Etrius Arc Chapter 4: Khishchnik

Etrius awoke to the dim, flickering light overhead. The bulb buzzed faintly, casting weak shadows that seemed to pulse with his unsteady breathing. The first thing he noticed was the silence. No hum of machinery, no voices, just the heavy stillness of the room pressing in on him like a shroud. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain lanced through his torso, pulling a grunt from his throat.

His hand drifted to his abdomen, fingers trembling as they brushed over raised lines that hadn’t been there before. The skin was taut and uneven, stitched together with a precision that felt clinical, inhuman. The scars stretched across his stomach, crisscrossing in a pattern that seemed almost deliberate. He didn’t remember them. He didn’t remember anything.

The edges of his thoughts were jagged, fractured pieces of a life he couldn’t grasp. Faces blurred together, voices echoed without meaning. One name clawed its way to the surface. It came with a dull ache in his chest, a hollow pain he couldn’t place.

Petrovich entered quietly, his footsteps soft but measured. He stood at the foot of the cot, his sharp blue eyes inspecting Etrius like one of his notes scrawled across the cluttered lab. “You’re healing well,” he said, his voice calm, almost gentle. “Better than expected.”

Etrius tried to speak, but his throat felt raw, the words catching like barbs. He settled for a question that felt foreign on his tongue. “What… happened?”

Petrovich tilted his head slightly, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “You’ve undergone surgery,” he explained, his tone devoid of sympathy. “Your body was failing. I’ve corrected it.”

Etrius frowned, the explanation too simple, too detached. He wanted to press for more, but the haze in his mind left him disoriented, unable to string together the questions he needed.

“You must rest,” Petrovich continued. “The changes are delicate. They must take hold before we proceed further.”

Etrius nodded absently, his gaze drifting back to the scars. They itched under his touch, not from healing but from something deeper, something he couldn’t describe.

When he awoke again, the itching was worse. His chest felt tighter, his breaths deeper and more powerful, as though his lungs had been replaced with bellows. He couldn’t shake the sensation that his body was alien to him, that it no longer belonged to him. Petrovich stood over him, watching with a quiet intensity.

“The lungs,” Petrovich said without being asked. “They’re stronger now. You’ll notice the difference soon enough.”

Etrius wanted to argue, to demand answers, but his head throbbed with a relentless ache, his thoughts scattered and fleeting. Petrovich handed him a small pill. “For the pain,” he said.

Etrius swallowed it without hesitation, the relief almost immediate. His body sagged against the cot, the exhaustion overtaking him once more.

The next time he awoke, his vision was sharper. The dim light of the room seemed brighter, every crack in the concrete walls defined with startling clarity. He blinked, confused, as the sounds of the lab became sharper, more distinct. The faint hum of a generator somewhere deep in the facility vibrated in his skull.

Petrovich smiled faintly when he saw Etrius’s confusion. “The eyes,” he said, his tone laced with pride. “You’ll see the world more clearly now.”

Etrius’s hands clenched into fists, the feeling of control slipping further away with each passing moment. He didn’t know what was being done to him, but he knew he was no longer the man he used to be.

Each time he awoke, more pieces of himself seemed to vanish, replaced by something… different. Something wrong.

The room was cold, the kind of cold that clung to the skin and lingered in the bones. The dim overhead lights hummed faintly, casting long shadows across the steel operating table where Etrius lay. His chest rose and fell in the shallow rhythm of sedation, his breath fogging faintly in the frigid air. Around him, Petrovich moved with the deliberate precision of a man for whom mistakes were unacceptable.

The old doctor’s hands trembled slightly as he held a scalpel, but the shaking was not from hesitation. He had lived long enough to know the weight of every incision, to feel the gravity of every procedure. He adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching the light as he began cutting through the layers of tissue along Etrius’s forearm. The skin peeled back, revealing the dull white of bone beneath.

Petrovich paused for a moment, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he studied the exposed ulna and radius. He murmured softly in Russian, the words indistinct but weighted with thought. Reaching for a set of tools, he began the arduous task of removing the natural bone, his movements measured and mechanical.

