[MOTHRA Institution – Female Prison Zone – CELL 42]
"Little ones torn and abandoned that became one."
The faulty neon above the cell flickered at irregular intervals, casting shadows that twisted like living creatures across the concrete walls. Each hiss of the fluorescent tube made Lorraine shiver with fear—3.7 seconds between each glitch, she had memorized it.
Ancélia shut the rusty metal locker with the precision of someone who had practiced the movement. The latch gave a nearly imperceptible click, but in that silence, it sounded like a gunshot.
— "Did you find anything?" Lorraine whispered, her fingers pale from gripping the edge of the lower bunk so tightly.
Ancélia held up the items under the pulsing light—three heroin syringes, a sharp shiv hidden inside an empty toothpaste tube.
— "Diary of the last occupant," Ancélia ran her thumb across a page where the ink had bled. "Human meat in the cake. You can read a few parts."
Lorraine knelt beside the unmade bed. Her fingers searched the abandoned work boots under the thin mattress.
— "The sole was cut and glued back on," she murmured, pressing her nail against the almost invisible seam. "There's something inside."
Before they could investigate further, a metallic clang echoed down the corridor. Both froze. The sound was unmistakable: the click-hiss of an electromagnetic lock being disengaged. The cell door slid open with a creak that made Lorraine's teeth clench.
A tall man entered. Impeccable uniform, polished black boots, and unblinking blue eyes under a military cap with a golden tip. The cap bore an insignia they didn't recognize. His accent was indecipherable, but the harsh tone made their hearts race.
— "Was machen Sie hier drinnen?" His voice cut through the air like a blade. German.
Lorraine felt sweat drip between her eyebrows. Ancélia swallowed hard, fingers involuntarily tightening around the shiv hidden in her sleeve. The man didn't wait for a response. His arm extended in a mechanical gesture, index finger pointing down the corridor.
— "Folgen."
Their footsteps echoed through the hallway, lit by strobe-like lights. Lorraine counted 23 steps to the next turn. The gate at the end of the corridor didn't belong to the rest of the prison. Above it, a glowing sign pulsed red:
"TEST ADMISSION WING – LEVEL 3 AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED"
The man pressed his palm against a hidden panel. A red laser scanned his iris.
— "Identität bestätigt. Wachen Sie die Probanden auf."
Lorraine felt Ancélia tremble beside her. The diary was still hidden against her back, its pages pressed against her spine like a fragile shield.
The man turned on his heels, his eyes reflecting the blue light in an inhuman way.
— "Willkommen in der Hölle."
The officer turned on his heels with robotic precision, his polished boot snapping against the concrete floor. His index finger, gloved in black leather, pointed at a marking on the ground:
"WAITING POSITION" painted in yellow gothic letters.
Without a word, he disappeared through a side door, which hissed shut like the lid of a pressurized coffin.
Lorraine didn't breathe until she heard the final click.
— "He didn't say anything in Portuguese," she whispered, lips trembling. "But that symbol... it's not from MOTHRA."
Ancélia pressed her ear against the door's seam. The sound came through distorted:
"...ANM-008 ist nicht stabil genug für weibliche Probanden..."
"...die Vorbereitungssequenz muss neu initialisiert werden..."
A female voice replied in Portuguese:
— "We don't have time for reinitializations. The director wants results first."
Ancélia's eyes met Lorraine's. Something in that tone—a nearly desperate urgency—made her stomach tighten.
The door opened with a snap.
The woman in the white lab coat who appeared was about 1.68 meters tall (Lorraine guessed from the angle of her gaze). Her hair was tied in a tight bun, her pale green eyes lacked eyebrows, and she wore latex gloves up to her elbows, stained with metallic blue.
— "You two. Follow me."
Her Portuguese was flawless, but cold—each word sounded like it had been frozen and thawed repeatedly.
[Test Admission Wing]
The scientist sat down with rigid posture, flipping through papers in a binder while the German officer remained standing, arms crossed, like a trained guard dog ready to kill.
— "Full name," the scientist ordered, pen already poised above the form.
— "Ancélia dos Santos," she replied.
— "Lorraine Mendes."
— "Date of last menstruation?"
The two exchanged confused glances.
— "What?"
— "Answer. It's a simple question—you menstruate, right?"
Lorraine hesitated, her eyes darting around as if trying to extract the answer from an invisible calendar.
— "Three months ago..."
— "Two months, I think."
The scientist wrote it down without reacting. Then, she looked at them more closely.
— "Did either of you have sexual relations before entering MOTHRA?"
The officer cut in sharply, speaking something in German they didn't understand. He seemed frustrated, impatient.
