Door 666

[RapeU]

Teaser: Cherry leans in, panting in your ear. “You like that, don't you, Experiment 666? You like being used, every part of you.” You want to say no, or at least say nothing, but you're so desperate for relief you'd agree to anything. Betray anyone.
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Title: Door 666
Author: RapeU
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This is something set in the Door 69 universe. Someday I will probably rewrite this without significant AI involvement.

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Door 666

White is the first thing you register. It’s the ceiling, the floor, the walls, even the simple clothes on your body. The color is so total it feels like an absence of information. A narrow bed is bolted to one wall, a desk to another. A sink, a toilet, a mirror so clean it seems suspicious. Nothing here offers a clue; it’s a room designed to resist questions, as if a single stray thought might be the seed of a rebellion.

The only thing not white is the number above a door in what appears to be black paint. Door 666. You stare at it for a long time before realizing something strange. You know that number. Not the specific door. Not this room. The number itself. It is supposed to mean something bad. Something ominous. Something religious, probably. The devil, maybe. A horror movie, maybe. A joke someone would make if they were the sort of person who thought putting the number 666 on a mysterious locked door was subtle.

You know all of that.

You have no idea how you know it.

That realization sends you searching through the rest of your mind, and the results are not encouraging. You know what a door is. You know what paint is. You know what numbers are. You know how to read. You know how to speak. You know that somewhere, out there in the universe, there is a movie about a girl, lion, scarecrow, and tin man following a yellow brick road. You know pizza exists. You know dogs exist. You know traffic laws. You know what taxes are. You know thousands upon thousands of things.

But you don’t know your name.

You sit upright on the bed, moving carefully at first, as though your body might object to the sudden involvement. Your muscles obey. Your balance works. Your lungs breathe. Your heart beats with the steady confidence of something that has never once considered the philosophical implications of waking up in a body you apparently just borrowed.

The body feels familiar in the way a rental car feels familiar. You understand the basic controls. You know how to move. You know how to stand. You know where everything is. You know that a human is not supposed to have both male and female genitals, but somehow you have breasts, a cock, and a vagina. You walk to the mirror above the sink. The face staring back at you is a stranger’s face. You raise your hand. The stranger raises theirs. You frown. They frown.

There is a moment, brief but awful, when you expect memory to arrive simply because it should. A name. A childhood. A home. A voice calling you from another room. Anything. Nothing comes. You have a wide variety of knowledge, but the space where your life should be is smooth and empty. The worst part is not that something was taken from you, but that you cannot feel the wound. You have no sense of loss because you have no memory of having anything to lose. There is only absence, and even the absence feels artificial. Like maybe someone erased it from your mind.

You turn away from the mirror and begin searching the room. The bed has no loose parts. The desk has no drawers. The chair is molded from a single piece of plastic and bolted to the floor. The sink produces water. The toilet flushes. The ceiling has recessed lights protected behind thick translucent panels. The door has no handle on your side.

You then notice cameras are present in the room. One is above the door, one near the ceiling over the bed, and one in the corner opposite the sink. Someone is watching. The discovery should make you angry or scared. Instead, it makes you relieved. At least someone exists. At least the universe contains more than a white room, a mirror, and a door with a number selected by either a theologian or a comedian.

You step beneath the nearest camera and wave.

“Hello?”

Your voice has a specific quality. It is sharp, deep, nasal, authoritative, masculine, and feminine all at once. You know the voice isn’t your original one. It feels familiar, but you can’t place where you heard the voice before. The familiarity is unsettling.

“Who am I?” you ask.

The camera offers no answer.

You wait.

Still nothing.

“Fine,” you say. “What am I?”

A soft click echoes from the ceiling. A speaker activates with a faint burst of static. “Experiment Six-Six-Six behavioral observation complete,” a woman’s voice says.

It is a calm voice. Professional. The sort of voice that would announce a delayed flight or tell customers their call is important.

“Subject functioning within expected parameters.” Then the speaker clicks off.

You stare upward.

Experiment.

For some reason, that word bothers you more than the missing memories.

Time passes. You decide that time is passing because meals arrive through a slot in the door, lights dim and brighten according to some schedule, and your body eventually grows tired enough to sleep. Whether those intervals correspond to actual days is less certain. The room might be underground. It might be on a spaceship. It might be inside a mountain. It might be in New Jersey. You know New Jersey exists. You do not know why that possibility seems especially upsetting.

You talk to the cameras because there is nothing else to do. At first, you ask questions.

“Who am I?”

“Where am I?”

“Why am I here?”