The tungsten carbide lay in small, carefully arranged pieces on a tray beside him, its dark metallic sheen reflecting the sterile light. It was precious, the strongest material he had ever worked with, but its scarcity made every fragment invaluable. Petrovich worked methodically, replacing Etrius’s organic bones piece by piece. Each new addition fit perfectly, the tungsten shining darkly against the pale muscle and sinew that remained.

But as he worked, the truth loomed larger. There wasn’t enough. Not enough skin, not enough muscle. Not enough flesh. Petrovich straightened, the realization settling heavily on his narrow shoulders. He turned to a set of charts pinned to the wall, calculations scribbled in precise Cyrillic script. He let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting back to Etrius’s unconscious form.

“Arms or legs,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and hoarse. “What must go?”

The legs were too valuable to remove. The weight of the tungsten would demand stability, and without legs, the entire structure would be unbalanced. But the arms—Petrovich’s lips pressed into a thin line. He could do better. He could build better.

The decision was made quickly, with the cold logic that had guided him through decades of work. Petrovich’s hands began their careful dissection once more, removing the remaining bone from Etrius’s arms. He worked tirelessly, stripping the limbs down to the essentials, removing the muscle and tendons that could no longer support the vision he had for them.

The legs were constructed beautifully, masterfully crafted digitigrade limbs that resembled a predator's. Perfect for running quickly, perfect for walking silently. The previous preparations had allowed Etrius's body to seamlessly adjust his flesh and muscles to the new shape, something Petrovich had meticulously planned and engineered.

As the hours dragged on, he moved to prepare the prosthetics. The components were basic compared to what he envisioned for the final product: synthetic fibers intertwined with ceramic alloys, their exposed framework muscular in appearance, but silvery and golden. They were functional, resilient, and powerful, but without elegance.

Etrius stirred occasionally, his eyelids fluttering as he fought against the fog of sedation. Each time he awoke, his voice came as a hoarse whisper, full of confusion and frustration.

“I can’t… remember,” Etrius muttered, his words slurred. “Why… can’t I remember?”

Petrovich didn’t look up from his work. “Memories are fragile things,” he said calmly, as if discussing a distant scientific concept. “They will fade completely in time.”

“Sophie…” Etrius’s voice cracked, and he turned his head weakly toward Petrovich. “Who is Sophie?”

Petrovich paused, his hand gripping the prosthetic joint he had been adjusting. His expression didn’t change, but his tone grew quieter. “Nobody,” he said after a moment. “Just a fragment of a past that no longer exists.”

Etrius groaned faintly, slipping back into unconsciousness.

The final hours of work were grueling. Petrovich’s hands moved with the careful determination of a surgeon and the vision of a creator. He attached the prosthetics to Etrius’s shoulders, the exposed fibers twitching as he tested their connections.

When it was done, Petrovich stepped back, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his lab coat. The room was silent except for the soft hum of machinery. Etrius lay motionless, his new arms resting at his sides, their metallic framework gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Petrovich stood over him, his expression unreadable as he studied the amalgamation of flesh and metal before him. A shadow of something darker passed over his face, but it was gone in an instant.

“This is only the beginning,” he said softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the lights.

The laboratory was silent, save for the steady drip of fluid into the glass tube where Etrius hung suspended. The preservatory liquid rippled faintly with every subtle shift of his body, a pale, flayed figure held aloft by a tangle of tubes and wires. His flesh had been stripped away entirely, leaving only the raw, red musculature beneath. The sight was grotesque, but to Petrovich, it was simply a canvas—one that would soon be perfected.

Petrovich stood beside the tube, his gaunt frame outlined by the cold glow of the equipment surrounding him. His silver hair hung damp against his forehead, plastered there by sweat from hours of labor. In his hands, he cradled a small vial containing the cultured synthetic cells that would become Etrius’s new skin. The liquid within shimmered faintly, a pale green substance that held the promise of something both marvelous and monstrous.

With a deftness only he had, he transferred the contents of the vial into a nutrient vat. The solution bubbled slightly as it mixed, its surface breaking as pale sheets of synthetic tissue began to form. Petrovich watched closely, his sharp blue eyes reflecting the light of the vat as the skin took shape. It had been grown from Etrius’s own DNA, tweaked and engineered for durability far beyond anything nature could achieve.

