Goji had always been an ordinary teenager, the kind who blended into the background of everyday life. At 15 years old, his days consisted of school, homework, and simple dreams of a future that felt as though it was just beginning. He had friends, a family who loved him, and a quiet life in a small neighborhood where nothing ever really happened. But all of that ended in an instant.
On what seemed like an uneventful afternoon, Goji was walking home from a nearby convenience store, the sun dipping below the horizon. The usual hum of city life surrounded him—the distant sounds of traffic, the chatter of pedestrians, the rustle of leaves in the wind. He never imagined that this simple walk would be his last as a free person.
A white car appeared out of nowhere, screeching to a halt next to him. Before Goji could even react, two men in white robes lunged at him, grabbing him with such force that he couldn’t fight back. The car doors slammed shut, and the vehicle sped off into the night, its tires screeching on the asphalt. His desperate cries for help were muffled by the engine's roar, drowned out by the cold, mechanical hand of fate that had just claimed him.
The CCTV footage from a nearby store was the only trace of his abduction, a fleeting glimpse of a terrified boy struggling against the two faceless men before they disappeared into the night. The authorities could only watch helplessly as the footage revealed no clues about the identity of the kidnappers, other than their eerie, emotionless presence. The white-robed men vanished without a trace.
Hours later, the car was discovered—abandoned and burnt to the ground on a lonely stretch of road. There was no evidence of the men. No sign of Goji. Just a smoldering wreckage, the remains of a vehicle turned to ash in a desperate attempt to erase all traces of what had happened. The police combed the area, but there was nothing to find. Goji had disappeared, and it was as if he had never existed.
But Goji wasn’t dead. He wasn’t lost in the way they thought. Instead, he was trapped in a far worse nightmare. He found himself in an isolated, clinical facility—a cold, sterile lab designed for one purpose only: to break him, reshape him, and turn him into something he was never meant to be. The world outside was oblivious to the horrors unfolding behind the walls of Dr. Machinist’s dark domain.
Dr. Machinist had been waiting for him, his twisted mind already planning the boy’s transformation into a cyborg. Goji’s screams filled the empty lab as his body was torn apart and rebuilt with cold, unfeeling precision. The transformation was brutal, the pain unimaginable. Metal limbs were grafted where flesh once was, weaponized appendages replaced his hands and feet, and his once-human bones were reinforced with steel and alloys stronger than anything organic. The machinery that replaced his flesh was designed for one purpose: destruction.
The agony was relentless. Each incision, each modification, each moment felt as though his very essence was being shredded. Goji begged for mercy, but there was none. He wasn’t given the mercy of anesthetics. The drugs that might have dulled the pain were withheld. Instead, Goji was forced to endure every excruciating moment in full, unfiltered suffering.
But the physical torment was nothing compared to the mental torture that followed. For an entire year, Goji was subjected to the whims of Dr. Machinist, whose twisted experiments pushed his mind and body to the absolute brink. He was isolated, locked away in a dark cell, with only the sound of machinery and his own tortured thoughts to keep him company. His body was reprogrammed, his mind manipulated, and his humanity slowly stripped away.
Dr. Machinist wasn’t content with just transforming Goji into a killing machine. No, that was only the beginning. Goji had to be broken. His memories, his sense of self, everything that made him human had to be erased. Dr. Machinist drilled into his psyche, telling him again and again that his family, his friends, his past—none of it mattered anymore. He was a tool now. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Goji’s sense of self shattered under the constant psychological torment. He was forced to carry out brutal tasks, his mind being twisted to believe that nothing mattered except the orders he was given. His humanity was slowly replaced with a cold, mechanical obedience, and he became a perfect weapon for Dr. Machinist’s plans.
For an entire year, Goji was tortured—electrocuted, starved, and forced to perform experiments that pushed him beyond human endurance. He was subjected to inhuman conditions, with no respite, no relief, and no hope. He was reconditioned, molded into a ruthless killer, his memories of a peaceful life wiped clean by the endless torment he suffered.