Ancélia took a deep breath.
— "I... I had a relationship. With a guy. Months before I was arrested."
The scientist paused. She didn't raise her eyes right away, but the sound of her sigh echoed like a verdict.
— "I see."
She stood, gathered the papers, and gave no further explanation. She only gestured with her head for them to follow.
They walked through even colder, more sterile, and silent corridors. The German officer stayed close behind, and the smell of old tobacco and wine lingered in the air. They arrived at an elevator with brushed steel walls. The scientist pressed a button, and in silence, they all entered.
The descent began.
And continued.
And continued.
Lorraine swallowed hard. The digital display showed they had already passed level -13. Ancélia gripped the side rail tightly.
— "How... much deeper does this go?" she murmured.
The answer came with a click, followed by a deep pressurization sound. The elevator doors opened, revealing a red stripe across the wall ahead:
HEAVY ZONE — RESTRICTED ACCESS – LEVEL 4+
The officer, his expression unreadable, slid his identification card through the scanner—a metallic badge adorned with a gleaming embedded chip and the seal of the MOTHRA Institution. A sharp beep echoed through the sterile environment, and the doors opened, revealing a corridor straight out of a nightmare.
The atmosphere was dense and oppressive. Condensation dripped from the high ceiling, forming puddles on the cold, metallic floor. Amber lights flickered irregularly, casting dancing shadows that twisted like elusive creatures. In the background, a distinct sound pierced the air: the metallic clinking of something sharp—like invisible claws scraping against the sturdy structure of the hallway, echoing pure desperation.
The scientist retrieved a respirator from an inner pocket of the bag she carried, a piece of equipment that glinted faintly under the stuttering lights. Without hesitation, she fitted the device to her face and turned to Lorraine and Ancélia, extending her hands holding surgical masks.
— "Use these. The air down here is... unstable," she ordered, her voice eerily calm in the midst of the chaotic setting.
Without waiting for confirmation, the scientist moved forward, her steps firm and unwavering. The German officer followed closely behind her—a silent, menacing shadow. Lorraine and Ancélia hesitated, but soon found themselves compelled to follow, their steps heavy as if wading through a swamp of uncertainty. Every inch of that corridor seemed to pull at their souls, suffocating them slowly beneath its weight.
As they advanced deeper, the corridor of the Heavy Zone appeared to twist around them, pulsing as though it were alive. The echoes of adjacent cells filled the space—inhuman sounds reverberating in a disturbing symphony: bones snapping, claws scraping steel, and distorted laughter blending with screams and muffled sobs. Lorraine and Ancélia exchanged nervous glances, their trembling hands seeking each other for comfort as they tried to maintain composure. The air was relentless, thick with an unbearable weight, as if they were inhaling moisture laced with pure terror.
At last, they stopped before a cell whose walls were as cold as the iron enclosing it. A black plaque stood out, marked with a white skull. In bold white letters, the warning was clear:
ANM-008 – ALPTRAUM
Unauthorized access prohibited. Tests must be supervised. Protocol C-02-008 in effect.
Beneath the sign, a censored image gave an eerie sense of mystery—a distorted silhouette of what might have been a creature, obscured behind a thick black bar. Lorraine's heart raced, and she swallowed hard, the bitter taste of anxiety invading her throat. Ancélia instinctively stepped back, recoiling from the palpable tension in the air.
— "What is this... what is this..." Lorraine whispered, her voice barely leaving her lips, almost a whimper.
The scientist gestured to the German officer. Without hesitation, he pressed a button, and the cell gate opened with a wet creak that reverberated like a groan from the underworld. No words were exchanged, but the message was clear. Without compassion, they shoved Lorraine and Ancélia into the cell, plunging them deeper into the abyss of that vast containment chamber. As the gate closed behind them, only fear and apprehension remained.
[Cell of ANM-008]
A pulsing red light revealed the complete isolation awaiting them. The stench of rotting flesh hit them like a punch to the gut—a nauseating presence that made it feel as though they had stepped into an open grave. With each step, the cavernous humidity clung to their skin, and a disturbing sound began to worm its way into their minds: the crying of a baby. But it wasn't just one—it was dozens, maybe hundreds, resonating in a demonic chorus of manic laughter, suffocating sobs, whispers, and shrieks.
At the far end of the cell, something began to move. The sight was horrific—flesh, coated in some kind of viscous oil, slithered forward, producing a sickening squelch like entrails being dragged. As numerous, famished eyes began to open, the scene grew more surreal. The mass writhed against the wall, sliding like a monstrous centipede made of abortions—grotesque and twisted.