“Why do I know pop culture references but not my own name?”

“Why am I number 666?”

No one answers. Eventually you start narrating your observations for the benefit of whoever is watching.

“Day whatever,” you say at a random point while laying on the bed. “I have discovered that the food paste tastes vaguely like chicken if I lie to myself hard enough. I have also discovered that the mirror is unbreakable, which feels rude but unsurprising.”

“Subject continues verbal self-stimulation behavior,” the speaker suddenly says.

You look up, offended.

“I’m talking,” you say. “That’s called talking.”

The speaker does not respond.

On what you decide is the fourth day, the door opens. A woman comes in. You realize you know her name.

Cherry.

The name appears in your mind with such certainty that for one dizzying second you think memory has returned. It has not. There is no context attached to the name. You have no idea how you know her name. You just know.

She steps through the doorway as if she belongs here, as if walking into numbered rooms full of experiments is a normal part of her day. She has red hair, sharp eyes, and her demeanor carries confidence. She looks around your room, then looks at you with the curious detachment of a person inspecting an expensive machine.

You hate that look immediately.

“Cherry,” you say.

She stops and blinks. “You know my name.”

You nod. “I know your name. Do you know mine?”

Cherry smirks and confidence returns to her face. “Your name is Experiment 666.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Cherry shrugs, “Oh well.”

Her indifference makes you mad. “Tell me the truth.”

Cherry shrugs again, “You wouldn’t believe the truth.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Cherry says, “Experiment 666 get undressed and stop talking.”

A defiant “No” is all you can manage before your body betrays you. Your own hands strip off your shirt, then your pants, leaving them in a heap on the floor. You are left standing before her, fully exposed and instantly, humiliatingly aroused.

Cherry steps closer to you, and you feel the atmosphere in the room change. “Experiment 666 stand at ease. You are allowed to talk.”

The pressure around your jaw vanishes. You feel your arms move behind your back and your legs shoulder width apart. “Wh…what are you doing,” you ask.

Cherry answers with lust in her voice “I am going to test your sexual organs.”

You gulp. Cherry gets closer and closer to you.

“Why me?”

She doesn’t answer at first and closes the gap between you. 10 feet away, 5 feet away. Her lips brush against yours. You want to pull away, but you can’t.

“It is necessary,” she says in a whisper. Her arms wrap around your neck, “but it’s also fun for me.”

She presses her lips against yours hard before you can reply. Her kiss tastes sharp, immediate, and so electric the hair rises on your arms. You try to move your limbs, but they are still pinned by Cherry’s invisible instructions. Your mouth opens to try and protest, and she takes it as invitation, tongue darting in, grazing your teeth, your palate, your own tongue. Her lips break from yours for a second, and you try to gasp in a lungful of air, but you can only pant. The rhythm of your own breathing is subtly, horrifyingly under her control. She looks you in the eye, and you feel something drop out of the bottom of your stomach.

“Experiment 666, arousal protocol. Maximum intensity. Engage.”

You do not want to respond, but every cell in your body is suddenly, humiliatingly alive with desire. Cherry slides one hand down your chest, lingering on each breast. She pinches first left nipple, then right, and the sensation is so cruelly pleasurable that you let out a yelp that echoes off the walls, higher and sharper than you thought possible from your own throat. Cherry grins against your jaw, then trails kisses down the line of your neck, pausing to suck at the spot where your pulse runs wild. You want to scream, to beg, to run a thousand miles. But instead you stand, docile and trembling, as Cherry’s fingers work both nipples until you feel moisture there. With horror, you realize Cherry is milking your breasts. Cherry ceases sucking you neck.

“Breast functions within normal parameters,” she says with a glint in her eye. “Experiment 666 lay on your bed face up.”

“No,” you whisper, but your body is already responding to the command. You march yourself to the bed like an obedient puppy, limbs moving with awkward precision. You flop backward onto the mattress. Your arms land at your sides, palms up, as if waiting for a nurse to draw blood. Your legs spread wide. Very wide. The urgency of the motion surprises you.

Cherry perches herself at the edge of the bed beside you. Her hands roam your body with a mixture of fascination and lust, as if she’s cataloging you for a museum but plans to take you home after hours. You try to muster resistance, but her last command is still echoing in your nerves. Every nerve ending has been stripped of its insulation. Every featherlight stroke on your breast, every squeeze of your thigh, broadcasts a shiver that blooms outward and multiplies until you’re a single quivering fiber of need.