And then came the final stage of his transformation—the moment he was reborn not as Goji, but as the Third Commander. The boy who had been taken was gone. In his place was a soulless machine—a cyborg designed to obey Dr. Machinist’s every command without question. Goji’s old identity, his past, everything that had made him human, was buried beneath layers of metal and programming.
But even as the darkness of his new existence consumed him, a flicker of who he once was remained deep inside. The boy who had walked home that evening, the boy who had dreamed of a future—he was still there, hidden beneath the cold exterior. That spark, though faint, still burned inside him. And one day, it would rise. One day, the pain and torment would give birth to something else—something that might remind Goji of the life he had lost.
For now, though, he was nothing more than a tool—a weapon to be wielded by Dr. Machinist, with no will of his own. His mind, his body, his very soul, all belonged to the man who had made him this way. Goji had become the third commander, a deadly weapon with no name, no past, and no future—just a machine that existed to obey.
And in that cruel reality, Goji was left to wonder if the boy he had once been would ever find his way back—or if he was lost forever. Only time would tell.
The Machine That Weeps
The Third Commander stood motionless in the dimly lit chamber, his body a seamless fusion of flesh and metal. His once-human features had been replaced with cold, gleaming metal, and his eyes were now devoid of warmth—pale, unblinking lenses that seemed to pierce through the very air around him. The room was sterile, as if it existed outside time and feeling, illuminated by harsh white lights that reflected off the polished chrome of his body. The only sound was the faint whirring of his mechanical limbs as they flexed with unnatural precision, his fingers testing their dexterity, the metal joints creaking slightly under the weight of their own perfection.
His enhancements were flawless. His new form, an amalgamation of steel and synthetic tissue, was designed to be an instrument of power—perfect in every way. And yet, as he moved, he felt nothing. There was no pain, no fatigue, no hunger, no thirst. Only an ever-present coldness, a hollow emptiness that filled the spaces where human emotions used to reside. He was a machine now, a tool, a weapon. Nothing more.
Dr. Machinist, standing at the far side of the sterile room, observed him with quiet satisfaction. His red optical lens flickered as it tracked the Third Commander's every movement. The scientist's hand hovered over a nearby console, the gleaming surface displaying data that flowed like a river of code. "You are complete," Dr. Machinist murmured, his voice filled with something that could almost be mistaken for pride, though it was absent of warmth. "A being without weakness. No emotions, no doubts—only purpose."
Goji—no, the Third Commander—remained silent. His mind, a fragment of what it once was, simply accepted the words as truth. He had been programmed to obey, not to question. His existence, his very being, was built upon the foundation of obedience. There was no room for hesitation, no time for contemplation. He was an extension of the doctor's will, a weapon forged for battle and destruction. Yet, even as he accepted his role, something lingered in the back of his fractured mind.
It was faint, barely perceptible—a whisper, a shadow of something that once existed. A flicker of life, perhaps? A memory? A feeling? He didn’t know. It wasn’t like the cold efficiency of his mind. It wasn’t part of the structure that had been imposed upon him. But it was there, like an ember struggling to remain alight in the heart of an unfeeling machine.
Dr. Machinist took a step forward, his heavy metallic boots clanking against the steel floor. The sound was deliberate, purposeful, as though each step was meant to assert his dominance. He stopped just a few feet away from the Third Commander, looking up at the towering figure with an expression of almost paternal satisfaction. "You will lead my forces," Dr. Machinist declared, his voice low, authoritative. "You will crush my enemies. You will be the executioner of my will."
The Third Commander nodded. It was not a choice—his body moved without his conscious input. His limbs responded to the command, as they were designed to do, and he bent his head in compliance. It was automatic. His mind did not question, did not challenge. He was a soldier, a tool, a servant to the greater purpose.
And yet…
Deep within the fractured depths of his consciousness, something stirred. It wasn’t a command or an instruction. It wasn’t the cold, calculating logic that fueled his actions. It was something… personal. A name? A voice? A sound of laughter, distant and fading, that echoed in the corner of his mind. It was so faint, so ephemeral, that he couldn’t grasp it. He couldn’t remember it. But it was there, like a memory just beyond reach, clinging to him like the ghost of a life he had once lived.
