How long as he been here? It's hard to tell anymore. The general shape of every day is the same. In the morning he wakes up to that same fog and same pressure there always is. Just in case you try and shake your hands in the way you've learned to, to see if your powers are there. Nothing. Not the smallest wiggle of power. So another day stuck. Your hands run up and down your arms, trying to warm your skin. They keep the temperature low in here, which is hell because your body runs so hot these days. You're careful not to look while you do it, because you don't want to see the needle marks all over your arms.
Footsteps in the hall. This soon? Usually you're up for at least what feels like twenty minutes, waiting for them. Waiting for your morning breakfast, delivered into your room through a slot at the bottom of the door. They keep it simple. Toast, a bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of water. Granted, the toast is, like, half a loaf of it, the oatmeal comes in a really large container, and it's a whole liter bottle of water. If nothing else, this place was better than Frank and Mary when it came to feeding them. But of course, they had a reason to, didn't they?
You move to the move to the door as you hear people at it, ready for the meal. You only get two a day, and you'd spent the first week learning that if you don't eat, you go hungry. They weren't going to stop what they were doing just because you were being difficult. In fact, they tended to push harder. They tended to...
You shudder at the idea of it, at the memory of electricity dancing across your skin at a prod.
At least that is the easier thing to deal with. It's better than.
"Hey you mutie freak," someone says from the other side of the door, and you hear the worst possible thing. The smaller hatch in the door opens. The one midway up. "Hands."
"Dude, I haven't even eaten yet," you grumble under your breath.
Thing is, you're not going to disobey. Because if you don't, they'll use the gas, and that leaves your stomach sick and your body weak for a long time. So you move to the door and turn around, sticking your hands behind you and through the opening.
The cuffs are heavy as they put them on. Well, cuffs is a wrong word, heavy and metal and they really cover all of your hands and toward your forearms. And with them comes that same chill and fog of the air, stronger, more persistent. The same tech that keeps you from using your powers in the room is condensed in the cuffs, and when you walk away from the door your whole body feels like lead.
There isn't much of a chance to stagger more than a few paces away before the door opens and a hand descends roughly onto your shoulder. It's painful, how tightly he grips you, his fingers digging into your shoulder to leave a low ache. On someone else you think it would hurt even worse. You're durable, enough that it takes some serious bit of effort to hurt you.
"Come on, freak. Time to go."
"I haven't eaten yet," you protest louder, and it earns a sharp kick to the back of your knee. Can't help it, the joint caves and without your hands to catch you, you fall to the floor. Pain flares from your nose, sharp and immediate and demanding. Fuck, that... might be broken. Again.
"Did I tell you that you can talk back? The docs want you."
Doctors. You want to laugh at the term, because they really aren't doctors. If they were, they'd start by taking care of your nose. The guard comes to pull you up and you feel blood, hot and demanding, rolling down your face. Can taste the coppery tang of it, and all you can do is try and tilt your head back, hoping that it stops.
"Ah, you're just jealous of my good looks," you sneer, and yeah, it earns you a cuff on the back of the head. Oh well. Worth it. Even so the guy shoves you, out of your cell, out into the hall, and...
Left.
"No," you groan through the pain and the sharp flare of fear. Your arms ache with the memory of needles, your wrists chafe at the reminder of the restraints. The way your blood burns with whatever they pump you full of, your skin itches for days after, it all is more than you can handle. You don't wanna go left.
You want to go right. Right is where they have treadmills and blast rooms. Right is where they put you in a box with objectives, with targets that seem more and more human each time, with replicated cars or walls or steel doors. They watch you run for hours on end, trying to figure out how fast you are. They set obstacle after obstacle, trying to see what the limit is for your explosions. Those times they put a watch with needles on the inside on your wrist, one that injects something that makes you feel good whenever you do what they want you to do.
Right is better. Right is the best.
Left...
"No," you say again, voice harder as you try and pull away from those hands pushing you forward. "No, please, no. I'll listen to what they want. Please, can't we practice today. Please!"
You don't beg, you don't plead, that never got you anywhere in life. But you try. Because you have to try. Because each step you get pushed forward is closer. Closer with each push and you're trying to get free, if only your hands were free, if only you could get away, if only...
There's the door, and another two guards. They move without being told, and you're struggling under their hands as you shout and struggle. If only your hands were free, if only you could run. You'd go and you'd never come back. You'd make them pay when they hurt you. And they always hurt you.