She starts at your cock, grasping it delicately between thumb and forefinger, and you swoon from the contact. Somehow you know this is the first time your cock has been touched. She strokes with deft precision: a grazing flick at the tip, a teasing curl around the shaft, and a tight squeeze at the base that makes your voice fall out of your mouth in a helpless keening moan. Her other hand slides to your cunt. The shock of double sensation nearly blacks out your vision. You jerk upward, but you can’t move. You are pinned by your own nerves, by her command, by her will.

The pleasure suddenly ceases. “More,” you beg without realizing what you’re saying at first. You feel embarrassed once you realize what you said.

Cherry gives you a wicked grin. “You’ll get more, don’t worry” she says in a smooth, sexy voice. She pulls her pants down and exposes her womanhood to you. Cherry doesn't bother taking her shirt off. She climbs up, straddling your cock, and the heat of her skin sears you through every contact point. You can’t decide if you want to sob or beg. You just breathe, shallow and fast, as she slides your cock inside with obscene ease. Her cunt is scorching, greedy, and hungry. The sensation is so intense you’re sure you’ll cum instantly, but Cherry gives you a command.

“Don’t cum until I say so.”

Her command keeps you trapped in a state of acute, trembling, skin-humming readiness. You can feel that you’re on the edge and your body wants the release. She rides you with a kind of relentless, analytic glee. You want to cry out, to let the overload burst from your throat, but the command to not cum somehow makes your vocal cords tight. The only sounds you manage are helpless whimpers.

You can tell Cherry knows exactly what she’s doing. She pilots you like a toy, her hands on your bosom stimulating your nipples. You can see her own nipples are hard through her top. Cherry leans in close, making sure you can smell her sweat, her flowery shampoo, and her hunger.

The pleasure is so intense your vision blurs. You feel her cunt swallow you down, rhythmically grinding along your cock with a hungry, controlled violence. Her hands are busy. One tweaks your nipple with a precise pinch, the other slips lower, spreading your folds to rub at your clit. The dual sensation, penetration and stimulation, nearly shreds your brain. You are being fucked by Cherry’s and fucked by Cherry’s hand at the same time. It’s something that should be completely impossible, but somehow Cherry is doing it. You have no idea how.

You can’t even tell if you’re gasping or screaming, because the feedback loop of pleasure is so total that you’re not sure you remember how to breathe. Cherry’s hand on your clit is nimble, insistent, exploring you with clinical thoroughness, while her pussy milks your cock. The shock of both sensations colliding is so surreal that you lose track of where one ends and the other begins.

Cherry leans in, panting in your ear. “You like that, don't you, Experiment 666? You like being used, every part of you.” You want to say no, or at least say nothing, but you're so desperate for relief you'd agree to anything. Betray anyone. Trade your nonexistent memories for a single second of relief.

Her rhythm quickens. She slams her hips down, grinding her clit against the root of your cock, and her fingers work your clit with the focused, methodical precision of someone who has studied exactly how you break. The friction is impossible, the pressure unbearable. You’re stretched between two poles of sensation and the tension is so delicious, so pure, you think you might actually die if you don’t cum soon.

“Please,” you manage to gasp, the word torn from your throat and barely recognizable as speech. “Please, please…”

Cherry’s hair falls over her face, a wild tangle of red, and her eyes lock onto yours. You see her hunger, wild and bright.

She brings her lips to your ear and whispers, “Orgasm protocol. Cum now.”

Your whole body goes rigid, arching off the bed so hard it feels like you might snap in half. Your cock explodes inside her with a force so intense you nearly black out, and at the same moment your cunt contracts with a violence that shudders you down to your teeth. Both ends of you clench and spasm, the sensations magnifying and rebounding off each other until you’re lost in a feedback scream where nothing exists except the rip of pleasure. The pressure is so intense you nearly bite through your own tongue trying to ride the wave.

Cherry rides you through every second of it. You feel her cunt contract around your cock, milking every drop from you. Then, as you begin to fade out, you feel her fingers dip back to your other self, rubbing the oversensitive flesh of your pussy, and you realize the orgasm never stopped. Cherry gasps and shudders above you as she reaches her own peak, her inner muscles clenching down on your cock so tight it aches in a good way. The smell of sweat and sex is thick in the air, and for a moment you can’t see or hear anything but white static.

The real world fades. Cherry’s body goes slack against you, her hair a curtain of red across your chest. You feel the wetness running down your middle and pooling beneath you, the sticky mess of both your arousals mixing on the white sheets.

You are still shaking when she finally lifts off. Your muscles tremble with aftershocks, and you suck in a ragged breath, unsure if you will ever be able to move again. The command protocols in your head are silent, but you still feel like her puppet, a marionette whose strings have been cut only to discover the strings were what held you together.