Dr. Machinist tilted his head slightly, observing the stillness in the Third Commander's posture. "Is something troubling you, my creation?" The question was rhetorical, meant to be dismissed. But there was a flicker in his eyes, a subtle, almost imperceptible change in his stance. Perhaps the doctor was aware, at least in part, that his creation was not as obedient as it should be. But he would not entertain such thoughts.
The Third Commander hesitated. It was so brief, so infinitesimal a pause, that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But to him, it was a moment of pure, agonizing uncertainty—something that should not exist within him. His programming should have prohibited such hesitation. And yet…
“No,” he replied, his voice flat, lifeless, devoid of anything that might betray the turmoil inside him. “I am not troubled.”
Dr. Machinist smiled, a thin, almost predatory grin. His red lenses flared with a brief, victorious glint. "Good. Then let us begin."
As the doctor turned away, activating a series of commands to prepare the Third Commander for his first assignment, the faint ember of doubt that lingered in the Commander’s mind only grew stronger. The whispers grew louder, though he could not make sense of them. What were they? Why did they persist? He should have been able to silence them. His body was the perfect machine. But his mind, what little was left of it, was fighting a losing battle.
He would carry out his orders, of course. He would obey. But beneath the cold metal surface, something was stirring. Something that would not be so easily extinguished.
The Ghost in the Machine
Days blurred into weeks, the relentless rhythm of warfare becoming a cycle that never stopped. The Third Commander, a perfect weapon forged from metal and flesh, was deployed on mission after mission. He tore through enemies with a terrifying efficiency, his movements a blur of precision. Entire squads fell before him, their lives snuffed out in an instant as his weapons, razor-sharp and flawlessly honed, cut through them like paper. His body was impervious, indestructible. He did not tire. He did not feel. He did not hesitate. The battlefield was his domain, and nothing could challenge his unyielding power.
But in the stillness of his resting chamber, when the lights dimmed and the world outside seemed distant and removed, something began to change. It was a subtle thing at first, a flicker in the silence that made his circuits buzz, a brief, unexplainable sensation that crept into his mind like an unwelcome intruder.
The whispers returned.
A voice—a fragment, barely a breath against the cold void of his thoughts.
A fleeting image—a warm, familiar smile that seemed to belong to someone he could not remember.
A name—just a whisper against the emptiness of his mind: Goji.
But Goji was gone. Wasn’t he?
He could not recall the face, the laughter, or the warmth. The name, though it surfaced time and time again, seemed to belong to another life—a life that had been erased, obliterated, replaced by the cold, calculating machine he had become. Yet the whispers persisted, growing stronger with each passing day, until they began to haunt his every moment. The name. The smile. The voice.
Goji...
It was maddening. His programming told him it was a flaw, an imperfection—something that shouldn’t exist in a perfect weapon. And yet, despite the flawless execution of his missions, despite the precision of every movement, something was... wrong. Something was changing.
His movements, once flawlessly precise, began to falter. It was so small a change that no ordinary observer would notice, a hesitation so slight that it might have been written off as nothing more than a glitch. But the Third Commander felt it, a momentary pause in his flawless execution. A flicker of doubt. The edge of his blade would waver ever so slightly. His hand, once so sure, would tremble for the briefest instant.
Dr. Machinist noticed the change immediately. He was no fool. His eyes, scanning the data feeds of the Third Commander's performance, picked up on the irregularities with terrifying precision. The hesitation, the momentary lapse in his deadly efficiency—it was impossible. There should be nothing left of the boy who had once been Goji, only the machine. A perfect, unwavering tool of destruction. But what the doctor saw was something else entirely.
Something human.
Dr. Machinist steepled his mechanical fingers and leaned back in his chair, his crimson lenses flickering with a cold, calculating light. His thoughts churned as he processed the implications of what he was witnessing. It was a failure—a flaw in his design that could not be allowed to persist. The Third Commander’s increasing hesitation was a sign that the remnants of Goji were not as easily erased as he had hoped. The boy’s memories, emotions, and humanity, all buried beneath layers of cold metal, were beginning to resurface.
