The Golgotha Enterprise [Not a Grailfic~!]

[Leo Novum]

The Golgotha Enterprise

~Q~
Author's Note: I wrote this because I remember complaining about an excess of Grailfics. So I decided to use a familiar premise to create an original piece of Nasu fanfiction populated solely with original characters and only references to the Nasuworld at large. Since this premise is half-baked, I don't expect it to go anywhere anytime soon. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it.​
~Q~

I woke up. The ceiling is unfamiliar to me. My limbs are strapped to something. I can’t move them.

How did I get here? I struggle but the restraints don’t budge. Damn it.

“Somebody help!” I yelled. My voice echoed. No one answered. I tried to look around but even my head is strapped down.

There is something strange on the ceiling. It’s a large splot. A dark brown splot. What is it doing up there? I struggle some more. No luck. After a while, I gave up. Fatigue set in. I hadn’t even struggled for long.

What was I doing before I got caught. I search my memory but it’s blank. Who am I, for that matter? Another blank. A dull terror crept up on me, like a malicious spider. I have to know something about myself. All I remember is that I had something important to do. But what was it.

I hear footsteps. Someone is coming.

“Help me!” I screamed. I kept screaming until my restraints were undone. Blood ran through my body, racing to every part. The feeling was almost euphoric. I simply lay there for a few moments, just reveling in my freedom.

Somebody pushed me off whatever I was lying on. I fell down, face first.

“Oi!” I yelled and stood up, coming face to face with a woman in a threadbare trench coat. She put a finger to her lips. Wait, why? And how do I know that she was wearing a trench coat? Was my memory returning?

The woman took out a notebook, quickly scribbled something and held it out for me to read.

‘There are more of them’ More of them? More of what? I couldn’t ask that without speaking and she was moving already. Should I follow her? Why should I? I mean, she did rescue me but that doesn’t mean that I should follow her around like some hound. Wait, where am I anyways?

For the first time, I looked around. I had been so distracted that I failed to notice the obvious. I was in an operating theatre of sorts, standing in my underpants. What the fuck is going on here?

The woman in the trench coat is gone. Maybe I should have followed her. There is a door in front of me. Cautiously, I poked my head out of the room. The door opens into a corridor. There is more of that brown stuff splattered on the walls. I was hit by repugnant smell. It was the smell of a corpse that had been left to rot for a few days. My eyes watered and I briefly considered not leaving the room at all. But I steeled my mind and stepped out.

There were rooms resembling prison cells on either side of the corridor. There were twenty in total. And there was the corpse of a woman in one of them. I stood there, fascinated and horrified. She had died of an injury in the abdomen. Something had stabbed her in the stomach and emerged from her chest. The floor was covered with brown. Ants and various other insects were skittering on the floor. The corpse itself was covered with insects.

Blood, I realized. The brown stuff is blood. Spilt blood turns a darker color because it loses its water content. I can’t tell how long has it been since it was spilt. This place is well ventilated and the atmosphere is dry. Wait, why is this place dry? Wouldn’t it dry the patient’s tissue during surgery? What were these surgeons thinking? Or maybe they are trying to keep their patients comfortable?

Wait, how do I know all of this?

Any further train of thought was derailed when I heard a growling voice. I turned my head and saw a crouching figure at the other end of the corridor. It was vaguely human looking. I say vaguely because it also seemed as if all of its skin had been peeled off. It, no, he growled once again but didn’t come any closer. Had he turned feral? If so, that is quite intriguing. I had read a research paper discussing the idea that any human can be turned into a savage animal, regardless of age or ethnicity. Evolution may favor the species that can adapt most easily but aggressiveness has a big hand in ensuring survival. That is why humans, despite not counting as apex predators in the strictest sense, can be conditioned into viciousness without biological agents. Although the same applies to all omnivores, I suppose.

Deciding that I had over stayed my welcome, the humanoid got up and ran at me. Fascinating, it hasn’t completely reverted to a wild state. But then again, I suppose a few hours of conditioning can’t take away a lifetime of civilization. But this is truly intriguing! This human, who is currently trying to bite my head off, is not showing any symptoms of any disease I can name. Therefore a biological agent was probably not used. How did they nullify his mind? Lobotomy? No, that would render him a vegetable, not this active. Some sort of chemical? Some psycho-stimulant that has left the subject’s mind in a permanently feral mode?

Wait, how the fuck do I know all of this? Oh shit, I am getting attacked by a fucking psycho. He is trying to bite me.

Somebody loomed behind the psycho. He grabbed the psycho zombie from the back of his neck and hauled it off me. It was the woman with the tattered coat. Had she come back for me? The woman grabbed the psycho zombie’s face and frowned at it. The psycho zombie’s head exploded. She let go of the corpse. She turned to face me. Oh shit, am I next?

“Why didn’t you follow me?” she asked. Her voice was coarse. Probably due to chain smoking. There are yellow stains on her left hand fingers. Nicotine? Wait, she smokes with her left? But she detonated the psycho zombie’s head with her right. Is she ambidextrous? Or does she use her non-dominant hand for theatrical murder? No wait, she has to be ambidextrous. Her state of attire suggests that she doesn’t have a flair for the dramatic. I am going too far into groundless conjecture. Mere speculation will only take me so far.

Seriously, how can I do all of this?

“Do you smoke?” I asked. Shit, why did I just say that? Now she is going to think that I am some psycho too. But I had to know if she did or not. My speculation has to be verified. I am beginning to think that I did have an identity before I ended up in this insane place. I must have fucked up very, very badly. I just don’t know how badly.

