Chapter 111: Surgery

Chapter: Surgery

Year 372 of the Neo-Dark Era.
The Colon Wastelands.

The great insurrection over three centuries ago forced humanity to rein in its ever-expanding ambitions. Having lost the technology that once allowed them to dominate the world, humans, relying solely on their fragile bodies, proved no match for the immense power of the Nightmare Pokémon. Had it not been for a small fraction of Pokémon that retained their sanity, the human race might have been wiped from the face of the earth two centuries ago. Even so, three hundred years have passed, and humanity remains like ants, huddled in scattered remnants across the corners of the world.

The prosperous cities and beautiful towns they once held have, under the ravages of time, crumbled into ruins, becoming breeding grounds for the terrifying monsters born of nightmares. The Colon Wastelands are a stark example of this. Three centuries ago, it bore a different name: the "Colon Safari Zone." In those days, driven by a frenzied desire for novelty and control, humanity had poured vast amounts of manpower and wealth into capturing a myriad of Pokémon, confining them to a single location they dubbed a "wild" hunting ground.

Today, the humans who once hunted and played there are long gone. In their place roam countless vicious Nightmare Pokémon, hungrily scouring the land for any fresh flesh they can find. Yet, beneath this desolate wasteland, a massive base operates in silence.

"Pat, pat."

Rapid footsteps echoed through the long, dim corridor, betraying their owner’s anxiety. He was a refined-looking young man in a white lab coat, his body enveloped in a thick, pungent scent of chemical reagents. His black hair was neatly parted on both sides. A pair of black-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, but even the thick, bottle-bottom lenses could not hide the dark circles beneath his eyes. Beneath the dim lights of the hallway, the young man checked a paper report in his hand while rubbing a shoulder sore from hours of sitting stiffly. He raised his left hand, glanced at the antique watch on his wrist, and quickened his pace.

Finally, he stopped before a black iron door at the end of the corridor. He curled his index and middle fingers and rapped against the cold metal surface.

"Knock, knock, knock."

A dull sound erupted from his knuckles. There was no response. The entire corridor returned to silence. The young man’s expression grew impatient, and he was about to raise his hand again when—

"Skree!"

A harsh, metallic screech tore through the air, and a narrow slit suddenly opened in the black iron door. In the darkness, a pair of bloodshot eyes cast a malevolent, sinister gaze through the gap. With a look of disdain, those terrifying eyes swept over the young man.

Clack.

The slit was shut with a sharp, decisive movement. Then came the sound of mechanical gears grinding. With a groan, the heavy iron door slowly swung open. Dim, yellow light spilled out like a dawn rising from the horizon, illuminating the darkness and filth within the room.

The first thing to greet the young man was a stooped old man. He was balding, with sparse white hair hanging limply on either side of his head; layers of wrinkles were piled upon his face, and his cheeks were sunken, tracing the outline of his jawbone. His eyes were deeply recessed—the same pair of bloodshot, hideous eyes he had seen just moments before.

The young man handed the report to the old man and peered into the dim room. Weak light cast faint glimmers on glass surfaces, where pale green liquid bubbled with white foam, emitting a nauseating odor. These were semi-circular vessels filled with viscous green liquid, within which various dark shadows floated silently. Though the light was dim, one could faintly distinguish the shapes of small Pokémon. It was like a long-term storage facility for biological specimens, the decaying air making one feel unwell.

"Recently... the frequency of your requests... has been a bit too high," the old man rasped, his voice like grinding millstones. He squinted, his withered hand gripping a pen as he wrote on the report.

The young man straightened his hair, looking indifferent. "It can't be helped; Dr. Dahl’s experiment has reached a critical stage. If all goes well, we should have results within a month. If it succeeds, the headquarters... heh."

Glancing at the young man from the corner of his eye as he prattled on, the old man curled his lips in a sneer. "That had better be the case."

With that, he slapped the signed report onto the young man’s chest. He retreated, submerging his short frame back into the deep darkness, with only those blood-red, hideous eyes blinking in the shadows.

Stuffing the report into his coat, the young man browsed the room full of Pokémon specimens as if he were shopping at a supermarket, looking left and right to make a careful selection. After choosing two suitable Pokémon according to Dr. Dahl’s requirements, he carried the glass containers like birdcages and hurried out of the dark room. Behind him, the heavy iron door slowly closed with a harsh metallic screech.

In the pitch-black shadows, the blood-red, hideous pupils stared at the young man’s departing back with deep, insatiable greed.

...

"Beep. Beep."

Precision instruments ticked rhythmically, and a green line representing life fluctuated on an LCD screen. White tubes of varying thicknesses were tangled together like a ball of yarn, snaking toward a simple iron platform. The smooth metal surface cast a cold glint. The air was thick with the suffocating, pungent smell of disinfectant.

On the metal platform, an ordinary Machop lay with its eyes closed, sprawled in a star shape. Patches of the thick green mucus from the specimen tank still clung to its tough, gray skin. Its wrists, ankles, and neck were firmly secured to the platform by metal restraints. Around it, several figures in pure white coats and masks moved about. The final preparations before the surgery were underway.

Outside the glass wall of the operating room, a gaunt, middle-aged man stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of solemn anticipation. His graying hair was as messy as a bird's nest; his face, pale from years of confinement in the laboratory away from the sun, lacked any hint of blood. Deep within his emerald-green pupils flickered a hint of the madness peculiar to a scientist.

"Dr. Dahl, preparations are complete."

The cautious voice of an assistant came from beside him. He nodded slightly.

"Begin," Dr. Dahl whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

Inside the lab, the staff in white coats moved with haste. Crisp, decisive voices echoed around the cold iron bed.

"Surgery commencing."
"Life-support fluid injection complete."
"Detaching sleep-induction device."
"Detachment successful."
"Injecting arousal gas."
"Injection complete."

*Hoo—*

The lead technician, masked, let out a long breath. He then carefully retrieved a purple-red test tube from an iron cabinet in the corner. Within the glass tube flowed a strange substance, part mist and part liquid. It resembled dark clouds from hell, steeped in the abyssal sea of the underworld, with a thick, evil aura churning within the glass vial along with the purple-red substance.

The lead surgeon’s eyes, behind his goggles, burned with determination.

"Inject the Gengar saliva essence!"