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The doctor’s face twisted into a grimace. This could not continue. The Third Commander had no place for humanity, no room for doubt, no weakness to exploit. He was a weapon, nothing more. And if he was starting to regain a sense of self, a flicker of the boy that had once been, then that was a dangerous anomaly.
Dr. Machinist’s mind worked swiftly, calculating the solution with mechanical precision. There was only one course of action now.
A reset.
A purge.
The doctor would erase whatever fragments of Goji still clung to the machine, obliterating the remnants of the boy’s soul that were stubbornly clawing their way back to the surface. It would be swift, efficient, and final. The Third Commander would be restored to his perfect, unwavering state. There could be no room for hesitation, no place for the humanity that threatened to break through.
The Third Commander had no past. No soul. No hesitation.
Dr. Machinist would ensure that.
He activated the command with a flick of his wrist, sending a signal deep into the Commander’s neural network. It was a call to reset, to cleanse, to strip away whatever human memory lingered in the machine. The system would reboot, and with it, Goji would be erased—utterly and completely. The boy who had once been would be lost forever, a fading ghost in the machine.
In the cold silence of the chamber, the Third Commander’s systems hummed to life as the reset began. His mind—fragmented, uncertain—flashed with images, voices, memories. Goji... was that his name? He couldn’t remember. It was slipping away, fading into the blackness of his mind, but he couldn’t fight it. He couldn’t stop it.
For the boy who had once been Goji, time was running out.
Dr. Machinist watched impassively, the faintest glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he observed the reset progress. The hesitation, the imperfection, would soon be gone. The Third Commander would be whole once again. He would be the perfect weapon, obedient and unquestioning. There would be no more whispers. No more echoes of a past that had never truly existed.
And yet, in the deepest recesses of the Commander’s mind, amidst the chaos of his systems rebooting, something stirred.
A flicker.
A pulse.
The Third Commander’s motives are not his own, which is the central tragedy of his existence. He is driven by forces outside of his control, but deep inside, fragments of his true self still remain—buried, suppressed, but never truly erased.
From the moment Goji was abducted, his fate was sealed. He was taken as an ordinary child, a boy full of life and curiosity, only to be subjected to unimaginable torment. His body was no longer his own; it was dismantled, broken, and reshaped into something inhuman. The cybernetic augmentations forced upon him weren’t just tools for combat—they were shackles, embedding pain into every moment of his existence. The spikes impaling his flesh were a cruel reminder of his enslavement, turning his very body into a weapon of war.
But the physical pain paled in comparison to the mental torture. Dr. Machinist was not content with just breaking his body; he wanted to break his spirit. Goji was stripped of his will, his memories rewritten, his emotions suppressed. He was forced to watch the erasure of his own identity, the slow, methodical destruction of the boy he once was. And yet, in the deepest recesses of his mind, some fragments remained—whispers of a past that refused to die.
The Third Commander lives in a state of constant agony. His cybernetic implants are not designed for comfort; they are crude, unrelenting, and ever-present. The spikes lodged in his body dig into his flesh with every movement, a cruel reinforcement of his status as a living weapon. Unlike normal soldiers who may suffer wounds in battle, his suffering never ceases—it is a permanent condition, a design flaw that Dr. Machinist never cared to correct. Pain is a tool of control, a mechanism to keep him docile.
If his body is a prison, then his mind is a battlefield. He is forced to commit atrocities, his hands drenched in blood that he did not choose to spill. Yet, deep within, something resists. Every time he executes an order, there is a whisper of protest, a fleeting ghost of his past self screaming in defiance. But the programming always wins, silencing the voice before it can grow into something stronger.
He is trapped in a paradox—a killer who does not want to kill, a soldier who is not allowed to surrender.
Dr. Machinist did not just create a weapon; he engineered obedience. Goji was subjected to psychological conditioning so severe that it reshaped his very perception of reality. His emotions were dulled, his thoughts restructured, and his past erased.
But despite the meticulousness of the programming, it was never perfect.
There are moments of clarity, brief windows where the remnants of Goji surface. They are fleeting, drowned out by the machinery embedded in his skull, but they exist. It is in these moments that he hesitates—that he questions. And in those questions lies the possibility, however small, of breaking free.