“Sleep now Experiment 666,” Cherry commands breathlessly, and you have no choice but to obey.

****

Later you lie awake on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Something has changed inside you. You keep thinking how you knew Cherry’s name and how surprised she looked when you said it. And you keep thinking that part of the sexual experience was familiar somehow.

Memory does not return all at once. It flickers.

A movie theater.

Rain against a window.

A birthday cake with blue frosting.

A dog barking at a vacuum cleaner.

A woman crying in a kitchen.

A man laughing with blood on his teeth.

A child’s hand in yours.

None of the images fit together. They arrive without order, without explanation, and without any sense that they belong to the same life. They do not feel like memories so much as clips from movies you never watched, each one spliced into your mind by someone with no understanding of narrative continuity.

Then you remember Cherry. Not the Cherry that just worked you over until your body exploded, but others.

Cherry standing in a doorway.

Cherry laughing.

Cherry bored.

Cherry angry.

Cherry saying, “This one?”

Cherry saying, “No, not this one.”

Cherry saying, “What happened to the last version?”

Last version. You realize the memories are not yours. They are from somewhere else. Someone else heard them. Someone else remembered them. Someone else left them behind.

You rush to the desk, desperate to record the thoughts, but its surface is smooth and bare. Frantic, your eyes scan the room. You look at the bed, the walls, and the sink. The glint of water on steel gives you an idea. You dip a finger in and trace the words on the desk, watching them appear dark against the white before they evaporate.

CHERRY KNOWS.

VERSIONS.

LAST VERSION.

You repeat the words until you are afraid you will forget them.

The next morning, or whatever passes for morning, a tray arrives through the slot in the door. You poke around the gray food paste instead of eating it first. Hidden in the middle of the paste is a small white tablet. You look at it.

“Experiment 666 ingest stabilizer.”

“No.” You fold your arms across your chest in defiance.

“Ingest stabilizer.”

“No.”

There is a pause.

Then the voice says, “Compliance required.”

Your hand moves.

You grab the pill.

You fight your own arm so hard your muscles tremble. For one horrible second you think your body will win again, but something catches inside you, some stubborn piece of will, and your hand freezes halfway to your mouth.

“No,” you say through clenched teeth.

The pill slips from your fingers and bounces across the floor.

The speaker remains silent.

You laugh, breathless and shaky.

“Subject displays emerging override resistance,” the voice says after several seconds.

You look directly at the camera.

“Subject displays annoyance.”

No one replies.

Cherry enters a few minutes later with two technicians. One technician was thin and wearing a white coat with a badge clipped to the pocket. His fingers keep adjusting the badge every few seconds as though he forgets where it is. The other technician is older, with gray hair and dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks like a man who has not slept properly in years and no longer considers it a problem. He has a device that looks like a phone in his hands

Cherry enters the room last. That tells you something. She likes being seen as the one in control, but she also likes other people being disposable first.

“Routine scan,” the younger technician says.

“What’s your name?”

He looks startled. “That isn’t relevant.”

“That means you have one.”

Cherry smiles. “Don’t indulge it.”

“Rude,” you frown.

The older technician raises the device in his hands and begins scanning you from across the room.

You look at Cherry. “What are you doing now?”

She replies in a bored voice, “You resisted a stabilizer. The deviation needs correction.”

“Sounds more like a growth opportunity,” you quip.

Cherry ignores that and glances toward the older technician. “Can it be reset without compromising the trial?”

She just called you it again. You hear the word and feel something cold move through you.

The older technician taps on his device. “Not recommended yet. Memory residue is part of the point.”

“The point is function.” Cherry says

“The point is sustainable function,” the younger technician says quietly.

Cherry turns to him.

The young one immediately goes still, color draining from his face.

You ask, “What does sustainable function mean?”

“No one is talking to you,” Cherry says dismissively.

“I asked,” you insist.

“You are not a participant in policy discussions,” Cherry says.

“I’m the policy.”

For a moment, the older technician looks amused. The younger one's eyes widen. Cherry just looks annoyed.

“You are Project Self-Sustaining Humanity.”

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

You stare at her. “That’s completely insane!”

Cherry shrugs, “It’s the truth. Believe it or don’t. I don’t care.” Cherry watches your reaction like she expected either panic or awe and is annoyed to receive neither.

“Am I human?” you ask.

The older technician answers before Cherry or the younger one can. “Genetically compatible.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“It is the best answer I can give you.”

“Am I one person?”

