hide his fascination with my suffering — that grin surely growing in length and curvature.

Soon . Soon they'll learn what true pain feels like .

I believe them.

Have to believe them.

Or what else do I possibly have if not hope?

The promise of vengeance is all I have left in this sterile hell, all that keeps me fighting when my body begs for the release of death. I'll make them pay for every scar, scream, and moment of agony they've inflicted.

Will hunt them down one by one until their precious reports are stained with their own blood.

But for now, I brace my legs harder against the glass, ignoring how my muscles tremble with fatigue. I focus on breathing through the pain, on staying conscious despite the black spots that dance at the edges of my vision.

Surviving one more trial of torment is possible for someone like me.

Because I am Patient 495.

I am their M.U.S.E.

I am the monster they created in their arrogance.

And someday, they'll learn just how complete their success really was.

The shadows sing their approval, their dark melody a counterpoint to the clinical beeping of monitoring equipment and the scratch of pens on paper.

They're my only allies here, the only ones who understand what I've become: what I need to be to survive in this hellhole.

So I hold position, pressing against the glass with legs covered in burns and lacerations. I endure the fire in my muscles and the screaming of my joints. I wait, adding each moment of pain to the debt that will one day be collected in full.

They can keep thinking they’re the rules of control.

Allow them to believe they’re the gods of my world.

I’ll force myself to play their games with my body and mind…

Because when the time comes – and it will come – I will paint these sterile walls with their blood. Will make them beg for mercy they won't receive, and show them exactly what kind of weapon they've forged in their hubris.

But for now, I survive.

Because victory is hidden in the realms of patience.

A harsh beep pierces the air, making my teeth clench as it echoes through the testing chamber. The sound reverberates off the glass cylinders, creating a discordant symphony of pain and machinery.

"Observation period concluded," a mechanical voice announces through hidden speakers. "Initiating retrieval of surviving test subjects."

Surviving .

The word echoes in my mind like a cruel joke.

I don't waste energy on relief – relief is for people who believe in hope, who think survival means something more than just prolonged torture.

Instead, I force my gaze to focus beyond my own glass prison, taking in the other cylinders that line the chamber in their perfect, sterile rows.

Twenty cylinders.

Twenty omegas.

Four still breathing.

Count the living . Know your allies .

The shadows seem to always give me the best advice in desperate situations like these.

My eyes lock onto the cylinder directly across from mine. The omega inside is still braced against her glass walls, much like I am, but there's something different about her.

Her mere appearance even makes the shadows in the depths of my subconscious stir with hidden intrigue like adding her into an equation would be a blessing rather than a curse.

Her hair catches my attention first – a stunning shock of sapphire blue that falls past her shoulders in wet tangles.

The color shifts like midnight waves where it's darkest, an ombre effect that seems almost too beautiful for this place of death and suffering. The wet strands cling to pale skin that's nearly translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights, making the bruises that mottle her flesh stand out like paint on canvas.

Strong. This one survived their games.

The thin white cloth they give all test subjects clings to her tall frame, reduced to little more than wet strings that reveal more than they hide. Unlike most who end up here – emaciated and broken – her body shows signs of careful maintenance.

Lean muscle ripples beneath the soaked fabric, abs clearly defined despite her current state of distress. She's been eating the meals they provide, using what they give her to stay strong rather than rejecting it like I do.

Smart. Smarter than me, maybe.

But it's her face that holds my attention.

Under her left eye, a small star tattoo stands out against her pale skin – a marking that speaks of a life before this hell, of an identity they haven't managed to strip away. Her eyes, though... her eyes make the shadows sing with recognition.

Heterochromatic irises stare back at me, one the color of spring leaves, the other like molten gold.

They're alert despite the trial she just endured, scanning the room with the same calculating intensity I know must be in my own gaze. The blood running down her arms from various wounds tells its own story – they beat her before this test, and tried to stack the odds against her survival.

Yet here she stands, still fighting.

Among the living…like me.

Like recognizes like. She understands survival. Similarities that can’t simply be compromised.

Clearly, the shadows wish for me to make alliances. That could be why it’s important for me to pay attention, though the chances of meeting this woman again could be slim with how this is the first instance of sighting her.

Regardless, she’s relatable enough. I can see it in the way she holds herself, and in how she's positioned her body to minimize strain while maintaining vigilance.

This isn't someone who's given up, who's waiting to die.

This is a predator biding her time, gathering strength, and learning patterns.

Someone I could get along with…at least until we’re put to our own demise.

Blood trickles from a split in her lip, but her jaw is set in a determined line. Fresh bruises bloom across her collarbone, disappearing beneath the sodden cloth, but her spine remains straight.

They tried to break her before throwing her in that cylinder, wanting to see if she'd drown when already weakened.