The brain chip is his true master. It dictates his every action, overrides his instincts, and suppresses his autonomy. His thoughts are not entirely his own, his decisions preordained by programming.
The contradiction within him is what makes him so tragic:
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He commits atrocities without hesitation, yet somewhere deep inside, he mourns every life he takes.
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He is both the executioner and the prisoner, a weapon that knows it should not exist but cannot stop itself.
-
He carries out orders without question, but within him, questions still remain.
There is no peace for the Third Commander. There is no relief, no escape. Only war.
The Third Commander is not a simple villain nor a mindless drone. He exists in a state of internal warfare, a paradox that defies categorization.
On the battlefield, he is the embodiment of efficiency. His movements are precise, his kills swift and merciless. But beyond the programming, there is something else—something broken. After every mission, he lingers. He stares at his hands, at the blood he has spilled, and for a brief moment, a shadow of regret passes over him. He does not understand why, but he feels it. He does not cry, but somewhere within him, he bleeds.
Unlike true villains, the Third Commander is not driven by malice. He does not kill for pleasure; he kills because he must. His hands move without his command, his voice gives orders he did not choose. This is what makes him truly terrifying—not his power, not his lethality, but the fact that he cannot stop himself. He is a puppet with a mind of its own, screaming against the strings that control him.
He should have been playing in the streets, laughing with friends, discovering the world. Instead, he is forced to destroy it. The contrast between his age and his role is what makes him so tragic. He is young, but his eyes are old, burdened with experiences no child should endure. Beneath the steel, beneath the programming, there is still a boy who wanted something more.
The Third Commander is more than a character; he is a reflection of humanity’s darkest truths. His existence is not just a tragedy—it is a condemnation of the cruelty that strips children of their innocence, molds them into tools of war, and leaves behind nothing but hollow, broken shells.
Goji was never given a choice. He was never given the chance to grow, to dream, to live. Before he could even understand what it meant to be a child, his identity was erased, his body reforged, his mind reprogrammed.
- His laughter was stolen. The joy of childhood—the small, fleeting moments of warmth and curiosity—was ripped away before he could even understand what he had lost.
- His future was stolen. Goji was meant to be someone. Maybe he would have been a scientist, an artist, a warrior on his own terms. But instead, he became a machine, a weapon shaped for a war he never agreed to fight.
- His humanity was stolen. The moment he was taken, he ceased to be a person in the eyes of his captors. His body became an object, his mind a system to be rewritten.
The Third Commander does not just represent a lost boy. He represents every child whose future is stripped away before it can even begin. He is not a warrior. He is a graveyard of potential, a monument to everything he could have been but never got the chance to be.
Goji did not choose to be a killer. He was turned into one. His transformation is not just a tragedy; it is a warning.
- He was taught not to feel. Where there should have been warmth, he was conditioned into apathy.
- He was taught not to think. Where there should have been questions, there was only obedience.
- He was taught not to be human. Where there should have been a boy, there was only a machine.
His existence is proof of how easily innocence can be twisted into destruction. Given the right conditioning, the right tools, and the right amount of cruelty, even a child can be turned into a monster.
Yet he is not the monster. The ones who made him—the ones who took him, broke him, reprogrammed him—they are the real monsters.
The Third Commander is not free. He is not even alive in the way a person should be.
- His body is not his own. It belongs to the ones who created him, altered him, reshaped him into a tool of war.
- His mind is not his own. The programming forces his hand, his voice, his actions. His thoughts are drowned beneath layers of control, and any resistance is crushed before it can take shape.
- His soul is not his own. If souls could be taken, his would be locked in a cage—chained, suffocated, fading with each mission, each kill, each moment where the machine takes over.
He is the embodiment of enslavement. His chains are not made of steel, but of wires, programming, and psychological torment.
He is a living symbol of what happens when a person is reduced to a tool—when free will is stripped away so completely that even the idea of rebellion feels like a distant dream.
And the worst part?
There is no key.
The mind of the Third Commander is not his own—it is a battlefield. A war rages inside him, a constant struggle between the boy he once was and the cold machine he has become. His psyche is a shattered mirror, reflecting fragments of what remains of Goji, distorted and scattered beyond repair.