He glanced over his shoulder at the glass tube. Etrius floated motionless, the preservatory fluid keeping him alive while his body awaited its new covering. The sight stirred something in Petrovich—an emotion he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t pity; he had long since abandoned such trivial sentiments. But there was a weight to the moment, a realization that he was working not with life, but against it, forcing it to bend to his will.

Months passed. The synthetic skin, now complete, was carefully peeled from the vat and laid out on a sterile table. It gleamed unnaturally under the harsh lights, its texture flawless yet unnervingly artificial. Petrovich began the painstaking process of grafting it onto Etrius’s exposed body, piece by piece, each section melded seamlessly with the underlying muscle.

The process was grueling. Every graft had to be perfect, the edges joined without a single imperfection. Petrovich’s hands, though shaky with age, moved with the precision of a master craftsman. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he didn’t pause. By the time he finished, Etrius’s body was no longer raw and exposed. The synthetic skin clung to him like a second birth, pale and smooth, awaiting its final transformation.

Petrovich turned his attention to the skull. The old one lay discarded in a metal tray, fractured and bloodied from the extraction. In its place was a new creation: a tungsten carbide masterpiece shaped like a tiger’s skull. Its sloped angles and reinforced ridges mirrored the engineering of heavy vehicle armor, designed to deflect impacts and withstand unimaginable forces.

The hardest part was still ahead. Petrovich reached into the cavity of the old skull, his fingers trembling slightly as they made contact with Etrius’s brain. The nerves and blood vessels clung desperately to their host, but Petrovich carefully severed them one by one, his movements meticulous and practiced.

When the brain was free, he lifted it carefully, cradling it in both hands like a fragile relic. It glistened under the light, its surface slick with preservative fluids. He moved quickly, placing it into a specialized machine designed to erase and rewire.

Bright green energy coursed through the machine, illuminating the room in harsh, unnatural flashes. Petrovich adjusted the controls, his face tight with concentration. The memories were erased—every fragment of Etrius’s past, every fleeting thought of Sophie, every trace of a life once lived. Petrovich hesitated only once, his finger hovering over a switch. He muttered something in Russian, a whisper of regret or perhaps resolve, before continuing.

When the process was complete, he retrieved the brain and placed it gently into the new skull. The nerves were sewn together with stem cells, each connection reinforced with microscopic precision. Electrodes stimulated the tissue, jolting the body to ensure function. The chest rose and fell as the heart resumed its rhythm, and Petrovich stepped back, his breath caught in his throat.

Etrius was alive.

The body was placed back into the glass tube, submerged once more in the nutrient-rich fluid. Petrovich secured an air tube to the mask fitted over the now pantherine face. The sharp metallic sheen of Etrius’s teeth glinted faintly as his jaw twitched.

Over the ongoing months, the synthetic skin began its final transformation, growing fur in shimmering white with dark stripes that shifted subtly under the light. The pantherine tail twitched involuntarily, its muscles adjusting to the new shape. Black hair began to grow from the scalp, thick and sleek, with a stark white patch forming at the crown.

Petrovich stood silently, watching the figure suspended in the tube. The transformation was nearly complete, but the waiting had just begun. The months ahead would be long, and Petrovich knew he didn’t have the luxury of time. Above, the world was crumbling, and below, he had created something both magnificent and terrible. For the first time, Petrovich allowed himself a faint smile.

The laboratory had grown quieter over the years, its once-frenzied activity slowing to a meticulous rhythm. The machines hummed steadily, the lights burned cold, and the stale air hung thick with chemicals and ozone. The glass vat where Etrius had spent countless months healing now sat empty, its liquid drained, its cables coiled neatly on the floor.

Etrius lay on the same cot where he had awakened long ago, though now he was wholly different. His body was a fusion of flesh, metal, and carefully curated design. The pantherine tail rested limp at his side, the faint glint of tungsten carbide visible beneath his sleek, synthetic fur. The stripes that adorned his body shimmered faintly in the artificial light, their shifting patterns unsettling and beautiful.