Cherry steps closer, and her voice drops into something almost intimate, except intimacy requires respect and she has brought technicians. “You are not one person. You are not quite many, either. You are the best parts of failed attempts, layered together until something useful emerged.”

Failed attempts.

Layered.

Useful.

You think of the flickering memories. The birthday cake. The rain. The dog. Cherry in doorways. Cherry’s voice asking what happened to the last version.

“How many?” you ask.

Cherry gives you a look that says she knows exactly what you mean and intends not to answer.

“How many versions? 666? More?”

“That information is classified and would destabilize you,” the older technician says.

“It’s already destabilized,” Cherry points out. “That’s what you two are here for, to see if you can fix it.”

“You keep calling me it. That's rude,” you say.

Cherry looks at you.

You smile without meaning it.

“Why not just call me Legion? Like in the Bible. I’m already under door 666, and many have made me into one so it completely fits.”

Her expression hardens. “Administer the next stabilizer by injection. Immediately.”

Something in you goes very still. It isn’t a thought, but an image: a desperate scramble for the door, the soft impact against a padded suit, a guard’s careful grip. A memory of capture, not damage. They won’t break their investment.

You are also not alone.

Everyone reaches for you. You move first. Not well. Not gracefully. You are not suddenly a martial artist. Your body does not suddenly become a weapon. You are awkward, frightened, barefoot, and furious. But you are also unexpected, and the facility has made the mistake of building something expensive enough that no one wants to be the person who breaks it.

The older technician is closest, his movements weary. You don't think, you just move, slamming your shoulder into him. He yelps and the scanner clatters to the floor. You run to the younger one. The younger one shrieks as you grab his badge and tear it from the cord around his neck.

“Do not damage Experiment 666,” the speaker clicks on. Everyone freezes except you.

You laugh once, sharp and breathless. “I am extremely expensive. And call me Legion!”

Cherry lunges for the badge. You throw it as hard as you can. It skids beyond reach under the bed. The younger technician swears.

Cherry’s face is inches from yours now. “You think this is clever?”

“I think it is annoying,” you reply.

“You don’t understand anything,” she huffs.

“I understand you people solve impossible biological problems and then get defeated by furniture.”

For half a second, you think she might hit you. Instead, she turns to the older technician. “Sedate it.”

The speaker clicks. “Sedation requires approval.”

“For the last time call me Legion not it. Quit being rude,” you say.

Cherry looks up, ignoring you. “Override. Patron C-17.”

Patron C-17.

Another piece clicks into place, not as a thought but as a surge of foreign data. One of you heard that designation spoken over an intercom. Another saw it stamped on a digital file. A third saw Cherry’s name beside columns marked RATING, CONTINUATION, TERMINATION.

“You’ve done this before,” you say.

Cherry does not look at you.

“You’ve met previous versions,” you whisper.

“Sedation. Now” she repeats.

Something pokes your bottom. You realize Cherry told the older technician to sedate you as a diversion. You let out a growl at being easily distracted and feel your limbs get heavy. The two technicians drag you to the bed. Cherry lifts the mattress and pulls straps from underneath it. She watches as they secure you. Cherry looks angry, but beneath that anger is something better. Concern because you have become a problem.

****

After they leave, the room remains locked down. The straps retract after an hour, or several hours, or however long the facility decides is enough time for a person to feel reminded of their place. You do not sleep. You replay everything you can. More memories come to you.

Patron C-17.

Project Self-Sustaining Humanity.

Previous trials.

Memory residue.

As you cycle through memories, the door to your room opens by mistake.

At least, you think it is a mistake. The lock releases, the door slides halfway open, then stops. A yellow light flashes above it. Somewhere distant, an alarm chirps twice and dies.

No voice commands you to stay. No one is outside. So you move out of the room. Beyond the room is a hallway. For a few seconds you do not move. Something should be different about you now, you think. Some internal mechanism should have shifted, clicked into a new position. Instead, there is a corridor lined with numbered doors and lit by strips of pale blue light.

The hallway stretches in both directions farther than you can see. Doors line both walls. Some have small observation windows. Some are opaque. Some have lights above them, red or green or yellow. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and warm electronics.

Door 665 is to your left.

Door 667 is to your right.

There are others here. Experiments like you. You walk because nobody tells you not to. Your bare feet are silent against the floor. You pass Door 664. Door 663. Your own door, 666, remains open behind you like a mouth waiting to swallow you again. You turn toward the higher numbers, guided by a flicker of a memory that isn't yours: this corridor spills into an intersection past Door 699.

Door 667 has a green light. The observation window is clear, but the room beyond is shrouded in clouds.

