I see

Put simply, within the map I observed and thus committed to my ever-analyzing supercomputers, I saw a series of numbers that depicted a certain cause and correlation.

I found a statistically significant link between the strongest drug-resistant, laser-resistant, and comprehensively infective X39-autoimmune disease variant, a most shocking pandemic-impetus in 2429, and the black-matter manipulating organ's failure rate.

[0%]

For people previously infected with variant X39, the death rate of implantation due to gene-collapse or "slight discomfort" is very nearly, save a diminutive margin that accounts for experimental error, 0%.

Even with hypnotic counseling, gene surgery technologies that assure error rates of less than once per 100000 base pairs, and biological advancements so profound that they've elevated average lifespans to 150, the failure rate for implantation fluctuates about a hefty 20%, but

4+ billion people have been successfully implanted.

Why didn't I know about this?

As veritably the greatest hacker, even if not thoroughly first, my attention should almost immediately be incited upon discoveries of any such magnitude: it's become increasingly obvious that an unknown factor is befuddling my cognition and stratagem.

Wretched. How wretched. I approach the obelisk with a narrowed glare, firmly pressing the cylindrical rod against its glassy yet comfortably tactile surface, magnetic-latching click: Bomb Implanted.

Regarding the newly planned in-depth analysis concerning the merits of intentional infection, I shall currently defer. Provisionally and correspondingly, I shall postpone my implantation; at the moment, I reaffirm my necessitated determination, so my explorations: Resume.

Apart from the obelisk, the room is, as according to Neo-Aegean architecture, emplaced with circular, classically marble-like though undoubtedly magnitudes stronger, pillars that bend, splitting into sophisticated yet aesthetically reunited, repetition-based boundlessness.

Hence, my career as a principled archaeologist majoring in the acquisition of modernity's mundane beauty ensues: in a fervent, honorably klepto-scopic onrush, it ever-conducts my spirit's passion. My left pinkie gyrates, tapping forth with trained millimeter-measured precision; as the obelisk glows turquoise like the Gyrian Sea, my subsequent opportunity for research reveals itself: Storage Room 02.

I stride with near-lunging haste towards the containment area, subtly indifferent to those trivialities and miscellaneous goods in my haste, though never inattentive:

"AAARRGH."

A ferocious howling, like the scanted wind instead overwhelmed by a knifing tempest during Hurricane, my chest, my spiritual center onset. Onset with an incarnate Bloodmoon—Blood. A searing, icy blade renders its bitter, gaspingly silent yet howlingly-loud pledge for absolute zero—but my blood fails to coagulate, flowing nonstop, I can't breathe.

I spit: sensuous, raw, savage in its connotation of sickly decay, I steal air; I observe with the deterioration of a skeletal Remnant whose soul is to be reclaimed by a tardy Grim Reaper the soaring spattering of my blood, which pollutes not only air but taints—it taints all orderly existence with the significance of mortality's insignificance and depravity.

It was as if Sun turned to Moon, and the moon transformed into heavenly dust. The faculties that which I had so laid bare were strewn violently, relentlessly across an uncaringly patient auction. To purchase my weakness, no, merely observe in schadenfreude sadism my pain—utterly inconsequential and meaninglessly fabricated, yet thoughts delude me with their ramifications. If I'm distracted from this physically reasonable, but abhorrently recurring plight: it served a purpose.

The intensity of my spasming, twitching heart dwindles, and despite my catastrophic crash into an abyssal dungeon, ascend. Its torture: not merely from presence but impending occurrence. My vision un-squints, the world re-magnifying and clarifying, stark contrast applying itself once that dunce abandonment ceased.

I cannot cease, what arbitrary dreams and requirements I had so synthesized, long cemented, ingrained into my conscious belief and coded inheritance. Trembling only slightly, my façade of mischievous detachment capitulates to blunt reality's scorching resolute focus.

Though the complexity of human nature renders contradiction an easy determination, contradiction is a practical heuristic: untrue. There exists no truly contradictive being, no matter what the usually credible Personality-Derivation test might announce towards the Constellation Killer—it's merely a lack of considered factors and related technologies. After all, there always exists some underlying logic, even if imperceptible, that determines their actions; indeed, the psychoanalysis of genocidal maniacs is quite enlightening.

Admittedly, I'd expected human experimentation on a large scale, but it should appear that the Genesis Corporation outdid themselves, surprising even me.

I stagger forward. Past the twisting, spasming, faintly chittering human-insect Chimera floating about in feta-cular waste and nutrient solution, while shredded skin waves like fleshly pseudopods, all across its protruding poisoned-emerald claws. I ignore the primary-schoolish girl, her eyes already an invalid, hollow pure-dark void; torturous incisions and insertions have doubtlessly run their consciousness-annihilating course along those glaringly emphasized veins that pulse in muted dormancy. Experiments 54083 and 54084.

My posture straightens, I wander forwards. In a pitch-black cylinder dubbed 54085, a small floating eyeball: bleeding slowly from its plethora of veiny outgrowths whilst it grips, feeding, upon an unknown flesh. An empty container? No, as I moved it suddenly flashed, a silhouette so illusory it may have been a sole hallucination, but I discerned a change in the glass's dust, it exists. 54086.

54087, a lonely horse, a human face. And a large Cronenburg—but so boringly overused, I am already numb to its horrific incongruity: 54088.

54089, 54090, 54092, wait.

54091; an innocent-looking adolescent floats, his countenance decorated with peaceful relaxation, but above his brows, two abnormalities: Two devilish, fiendish horns.