Instead, she adapted, rewarding her with survival.

The scientists' notes hadn't captured her presence, her...resilience. On paper, she was just another set of data points; a test subject to be measured and documented.

But seeing her now, watching how she maintains her dignity even in these circumstances, I understand why she's one of the four still breathing.

Remember her . She could be useful .

They're right.

In this place, allies are rare. Those who survive the trials, maintaining their will to fight...are rare. And something about the careful way she surveys her surroundings while appearing to be focused solely on staying upright, speaks of a cunning that matches my own.

I watch as she shifts her weight slightly, adjusting her position against the glass. The movement is efficient, conserving energy while maintaining stability. She's done this before…maybe? Has learned, like I have , how to endure these specific torments without permanently damaging herself.

More bruises become visible as she moves – older ones in varying shades of healing beneath the fresh violence they visited upon her today. They form a map of endurance across her skin, each one a testament to what she's prevailed in whatever slot of time she’s been trapped in this merry-go-round of suffering.

A slight tremor runs through her arms, but she doesn't let her position slip.

Doesn't show weakness.

Her eyes move to track the white coat that passes her cylinder, learning their patterns with immense observations as if she’s already creating a list within her own mind of all their weaknesses.

Wouldn’t that be swell if she was creating a kill list like the one I’ve kept in my head for years?

The rarity of having someone on an equal plane as me is simply a dream that’s manifesting because of the circumstances I’m in. Reality could pull the plug, but for now, admiring this stranger to build a mental catalog of those who hurt her, as I do, gives me a sense of empowerment and community.

Potential equals in the realms of adaptability in harsh environments…

The sapphire-haired omega's gaze meets mine for a brief moment, and something passes between us. Recognition, maybe. Understanding. Either way, the truth is we're both monsters of their making. Creatures forged in the crucible of their cruelty and are waiting for the moment to strike.

Unless our time runs out.

Remember. Take in details. Observe in hopes of prevailing.

I will. Have to.

In this place, knowledge is the only currency that matters. Understanding who survives, adapts, and fights back – it's all vital information needed to thrive in the next challenge that could demand cooperation.

Determined to keep track of her, I summarize in my mind like some sort of list.

- The star tattoo that marks her as someone who once had choices. The heterochromatic eyes that miss nothing. Controlled breathing speaks of disciplined survival. Muscles that prove she's playing a longer game than mere day-to-day existence. She's dangerous, smart…she's like me.

She can be an ally I need.

If the cards play in our favor that is.

My mind drifts to the zodiac – ancient patterns, celestial alignments that might explain the sapphire-haired survivor's strength.

Three possibilities emerge as I study her calculated movements:

Capricorn – for that unwavering discipline, the way she preserves her strength.

Scorpio – for the intensity in those mismatched eyes, the clear promise of vengeance.

Aquarius – for her detached calculation, the way she observes without revealing.

It’s hard to determine at first glance, especially with no personality traits or vocal interactions to go by.

Watch closer . See deeper .

The way she shifts her weight again catches my attention – precise, and controlled, but with an underlying current of rebellious energy. The slight tilt of her chin, defiant even in submission. The calculated way she appears to yield while gathering intelligence.

Aquarius.

Has to be.

The revolutionary of the zodiac. The one who plays the long game, who appears to conform while plotting upheaval. The water-bearer who can survive drowning because water is their element, weapon, and friend.

Name her . Mark her in your mind .

'Sapphire' is too obvious, too superficial. 'Star' for her tattoo feels too simple. N o, she needs something that captures her essence, her potential as an ally.

Azurite.

Like the stone – beautiful but poisonous when wet.

Perfect for someone who can turn their torturers' water trials into opportunities for survival.

One down…three more to go.

My gaze shifts to the next survivor, and something in my chest tightens with confused wonder.

This one...this one shouldn't be alive.

Where Azurite radiates controlled power, this omega emanates fragility.

She's small, almost childlike in her delicate frame, with none of the hardened muscle that marks most survivors. Her limbs tremble visibly against her glass prison, yet somehow she maintains her position.

But it's her eyes that make my breath catch.

White. Pure white, with barely any pupil movement. The irises seem to float in milky clouds, unfocused and yet...somehow aware. The realization hits like a physical blow – she's blind.

No sight…

How? How does she survive in darkness?

The shadows are just as fascinated with the mere possibility of this sightless Omega being among the living.

My mind races with the implications.

How does she track the white coats' movements? Or brace herself for the trials? How does she even know when the water is coming or when to hold her breath? To even adjust her position when death is here and ready to claim.

The mysteries pile up as I watch her.