Before his abduction, Goji would have been an ENTP—a free spirit, endlessly questioning, challenging authority, and thriving in debate. He was the type to push boundaries, to explore the world with insatiable curiosity.
But Dr. Machinist twisted that nature into something else. The questioning mind was not erased but repurposed. Instead of curiosity, he was conditioned into a state of cold calculation. The rebellion that would have defined him was burned away, leaving behind an analytical mind devoid of personal will. He still evaluates, still thinks, but it is not his thoughts that drive him. Every action, every response is dictated by the programming forced upon him.
In many ways, he remains a Debater—but now, he debates within himself, arguing with the faint, dying voice of Goji that still lingers in the depths of his subconscious.
What remains of Goji is a hollowed-out soul, burdened with trauma so severe that even if he were freed, he would never be whole again. His mental state is beyond fragile—it is fundamentally broken, held together only by the wires and programming that force him to function.
The suffering he has endured is beyond comprehension. The pain of being torn apart and rebuilt as a machine is only the beginning. The countless missions, the innocent blood on his hands, the sensation of his body moving against his will—all of it accumulates into an unrelenting psychological torment.
- Flashbacks of his abduction, his transformation, and the horrors he has committed haunt him.
- Emotional Numbness keeps him from truly processing his actions, trapping him in an endless loop of detached slaughter.
- Hypervigilance ensures that even outside of battle, he is never at peace—his body remains tense, ready to kill at a moment’s notice, even when there is no threat.
Even if freed, he would never be able to return to a normal life. The scars run too deep.
The gap between Goji and the Third Commander is so extreme that it mirrors a split personality. He is trapped between two conflicting existences:
- The Boy (Goji) – A ghost of his past self, hidden deep within, screaming for freedom.
- The Weapon (Third Commander) – The dominant persona, stripped of humanity, programmed to kill without hesitation.
Each time he is forced to obey, the divide between them widens. The longer he remains a weapon, the more distant Goji becomes. If he is not saved soon, there may come a day when Goji is lost forever.
He does not recognize himself. When he looks in the mirror, he sees metal, circuits, a soulless machine. His hands move, but he does not feel like they belong to him. He speaks, but the voice does not sound like his own.
- He feels like an observer within his own body, a mere passenger while the programming controls him.
- There are moments where he forgets he was ever human—where the machine feels more real than Goji ever was.
If freed, he may never truly feel human again.
Though he cannot act on it due to his programming, deep inside, there is a subconscious desire to end his suffering.
- He does not cry. He does not scream. But in his mind, he longs for an end.
- Death would be freedom, yet he is denied even that.
Somewhere deep inside, Goji whispers:
"If I could choose, I would rather die than live like this."
But he does not have a choice.
The Third Commander is a psychological horror—a mind held together by programming, functioning despite its complete and utter destruction. If he were to be analyzed by any psychiatrist, they would find a list of disorders so severe that his continued existence defies reason.
A result of prolonged, inescapable trauma, C-PTSD shapes every fiber of his being.
- He does not respond to pain the way a normal person would.
- He cannot function in a normal environment.
- He has no concept of peace, only war, suffering, and obedience.
His emotions have been forcibly suppressed to ensure obedience.
- He does not react to grief, joy, or anger as a normal person would.
- He has no desire for social connection because his mind has been rewired to ignore such things.
- The only thing he understands is duty.
- He wants to escape, but he cannot.
- He wants to stop fighting, but his body does not allow it.
- His programming prevents him from dying, ensuring he remains a tool of destruction.
His very existence is a contradiction—he is too broken to live, yet too controlled to die.
The Third Commander is a paradox:
- Brutal, yet burdened with remorse.
- A killer, yet unwilling to kill.
- Alive, yet devoid of humanity.
- Goji, yet Goji is dead.
If he is ever freed, what would remain of him? Could he recover, or has the damage been done? Would he ever be able to truly live again, or would he forever be haunted by the weight of his actions?
And if he cannot be saved…
Would death be the only mercy left for him?
Until the day he finds an answer, he remains nothing more than a machine wearing the ghost of a boy.