“I think you should be more concerned about your clothes.” The woman in the trench coat said. Her hair is red, like poppies. Well, a shade darker than that but still it reminds me of poppies. Wait, what did she mean, clothes? Oh shit, I am naked! How could I forget that?

“I’ll lend you this.” The woman said as she offered me her trench coat. “You’ll have to get that pair of trousers off that experimental subject though.” I gratefully accepted her gift and put it on. That was better. Wait, experimental subject?

“Do you mean that psycho zombie?” I asked. Now that I notice, that zombie is wearing pants. There are rags on his torso as well, probably his shirt.

“This is a fully human test subject. He doesn’t qualify to be an undead.” The woman said. “You of all should people should know that, Dr. Tubman.” Did she just call me doctor? Was I a doctor? I mean, am I a doctor? And more to the point, how does she know that I am a doctor?

“Excuse me, do you know me?” I asked. The woman frowned.

“You are rather infamous for your rather unorthodox approach towards research, Dr. Tubman.” She answered. “That’s why ther Clock Tower has set a higher bounty on you being delivered alive.”

Wait, what? Bounty? Clock Tower? How badly did I fuck up?

“Don’t pretend that you don’t have a clue.” The woman snapped. “You are Dr. Eugene Tubman, Sealing Designate, and I am here to collect the bounty.”

Plenty. I seem to have fucked up plenty.

“Excuse me but I really don’t have a clue.” I said as I pulled off the zombie’s pants and wore them. Disgusting. “And besides,” I quickly said, trying to buy time for myself. ”If I am responsible for this mess, why would I strapped to my own operating table?”

“I don’t solve the mysteries; I simply deliver the package.” She said as she handcuffed me. My situation is not improving. I need to buy more time.
“Why was that thing here? Shouldn’t it have run off?” I asked. It made sense as well. A person would instinctively escape from any trap. It doesn’t make sense for a captive to return to its captor. Unless one factor’s in Stockholm syndrome. But considering their states of mind, we can rule that out. Maybe they have grown used to living in their cells? Like parrots or other pet birds, they keep trying to return to their cages? That’s a much more suitable explanation.

“Don’t know; don’t care.” The woman said. She pointed to a flight of stairs at the end of the corridor. “Walk.” I need to get out this shit. I walked up to the stairs and pretended to stumble on the first step. When the woman helped me to my feet, I jumped and hit her in the face with my forehead.

We both yelled in pain although she yelled louder than me. I tore up the stairs and reached the door on the top. I pushed it open and stepped outside. I was in some kind of bedroom. Maybe the house was used by me as a façade? Seems likely. After all, nobody would suspect a mundane house being a hiding place for an evil scientist and his experimental zombies. Or would they?

“Come back here, godamnit!” The woman bellowed. Shit, I have to hide. I ran out of the room. This is a large house. There’s a lot of nice stuff here. Am I rich? Must be nice to be rich. Makes me wonder where I got all that money. Did I get funding? Or did I sell my inventions? Or did I generate capital separately from my science-related activities? And is that rug Uzbekistani? No no, don’t get distracted. I have to escape. And get these handcuffs off my wrists. And remember who I am. In reverse order, if fortunate.

I exited the house and blinked in surprise. I was expecting to find myself in some bustling city or seedy metropolis. What I am looking at is just a quaint town. There is a picket fence around my house and it’s white, for fuck’s sake! Did I just stumble into Pleasantville? No wait, this is the perfect setting of seemingly innocent little town which harbors a secret evil force. Summerisle! Only there is no Christopher Lee here. Wait, the comparison is not entirely accurate here. Oh what the hell, I can’t think of anything else to compare it to beside Innsmouth.

With all the fury of hell, which is equal to that of a woman head butted in the face and having her nose broken with all the dignity of dog shit, the woman in the trench coat tackled me from behind in a maneuver that would probably be the highlight of a Saturday Night Football game. And I mean all of that as a compliment. There is a sort of magnificence in witnessing the emotions of a truly riled human being. I am not a psychologist but I will profess a certain fondness for observing humanity.

The woman had hit me so hard that we both went flying. We hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. I would probably need to get my spine realigned. Although that would mean that I’d have to visit a chiropractor. I wouldn’t be caught dead in room with a practitioner of that bullshit. Conmen lead more honest lives than them. Oh, hey there are people approaching! Maybe they can help. One of them, a black woman in a pantsuit, is opening the gate of the white picket fence.

“Ma’am, I am afraid I’ll have to ask you to get off of Doctor Tubman.” She told my captor.

“I am Agent Naria Bringsk of the CIA and I am here to arrest this dangerous individual.” My captor said, opening her wallet and flashing a card in the other woman’s face. Naria Bringsk? That’s a Clock Tower name alright. They must name they’re kids out of spite. Or perhaps they are all clinically insane. I am not even going to ask myself how I know all of that. I think I am getting the hang of amnesiac exasperation. Oh hey, her wallet's purple. That's a color you don't see everyday.

“I don’t think you understand, ma’am.” The black woman said. There was the sound of a click. Everyone around me was now aiming a gun at the woman named Naria. “Get off.”

[Rafflesiac]

There are sentences. They are too short. This makes me unable to focus on your story. Vary your sentence structure.

- - - Updated - - -

I assume that structure was intentional. You made longer sentences later on, which made this more readable; that said, not even close to enough has happened for me to be hooked.

A Sealing Designate could make for an interesting protagonist. Pity about the amnesia, though.