Door 668 has no window.

Door 669 has a warning label printed in three languages. You can read two of them and somehow understand the third well enough to know it says something about not feeding after midnight, which is either extremely specific or someone’s idea of a joke. There is also a handwritten note taped to the wall.

DO NOT ENGAGE WITH FLATTERY.

You stop long enough to wonder what happened there, then continue. The other doors do not have windows next to them or further instructions. You walk past door 699 and come to an an intersection. A sign hangs from the ceiling.

EXPERIMENTAL REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEMS: 600-699

Below that, in smaller letters:

AUTHORIZED OBSERVERS ONLY

You read the sign three times.

Experimental reproductive systems. Cherry told you the truth.

You keep walking until you come to an area with multiple signs.

ENHANCEMENT TRIALS: 100-199

FERTILITY AND LOW-RISK VARIATION: 200-299

COMPATIBILITY STUDIES: 300-399

MEMORY AND IDENTITY: 500-599

REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEMS: 600-699

It takes you a moment to realize the 400 wing isn’t listed. You decide to not dwell on that mystery and go towards the 100 wing. Perhaps the 100 wing will lead you somewhere outside the facility. Part of you also wonders where everyone is and why your door randomly opened.

When you reach the 100 wing you see a corridor with no label, only a security gate and a red light.

You do not go that way.

You tell yourself it is because you are being practical. You are unarmed, barefoot, and still technically an expensive hallway accident. But the truth is simpler and uglier. Something about that wing feels different. Heavier. Not experimental in the absurd bureaucratic sense, but cruel in a more ordinary way. That direction is new ground. Uncharted. Wrong.

As you walk down the 100 wing you see more ordinary doors. Then you pass Door 69. The number catches your attention for obvious reasons, because some childish part of your brain exists despite having no childhood. Then you see the red light above it.

The observation window is opaque, but not dark. Something moves behind it. A shadow. A shape. A hand perhaps, pressed briefly against the glass from the other side. You step closer. The speaker above the door crackles, but only static comes through. There is an interface beside the door with several buttons. Red. Green. White. Black. You recognize the layout without knowing why.

A memory flickers.

Cherry standing here.

Cherry pressing the red button.

A hologram appearing.

Cherry smiling.

Then the memory cuts out.

You step back.

Door 69 remains closed.

You know someone is inside that room. You know Cherry has stood here before. You know enough to dislike the conclusions your mind is drawing.

“You are not supposed to be out here.”

You whirl around to find Cherry staring at you. “Ok,” you say raising your hands, “spring the trap and get it over with.”

Cherry walks toward you with unhurried confidence. “Go back to your room. Nothing good will happen to you out here.” She says it like she’s giving you a choice instead of a command.

You brace one hand against the wall and force yourself still.

Cherry notices. Her eyes narrow. “There is nothing here for you to gain.”

“Disagree,” you say “Right now I’m free and making my own choices instead of listening to you.”

Cherry shakes her head, “you are a test learning how the laboratory works. That does not make you free. It makes you a more interesting test than the other versions.”

“What happened to the previous versions?”

“They failed.”

“Did they?”

She answers too quickly. “Yes.”

A flicker in her eyes tells you to push. You ask, “Or did they just become inconvenient?”

Cherry smiles. “You don’t understand what this project cost,” she says.

“Of course not because you won’t let me.”

“People have died trying to make you possible.”

“Mostly me, from what I can tell.”

Her smile vanishes.

You step closer.

“How many versions?”

Cherry doesn't answer.

“How many times did you stand in front of my door?”

No answer.

“How many times did I know your name?”

Cherry’s jaw tightens. “You’re coming with me,” she says.

“No.”

“This is not a request.”

“It never is with you.”

She grabs your wrist. The moment her skin touches yours, a flood of memories surge.

Cherry at Door 666.

Cherry at Door 666 again.

Cherry younger.

Cherry laughing.

Cherry bored.

Cherry reviewing a hologram.

Cherry saying, “This one seems promising.”

Cherry saying, “Reset it.”

Cherry saying, “No, the attachment response is useful. Leave that in.”

Cherry saying, “If it remembers me, we’ll know the transfer worked.”

You stagger back.

Cherry releases you.

“You were a test pattern,” you say. “You wanted me to remember you. Yet you were surprised when I did.”

Her expression hardens. “The others did not remember. You were the test.”

“No,” you say. “I was the result.” In a flash more memories come to you.

A version of you standing in Room 666, whispering a name they invented for themselves.

Another scratching words beneath the bed.