The door opens and the light beyond it is bright and all you can do is sob because there's no point. There's never been a point. In the end they always win. But that doesn't stop you from screaming your throat raw. You know you will. Pain and fear and what they do?
Super Juvie | CW: Imprisonment, Violence, Implied Experimentation, Racism | ~1100 Words
Footsteps in the hall. This soon? Usually you're up for at least what feels like twenty minutes, waiting for them. Waiting for your morning breakfast, delivered into your room through a slot at the bottom of the door. They keep it simple. Toast, a bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of water. Granted, the toast is, like, half a loaf of it, the oatmeal comes in a really large container, and it's a whole liter bottle of water. If nothing else, this place was better than Frank and Mary when it came to feeding them. But of course, they had a reason to, didn't they?
You move to the move to the door as you hear people at it, ready for the meal. You only get two a day, and you'd spent the first week learning that if you don't eat, you go hungry. They weren't going to stop what they were doing just because you were being difficult. In fact, they tended to push harder. They tended to...
You shudder at the idea of it, at the memory of electricity dancing across your skin at a prod.
At least that is the easier thing to deal with. It's better than.
"Hey you mutie freak," someone says from the other side of the door, and you hear the worst possible thing. The smaller hatch in the door opens. The one midway up. "Hands."
"Dude, I haven't even eaten yet," you grumble under your breath.
Thing is, you're not going to disobey. Because if you don't, they'll use the gas, and that leaves your stomach sick and your body weak for a long time. So you move to the door and turn around, sticking your hands behind you and through the opening.
The cuffs are heavy as they put them on. Well, cuffs is a wrong word, heavy and metal and they really cover all of your hands and toward your forearms. And with them comes that same chill and fog of the air, stronger, more persistent. The same tech that keeps you from using your powers in the room is condensed in the cuffs, and when you walk away from the door your whole body feels like lead.
There isn't much of a chance to stagger more than a few paces away before the door opens and a hand descends roughly onto your shoulder. It's painful, how tightly he grips you, his fingers digging into your shoulder to leave a low ache. On someone else you think it would hurt even worse. You're durable, enough that it takes some serious bit of effort to hurt you.
"Come on, freak. Time to go."
"I haven't eaten yet," you protest louder, and it earns a sharp kick to the back of your knee. Can't help it, the joint caves and without your hands to catch you, you fall to the floor. Pain flares from your nose, sharp and immediate and demanding. Fuck, that... might be broken. Again.
"Did I tell you that you can talk back? The docs want you."
Doctors. You want to laugh at the term, because they really aren't doctors. If they were, they'd start by taking care of your nose. The guard comes to pull you up and you feel blood, hot and demanding, rolling down your face. Can taste the coppery tang of it, and all you can do is try and tilt your head back, hoping that it stops.
"Ah, you're just jealous of my good looks," you sneer, and yeah, it earns you a cuff on the back of the head. Oh well. Worth it. Even so the guy shoves you, out of your cell, out into the hall, and...
Left.
"No," you groan through the pain and the sharp flare of fear. Your arms ache with the memory of needles, your wrists chafe at the reminder of the restraints. The way your blood burns with whatever they pump you full of, your skin itches for days after, it all is more than you can handle. You don't wanna go left.
You want to go right. Right is where they have treadmills and blast rooms. Right is where they put you in a box with objectives, with targets that seem more and more human each time, with replicated cars or walls or steel doors. They watch you run for hours on end, trying to figure out how fast you are. They set obstacle after obstacle, trying to see what the limit is for your explosions. Those times they put a watch with needles on the inside on your wrist, one that injects something that makes you feel good whenever you do what they want you to do.
Right is better. Right is the best.
Left...
"No," you say again, voice harder as you try and pull away from those hands pushing you forward. "No, please, no. I'll listen to what they want. Please, can't we practice today. Please!"
You don't beg, you don't plead, that never got you anywhere in life. But you try. Because you have to try. Because each step you get pushed forward is closer. Closer with each push and you're trying to get free, if only your hands were free, if only you could get away, if only...
There's the door, and another two guards. They move without being told, and you're struggling under their hands as you shout and struggle. If only your hands were free, if only you could run. You'd go and you'd never come back. You'd make them pay when they hurt you. And they always hurt you.
The door opens and the light beyond it is bright and all you can do is sob because there's no point. There's never been a point. In the end they always win. But that doesn't stop you from screaming your throat raw. You know you will. Pain and fear and what they do?
Is there even a point in struggling?