Her head tilts slightly, like a bird listening to distant songs. Without sight, have her other senses sharpened to compensate? Has this place forced her to evolve in ways even the scientists didn't anticipate?

It makes me sick – the realization that these monsters in white coats don't care about our limitations, disabilities, or struggles.

If we can move, we're viable test subjects.

If we can breathe, we're worthy of their twisted experiments.

If we can scream, we're perfect candidates for their precious M.U.S.E. program.

Choose her sign . See her essence .

This could be some form of therapy. A distraction from all the madness and adrenaline high of fighting to live another second. I embrace this conquest, as it’s my purpose to label these specific women with their signs and purpose.

To appoint them with names to commemorate their existence in these hidden depths of Ravenscroft where no Omega escapes their wrath.

This one's easier, somehow.

The unseeing eyes, the ethereal presence, the way she seems to exist halfway between this world and another – it all points to one sign.

Pisces.

The dreamer. The mystic.

The one who navigates by intuition when sight fails.

Movement catches my attention – her head turning slightly in my direction as if sensing my scrutiny. The gesture is uncanny, too precise to be a coincidence.

But there's no time to dwell on it.

The white coats are moving toward the main desk, their charts clutched in eager hands. This is the moment where they decide our immediate fate – whether we've earned a brief respite or if we face another round of trials while our bodies still shake from the last.

My muscles scream in protest as I maintain my position against the glass, but I force myself to stay focused.

The white coats gather at their desk, comparing notes with excited murmurs. My heart pounds harder, knowing what comes next. Whether it's momentary relief or fresh torment, we're about to find out.

The blind one needs a name before I move on. Something to capture her ethereal nature, the way she exists between worlds.

Name her for what she sees beyond sight .

Luna.

Yes. Like the moon that guides even in darkness. The celestial body that pulls and pushes, that influences without being seen.

Movement from the final cylinder draws my attention, and the contrast between Luna's quiet survival and this one's raw defiance is stark.

The third survivor is chaos embodied. Her hair – a wild mix of blue and green streaked with premature white – speaks of a spirit unbroken by captivity.

Those white strands, probably stressed into existence by the horrors of this place, create an oddly beautiful pattern through the wet tangles. Like lightning through storm clouds.

Blood runs freely from multiple wounds across her tanned skin, mixing with the water that drips from her frame. She hasn't learned to conserve energy like Azurite and hasn't found inner peace like Luna. Instead, she burns with an intensity that should have killed her by now.

Count her marks. Absorb the potential in her inflicted story.

The tattoos and piercings paint a picture of who she was before – someone who lived loud and free. A silver ring adorns her bottom lip, matched by another through her left nostril. Multiple piercings line her ears like metallic constellations. The tattoos visible through her wet clothing suggest a canvas of rebellion, of choosing pain on her own terms before they forced it upon her.

She was someone out there.

An Omega who mattered and fought for rebellion.

Who’s still fighting.

Her fist slams against the glass of her cylinder, the sound muffled but significant. The white coats flinch at the display of defiance, but she doesn't stop. Keeps pounding even as she maintains her braced position with powerful legs, multitasking between rage and survival.

She knows what's below . Knows about the pit .

We all do.

Have heard the screams of those who fall. The ones who slip, who can't maintain their position when the floor drops away. They vanish into that bottomless dark, their bodies never recovered.

Their screams echo until they don't.

But this one – this force of nature trapped in glass – refuses to give them the satisfaction of her fear.

Her blue eyes, which might once have sparkled with life and laughter, now burn with pure, undiluted rage. Every line of her body screams defiance, from the set of her jaw to the tension in her shoulders.

She reminds me of a bull seeing red, of a storm about to break, of everything wild and untamed that refuses to yield. Even now, she screams her frustration at the sterile air, unaware of how it makes her seem unstable.

Unsafe and uncontrollable.

Choose her sign . See her fire’s inability to be extinguished .

Only one fits.

One encompasses this level of raw power, of unstoppable force, of pure, concentrated rage.

Taurus.

The bull. Stubborn, powerful, impossible to break.

She needs a name that captures that essence; that unstoppable quality that keeps her fighting when others would have surrendered.

Riot.

Perfect for someone who turns captivity into rebellion, who makes even silence feel like screaming if it thrives for freedom.

I run through them in my mind, cementing their identities:

Azurite – The Aquarius who turns submission into strategy.

Luna – The Pisces who sees beyond sight.

Riot – The Taurus who refuses to break.

Three survivors.

Three potential allies, but when would we get acquainted? Would an opportunity come where I’d even be able to officially appoint them with such labels of grandeur?

The mechanism beneath us whirs to life, and the cylinder floors slowly rise back into place. It's a test – they want to see if we'll collapse now that we have the option.

None of us move.

Azurite maintains her precise stance, calculating even in relief.