Another refusing a pill.

Another hearing Cherry laugh.

Another dying while someone said data transfer complete.

Another watching Cherry open a door and the order of which buttons to push.

Hundreds of almost-yous, all failed, all terminated, all reduced to residue.

Cherry is staring at you. “You should be back in your room.”

“I should be free.”

You go in the opposite direction to door 70 and press a sequence of buttons. A hidden door in the wall opens. For one beautiful second, Cherry looks genuinely perplexed.

“You opened the wrong door,” she laughs.

“No,” you say. “I opened a door.”

You lunge, not at her, but past her, aiming for the gap. She moves to block you, a flicker of annoyance on her face, and you pivot, slamming your shoulder into her hip. It’s a clumsy, desperate impact. She stumbles, surprised by the force of it, her hand flying out to brace against the wall. For a second, the access card clipped to her belt is exposed. Your hand snatches it as you scramble into the maintenance corridor. You run barefoot over cold concrete, the smell of dust and hot metal filling your lungs, driven only by the knowledge that away is better than back.

After a few moments you hear Cherry scream orders from behind you. She sounds furious.

“Seal the service elevators!”

“Do not damage it!”

“Cut it off!”

It.

Still it. They still won’t call you Legion.

The corridor splits.

You choose left because a previous version chose right and died. You do not know how you know that until your body is already moving. Left leads to stairs. You ascend. The speaker system activates.

“Experiment 666, return to containment.”

Your knees buckle and you catch the railing.

“No.”

“Return to containment.”

You take another step up. Your muscles shake. Your jaw aches from clenching it. The command presses into your body like gravity, like law, like god. Then you remember something absurd.

Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father.

The thought is so stupid and so human that you laugh.

You know stories.

You know jokes.

You know fear.

You know the devil number.

You know rain, even if you have never stood in it.

You know enough to understand that a person is not made from a clean origin. A person is made from scraps, habits, stolen lines, bad jokes, reflexes, choices, and the stubborn refusal to be only what someone else wrote in a file.

You take another step.

The command weakens.

Then another, and another, each step a victory against the pressure in your skull.

By the time you reach the top, you are still shaking, but you are moving because you chose to.

The service corridor opens into a loading area. For one impossible second you smell outside air. Not much of it. Just a hint through vents or seals or some distant opening. Dust. Rain. Oil. Something alive.

The smell nearly breaks you.

You know rain.

You do not remember standing in it.

You want to.

A security door blocks the exit, a panel beside it asking for identity. Your hand is already moving, pressing Cherry’s stolen card against the reader. The memory of snatching it comes in a flash. You remember the clumsy impact, her surprised grunt, and the cool plastic against your fingers. It was an instinct that wasn’t entirely your own.

Patron C-17 verified. The panel beeps as the security door opens to the outside. You see rain. Cold, ordinary, indifferent rain. You step outside and let the rain fall on your face, your hair, your hands. It soaks the thin facility clothing and chills your skin. It smells like wet earth and asphalt and a world that existed before you woke up and will continue existing whether or not anyone ever decides you are a person. The security door shuts behind you.

You laugh. Then you cry. Then you do both badly enough that the sound barely seems human. You are standing behind a low concrete building in the middle of a fenced service yard. Beyond the fence are trees. Beyond the trees, maybe a road. Beyond the road, everything.

The facility alarm is muffled but still audible below you. You could run. You should run.

You have no name, no shoes, no money, no past, no idea where this place is, and a body designed by people who thought human reproduction needed a hostile redesign. Your survival odds outside may be terrible, but terrible is better than guaranteed termination.

Then you think of Door 69.

You think of the wing below 100.

You think of Door 667 and how you couldn't see in it.

You think of the files you have not seen, the versions you have only felt, the people behind doors whose names have been replaced by numbers because numbers are easier to store.

You look at the access card in your hand. Patron C-17.

Cherry’s power.

Cherry’s arrogance.

Cherry’s mistake.

The security door behind you opens. Cherry stands inside, surrounded by flashing red light. Her hair is damp with sweat. Her face is twisted with fury, but beneath it there is something else now. She's afraid of what you might do.

“You need to come back,” she says.

“No.”

“You can’t survive out here,” she says.

“Probably not.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know doors,” you say.

Cherry takes one step forward. You take one step back into the rain.

“You were made for one purpose,” she says.

“No,” you say. “I was made many times for one purpose.” You hold up her card. “This time I’m doing something else.”

Cherry’s eyes drop to the card. Her eyes widen. “What are you going to do?” she asks.