— "Back up, back up, we can't stay here!" Lorraine shouted, grabbing Ancélia by the arm, her panic rising like a tidal wave. But in the middle of the horror, Ancélia dropped to her knees, her face contorted in pain.
— "Ah... my belly... it's burning..."
Her hand clutched her abdomen, her face pale and wet with tears.
— "No... no, it can't be…"
The creature at the back of the cell let out a sadistic moan—a muffled sound that blended pleasure and delight. ANM-008 sniffed the air, stripping away what little hope remained, and in a single motion, launched itself toward them.
Lorraine screamed, survival instinct kicking in, darting to the side in a desperate attempt to draw the thing's attention. With adrenaline coursing through her veins, she yanked a loose piece of piping from the wall and slammed it against the floor, the sound echoing ominously as she screamed:
— "Come on, come on, you bastard, right here!"
But the nightmare had only just begun.
— "No!" Ancélia cried. Lorraine turned just in time to see her friend crumple in agony, a trickle of blood running down her thighs. A miscarriage had begun. A small, misshapen, grotesquely deformed human figure began crawling across the floor, while ANM-008 swayed like a curious child—gleeful at the sight—laughing in a chorus of childish giggles that intertwined into a macabre, disturbing cacophony.
With supernatural speed, the creature surged forward, its countless baby-like arms stretching from the amorphous mass, gripping Ancélia's ankles with a deathly grip.
— "NO!" Lorraine screamed, watching helplessly as her friend was dragged into the living flesh, slowly consumed, her screams of despair swallowed by the sounds of bones snapping and flesh tearing.
Trauma set in like a vice in Lorraine's chest as she collapsed, gasping, onto the floor, eyes brimming with tears, unable to do anything but witness. The creature turned its many eyes on her—each dull orb reflecting a hunger for flesh, as if savoring its satisfaction within that dominion of pain and suffering—leaving Lorraine at the mercy of the indescribable horror unfolding before her.
A siren blared—short and sharp—like a warning of imminent death. A red light began to flash, casting the menacing shadow of the anomaly across the suffocating walls of the cell. The metallic voice of the internal speakers cut through the lingering echoes of Lorraine's screams:
— "TERMINATING TEST PROTOCOL C-02-008. RETRIEVAL AUTHORIZED."
The door to ANM-008's cell opened with a hydraulic hiss, releasing a wave of sickly heat that seemed almost alive. The nauseating stench of flesh blended with the air, forming a choking mist. Lorraine remained on the floor—trembling, unmoving, wide-eyed—completely paralyzed by fear. Her arms, soaked in Ancélia's blood, looked like grotesque extensions of the horror that had just unfolded, and her body shook uncontrollably, as if still being devoured by trauma. The creature's infantile voices echoed in her head, each echo a sharp reminder of the vivid nightmare.
Two soldiers burst into the room. The German officer led them, his face as stone—firm and expressionless. Lorraine, caught in a whirlpool of instinct and desperation, staggered to her feet, eyes locked onto the scientist who observed the aftermath with a clipboard in hand.
— "YOU KILLED HER!" Lorraine screamed, her voice choked with anguish and rage as she lunged at the scientist.
The scientist stepped back, surprise and a flicker of fear crossing her face. The clipboard slipped from her hands, clattering sharply against the floor. But before Lorraine could reach her, the German officer stepped in. With the cold precision of a trained soldier, he rotated his rifle and struck her with the butt, a clean blow to the side of her head. The impact made a muffled crack—an almost relieving sound—immediately drowned by yet another distorted wail rising from the cell behind them.
Lorraine collapsed to the floor, groaning, her face now streaked with blood and tears, the world around her blurred by a haze of pain and confusion.
— "Zurück in die Zelle," the officer said coldly, dragging her limp body like nothing more than another discarded test subject, devoid of any humanity.
The scientist, now calm after the outburst, glanced into the cell, where ANM-008 twisted upon itself—an amorphous mass, contentedly digesting something that had once been human. With a detached sigh, she scribbled something into her notebook, murmuring to herself, as if suspended above the horrific reality around her:
— "The response was positive. Contact with target stimulus results in immediate reaction... next phase confirmed."
The door slammed shut with a metallic clank—like a vault sealing away hell—locking the aberration once more. Lorraine, like a broken rag doll, was tossed back into her cell in the women's wing, unconscious, blood trickling from the side of her head and pooling slowly on the cracked floor, forming a grotesque pattern on its worn surface.
And somewhere in the depths of the darkness of the Heavy Zone, ANM-008 still smiled—a dark, grotesque grin—its presence now a permanent trauma etched into Lorraine's mind.