Beneath the Undercity, the "Body Factory" was more than just a production site—it was a nightmare of suffering, dedicated to stripping away humanity and replacing it with something far worse.
Rows upon rows of partially grown specimens, their bodies still raw and incomplete, hung from metal harnesses. Some had missing limbs, others had exposed skull plates where cybernetic implants had yet to be installed. Automated saws, scalpels, and needles worked tirelessly, slicing off "defective" tissue or replacing malfunctioning parts.
Some subjects were awake. Some screamed. Most just twitched.
Vats of bubbling amniotic fluid lined the walls, each containing a developing specimen. They floated in eerie silence, their eyes unformed, their bodies bloated with rapid-growth formulas. Tubes fed into them from the ceiling, pumping nutrients, artificial hormones, and DNA samples harvested from the drained husks nearby.
The Flesh-sculptor stood at the end of the chamber, silhouetted against the glow of a dozen holo-screens. "Ah… You arrived. Right on time." His voice was a sickly rasp, distorted by his filtration mask.
The Flesh-Sculptor tilted his head. A slow, calculated movement. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the restraints of a nearby containment pod hissed open.
R-3X was no man.
He was a towering, muscle-bound horror, his skin stretched tight over bulging sinew, riddled with surgical scars. His eyes burned with a manic, feral light, like a rabid animal trapped in an unbreakable cage. His arms twitched, fingers curling, his breathing ragged and unnatural.
And the moment he saw you—he lunged.
It happened in an instant.
One second, he was motionless. The next, he was inches from your throat. His chains jerked taut, the reinforced bindings barely holding.
"That won't do," the flesh-sculptor remarked as he pressed a button. A sharp BZZZZT! filled the air as R-3X’s entire body convulsed, his muscles locking, his breath hitching in a half-strangled snarl.
"Well, he's yours now." the flesh-sculptor turned.