You look at the keycard in your hand. It feels like the first thing you have ever taken. “I’m going to open doors,” you say.

For one beautiful second, Cherry looks afraid of you. Then her expression changes into a grin.

You understand too late that she pretended to look afraid. She distracted you. Again. Something sharp bites into the side of your neck. A needle.

Your vision narrows to a bright, humming point. Your hand jerks toward your neck, but your fingers barely respond. The keycard slips from your grip and clatters against the wet concrete. Cherry steps forward and reclaims it.

You try to speak.

Nothing comes out.

The rain blurs. Cherry blurs. The open door behind her becomes a smear of red light and shadow. Cherry catches you before you hit the ground. For the first time since you met her, she does not look angry. She looks fascinated.

“You really did remember,” she says softly. “All of you.”

Your mouth moves, forming a sound that isn't a word. A protest, a name, a noise from a throat that no longer obeys. A ghost inside you tries to speak for all the others.

As Cherry drags you back through the security door, you see the outside world shrinking behind you. Trees. Fence. Gray sky. Rain. Things you knew existed. Things you almost touched.

You're dragged back to a white room. The last thing you see before the door closes is the number painted above the door.

Not 666.

667

For one impossible second, you remember who Version One was.

Then you forget Version One again, completely all at once, as everything goes black.

-------------------------------------------------------------

[Shocker]

I’m afraid that second person pov is still not appealing at all for me. You are working here with an interesting premise, knowing pizza exists means not all is lost, but I can’t engage with the story like I would like to.

[RapeU]

I’m afraid that second person pov is still not appealing at all for me. You are working here with an interesting premise, knowing pizza exists means not all is lost, but I can’t engage with the story like I would like to.

Yeah, futanari was a risk. We'll see if the risk pays off.

My original plan was to have the protagonist on a St. Andrew's Cross looking in a mirror while the protagonist's cock fucked the protagonist's pussy. Then Cherry enters, collects leftover body juice samples, then has her way with the protagonist. Maybe that would have been a better story. Maybe not. We'll probably never know unless I'm struck with inspiration or someone else decides to write something like that.

Are you going to enter the contest @Shocker? If you win the contest you have a realistic chance of becoming the Season Pass winner depending on how this entry does since we only count the top 5 points regardless of whether the 6th one was a 0 or a 25.

[Shocker]

Are you going to enter the contest @Shocker? If you win the contest you have a realistic chance of becoming the Season Pass winner depending on how this entry does since we only count the top 5 points regardless of whether the 6th one was a 0 or a 25.

I have no plans of entering, as I said 2nd person doesn’t really work for me.

[TromboneDalek]

Fascinated by the original plan you mentioned in the comments and would enjoy reading that. Absolutely loved that the subject wanted to be called Legion and kept being annoyed when they wouldn’t. The small details about Skywalker and rain makes a huge difference in placing me in the mind of the main character.

[RapeU]

Fascinated by the original plan you mentioned in the comments and would enjoy reading that.

I'd enjoy reading it too. Maybe writing it if I could find the words to match the pictures in my head. Futanari isn't really my thing though, and it was difficult to get myself into the moment. Which is why the sexual activity isn't prominent throughout the story. The original plan was to be about 50/50. Half bondage/sex and half Sci-Fi craziness. All completely unhinged.

[TromboneDalek]

Oooooo “half bondage/sex and half Sci-Fi craziness. All completely unhinged.” Is right up my alley. I read that comment and immediately though “yes please”

(Apologies on formatting as I am on my phone and still getting used to it. I know there is the quote button but I got overwhelmed trying to correctly format.)

[sinfulwords]

Well this was certainly interesting. The sex parts definitely took a back seat which is atypical for this forum they were hot while they lasted even tho hermaphrodite stuff isn’t quite my jam. I really liked how experiment 666, I mean Legion , was unable to resist Cherry’s commands. I found Legions desire to say no juxtaposed with the inability to follow through on such rebellions highly alluring

I liked Legion a lot. Their sarcastic snark was super fun to read in tandem with Cherry’s cold clinical personality. I liked the way the two characters played off each other.

I found myself eager to learn the mystery surrounding all of Legion’s confusions too. Self-sustaining humanity was NOT on my radar for the answer I actually had trouble coming up with hypothesis which speaks volumes to the creativity aspect here

From the few stories I’ve read of yours so far the writing has been really good, and this piece is no exception. It leaves very little to the imagination save the places you obviously are trying to construct ambiguity. U have a nice balance between thoughtful prose and fun natural flowing dialogue that I enjoy as a reader

Well done fam! Very creative piece