Luna sways slightly but stays upright, guided by whatever sense helps her navigate this hell.

Riot's legs shake with fatigue but her chin lifts higher, turning defiance into art.

Slow clapping breaks the tense silence.

A man in an expensive suit enters the chamber, his applause echoing off glass and steel. His presence makes the white coats straighten, makes them clutch their charts tighter to their chests.

They fear him.

"Bravo, ladies. Simply bravo." The man's cultured voice drips with mock admiration as he paces before our cylinders. "It's so refreshing to see strong specimens in the batch. Makes all this..." He waves a manicured hand at the equipment, the charts, and the lingering evidence of torture. "...investment worthwhile."

Watch him . Learn his weaknesses .

The way the shadows hiss such orders makes me nervous. As if this is critical to get us out of whatever predicament we’re about to be thrown into.

I take in every detail:

The suit costs more than most people make in a year. Italian leather shoes, custom-made. Platinum watch gleaming on his wrist. Not a single blonde hair is out of place. Surgically enhanced features that speak of vanity. Eyes like arctic ice, devoid of warmth

Money. Power. Privilege.

Everything this place pretends to stand for while it breaks us in the name of progress.

"The market for exceptional omegas is quite...competitive these days." His smile doesn't reach those cold eyes. "And you four have proven exceptionally resilient. Perfect merchandise for the right buyer."

Merchandise.

Property.

Things to be sold.

My shadows are enraged at the commentary, their mangled whispers impossible to translate in my head. I’m not the only one reacting to the statement, though mine isn’t physically noticeable.

Riot slams her fist against the glass again, a snarl twisting her pierced lips. Azurite's heterochromatic eyes narrow dangerously, while Luna tilts her head like she's listening to something none of us can hear.

"Now, now." He tsks like we're misbehaving children. "That spirit is exactly why you're valuable. But it does present certain...logistical issues."

He stops in front of my cylinder, and everything in me screams to break through the glass, to tear that smug expression from his face with my bare hands.

To show him exactly what kind of monster they've created.

"So we're going to play a little game." His reflection appears in the glass, overlaying my own like a grotesque mask. "Tonight, you'll share accommodations. One room, four omegas, endless possibilities."

The white coats shift nervously, but he silences them with a raised hand.

"By sunrise, I need that number reduced to three. You can either choose amongst yourselves who to sacrifice or..." His smile widens, showing too many perfect teeth. "...we'll eliminate all of you and start fresh with the next batch."

The implications hit like physical blows:

Kill one to save three.

Murder a fellow survivor.

Become the monster they want us to be.

Or die.

All of us.

Before the sun rises.

Our silence couldn’t be more deafening.

"No volunteers?" He feigns disappointment. "No immediate standouts for sacrifice? How disappointing. I had such high hopes for your survival instincts."

A hissing sound fills the air – subtle at first, then growing louder. A pale green mist begins seeping into our cylinders through hidden vents, and my blood runs cold.

Fight it . FIGHT IT!

I try to hold my breath, but my lungs are already burning from the water trials. My body betrays me, gasping in the tainted air before I can stop myself.

The effect is immediate: Vision blurring at the edges. Limbs growing heavy. Thoughts turning sluggish.

Through increasingly unfocused eyes, I see the others struggling:

Azurite's calculated composure finally breaks as she coughs, those mismatched eyes growing glassy.

Luna sways more pronouncedly, her unseeing eyes fluttering as whatever other senses guide her begin to fail.

Riot fights the hardest, banging on the glass even as her movements grow uncoordinated, screaming defiance until her voice breaks.

Stay awake . Have to stay...

My poor shadows are begging me, but now they’re so distant. So far away, it ignites panic within me. The shadow of voices that made me fear insanity has become a safe haven that’s being stolen from my grasp.

I try so desperately to fight this losing game.

But the darkness creeps in, inexorable as the tide.

My legs give out first, the strength to brace against the glass deserting me. My knees hit the floor that tried to drop us into oblivion just minutes ago.

The suited man's laughter echoes through the chamber, distorting like a sound underwater. He's enjoying this – our helplessness, our fear, our forced submission.

"Sweet dreams, little omegas." His voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Do try to give us a good show. The buyers do so love a spectacle."

My vision tunnels, dark spots dancing like the shadows that usually comfort me. But they're silent now, or maybe I just can't hear them over the rushing in my ears.

The last things I register before consciousness fades:

The metallic taste of the gas on my tongue. The sound of bodies hitting glass as the others succumb. The pristine shine of Italian leather as he steps closer. That cold, empty laugh that promises worse to come…

Then nothing.

Just darkness.

And the knowledge that when I wake, I'll either become a murderer...

Or a corpse.