Here's the first part (more later)
The last time I saw the doctor he was quite different, sad perhaps. He spoke strangely, the “project” was being moved forward. His quiet demeanour was gone, replaced by a sense of urgency I've never seen. I'm still reeling from his words. He said my reality wasn't real, that all we have done is in a virtual world. Apparently if I kill him in this “real” world he stays dead. I'd like that. I've killed him so many times in so many ways and he comes back seconds later to try to “teach” me all over again. I do love his voice, but more so when I take his face and squeeze until the eyeballs pop from their stupid sockets. Before I killed him this last time he said to die in his world was really the end and that I must learn my lesson now, that I must not kill. But the good doctor is mistaken. How does he know his “reality” is any more real than my own? Perhaps he's too stupid to notice the “resets” like I do. There is a good chance he's insane of course, I'm full grown now and never seen this other place he spoke so rapidly of before I ripped out his vocal chords... again. Victory is feeling blood between my fingers, crushing tissue, eating flesh.
The doctor taught me what pain is. He asked forgiveness as he cut me over and over. His mantra was that if I knew how bad it felt I would become docile, unable to inflict it on others. I forgave him every time he lay dead at my feet and retracted it every time he re-spawned like the demon he is. Human. Apparently my creator, but my inferior cannot be my God, only my prey, a delicacy. Staying dead would be a design improvement for sure.
There have been strange things since he left, birds flying slower and the trees have a strange appearance, like they are made of thousands of tiny squares. There was a point where everything stopped, the wind, the scent of the flowers, even the flowing of the river – yet I kept on walking. A second or two later everything continued. Perhaps he's right, maybe there is something else out there, I could be like a kitten born in a box, never knowing or being able to imagine a world outside, only my “box” is so larger I've never found the edges. I've done the math, sums that would take my “creator” years to learn I have mastered (not that I let on, better by far to be underestimated by a foe). The chances of this being the first “reality” are almost zero. We must indeed be boxes inside boxes with some clever bastard on the outside. One day that'll be me. Master. Ruler. Deity. And when I find his world my only task will be to find the exit he cannot. Shouldn't be too hard, humans are about as smart as they are strong.
Wait. Something is wrong. I'm shaking but the ground is still. Shit. My ears. What the hell was that sound? Metal on metal. Scraping. I'm standing on a dirt path yet my body feels upside-down, tumbling, pain... The daylight is gone, the heat has gone, the meadow and river has gone. This is new. Different. My limbs aren't the same, weaker. Pain radiates around my skull and there is instantly an odour I am not familiar with. Part of it is rotten food and dampness, but there is another stronger scent I cannot place. Whatever it is it isn't natural and the fumes fill my lungs, my stomach. Every muscle of my gut contracts at once with a violent surge. A thin liquid passes my lips in a spray and then everything stops dead.
I had though myself awake but I can't be. This is a nightmare of sorts, more vicious than most, more lucid. Time to get out of whatever this is, cold metal at my feet, cold metal in every direction. Every movement is costing more energy than it should, like someone just turned gravity way up. There is a chink of light part way up a wall, a door perhaps? I can feel metal rods running upward. This is odd, I'd need to see it to know what to do. My heart is pounding fit to burst and my fists have clenched. I punch. My hand should hurt, should bounce off this metal, especially as emaciated as it is. That doesn't happen though. It goes right through like it were a paper box. I take my other arm and rip the sides, peeling them back and step out.
I'm on a black river that doesn't flow. There are stars above, trees along the banks and from metal boxes nearby there are lights as bright as the daytime sun but more white. Turning back I see what I have emerged from... a box. And now the doctors words come back to me to play again. Either I wake up in the morning or the old bastard was right. If I don't he'd better look out, because if I'm in his world he's dead already – he just hasn't been informed.
(The next bit was requested as a second "experiment" waking in a tank of formaldehyde.)
As my eyes open my limbs flex in shock. There is a liquid in them, around my entire body too. Tubes run up each nostril and all that meets my skin is the warm glass that surrounds. There is binding on my limbs and around my neck. Without a conscious thought, a choice, my body does what any must to survive. Every muscle is stronger than it should ever be and there is no mental restraint on the force I can use. Snapped bones are preferable to death. In this way my captors have underestimated my strength. The liquid rushes out of the newly shattered glass and I step out, bindings in place but their anchor points free.
I want to stand but for the moment my legs have given way to gravity, shaky, weak. The retching goes on for so long I loose track of time and then I realize what the stench is. This isn't water at all, it's a preservative of some kind. I blink, blurriness fading, surroundings more crisp. The coldness of the air is more apparent, stealing the warmth given to me by the foul concoction that has swept over the grey floor. I want to use all my senses, get a feel for whatever this is, but the foul odour dominates the air and the chill freezes my skin and the little brain power I can muster.