Petrovich stood over him, hands clasped behind his back. His face bore the deep lines of age and stress, but his sharp blue eyes had lost none of their focus. He had waited years for this moment, and now it was time. He adjusted a small dial on a console near the cot, and a soft hiss signaled the release of a sedative.

Etrius stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. The room came into focus slowly, every detail crisp and overwhelming. He inhaled deeply, his enhanced lungs filling with the dense air. For a moment, he remained still, his gaze darting around the room as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Welcome,” Petrovich said, his voice low and steady.

Etrius turned his head toward the sound, his green eyes narrowing slightly. “Where… am I?” His voice was deep, unfamiliar even to himself.

Petrovich pulled up a chair, sitting carefully across from him. “This place is your beginning. And you are Etrius.”

The name meant nothing to him. He sat up slowly, his muscles rippling under his striped fur. His prosthetic hands moved to his lap as he stared at them with a mix of curiosity and confusion. “What am I?”

Petrovich leaned forward, his tone matter-of-fact. “You are my experiment. You are my greatest achievement in life. You are a chimera, a man who looks like a tiger. You are what humanity could never achieve on its own.”

Etrius frowned, his tail curling slightly at his side. “Why?”

“Because I could,” Petrovich said simply, his gaze unwavering.

Over the following weeks, Petrovich worked diligently to test every aspect of his creation. He began with the basics, assessing Etrius’s cognitive abilities. Books were brought out—Russian and English—each read aloud by Etrius with surprising fluency. Writing followed, his sharp claws gripping a pen with unexpected dexterity.

Mathematics, logic puzzles, and problem-solving tasks were administered, all of which Etrius completed with methodical efficiency. His mind was sharp, unclouded by the distractions of a past he no longer remembered.

Physical testing revealed the true depth of Petrovich’s achievement. Etrius moved with a fluid grace that belied his heavy tungsten carbide skeleton. His muscles worked harmoniously, carrying the immense weight with ease. A punch shattered concrete. A leap spanned distances no ordinary man could hope to achieve.

But the most telling feature was Etrius’s hunger. The new digestive system demanded an almost endless supply of calories to fuel his enhanced body. He devoured meat by the pound, his body processing it so efficiently that it left no waste.

Petrovich observed all this with clinical fascination, recording every detail. He was particularly intrigued by Etrius’s blood, a thick, black substance that glistened like oil. Under the microscope, it revealed properties far beyond that of normal human blood, capable of carrying oxygen with unrivaled efficiency while also lubricating his prosthetics internally.

Etrius’s sexual functions were also tested, though this aspect of his design was more indulgence than necessity. The hybrid anatomy—canine sheath and knot, serpentine shaft, feline spines—was a result of Petrovich’s whims. Left to explore this alone, Etrius showed no discomfort, only curiosity and fascination.

When Petrovich examined the seminal fluid, he was taken aback. The black liquid held angular cells, their sharp edges designed for destruction. The implications of this mutation were grim, though Petrovich made no comment on it. He merely added it to his ever-growing notes.

Finally, when every test was complete, Petrovich prepared for the last step. Etrius was sedated once more, his powerful body subdued as electrodes were placed carefully against his head. The process was familiar, but it never grew easier. Petrovich hesitated, his finger hovering over the control panel.

“You won’t remember this,” he said softly, though Etrius could no longer hear him. “But that is how it must be.”

The green energy surged through Etrius’s mind, erasing every memory of the years spent in the laboratory. The slate was wiped clean, leaving only the instincts and knowledge Petrovich had painstakingly implanted.

When the procedure was finished, Etrius was moved to the cryogenic stasis chamber. Petrovich secured the air tube and checked the vitals one last time. The chamber sealed with a hiss, the glass frosted over as the system froze the body within.

Petrovich stepped back, his gaze shifting to the name etched onto the glass: Etrius. To his left was another chamber, labeled Ravenna, its occupant similarly suspended. To his right, an empty chamber bore the name Rallus. The sight of it brought a rare flicker of emotion to Petrovich’s face—something between regret, failure, and sorrow.

He turned away, his footsteps echoing in the empty lab as he ascended the long, winding staircase to the surface. The storm raged on, lightning flashing through the cracks of the old world above.