Characters: Subject #670189072
Summary: There is always a price to pay. #670189072 must learn the price for daring to associate with The Chancellor's favorite Patient
Status: In progress
Partly private to those working in discipline and faculty intelligence...or possibly othe troublemakers. Ping to join.
Every choice, every action, has a consequence. The choice doesn't have to be your own for you to suffer its consequence. The world had learned nothing if not that. If the world hadn't, then the ones they hounded--the Specials that sat in cold empty cells with death chips, praying for the day the chip would activate for the final time--they had learned just how much their lives could and would be ravaged by one man they never knew existed.
#000000000 had never been one to bring hope. He had always been about blissful acceptance of the inevitable ruin. The path of destruction and pain that followed his every step seemed a fitting reflection.
Before she fully realized it, #670189072, the broken soul that had once been the indomitable Wanda Maximoff, had found herself unwillingly sucked into the vortex of suffering that hounded his latest step. The apocalyptic failure of a rescue mission.
A full-bodied ache echoed through her head like two days of sledgehammers to her skull. Even when her ability was uninhibited, she did not have the luxury of instantly recovering from two days of pain so intense she could only have imagined it previously. Her throat was raw and likely bleeding still from the phantom burns and precise incisions. She would have shuddered even now at the memory of hot prongs sizzling her skin as long strips were tortuously peeled away in a morbid design, save for the pain that would accompany the act.
She had nowhere near the strength to stand, anyway. The sole reason for her upright position were the plastic handcuffs forcing her arms to hold up the entirety of her body weight. They were no doubt severely dislocated by this point.
Even as she gazed half-lidded at the unmarred skin of her arm, she considered the possibilities that they were simply decieving her for their own purposes. Perhaps to maintain her lucidity. Perhaps because they were sick and had no method to their madness.
Whatever the truth of the matter, the Head Attendee of her ward had apparently registered the fact that she had regained consciousness, and was now making his way toward her.
"Ah, Subject #670189072..." His plump cheeks wobbled into an insincere smile. "How are we feeling this morning? Thirsty?"
It hurt even thinking about talking. "I don't know anything."
He clucked disapprovingly. "Come now, #670189072....I expect better of you. You've been so passive up until now."
She closed her eyes a moment, and felt slightly nauseaus as the metallic alloy chain suspending her twisted slightly with the turn of the Earth.
"If you'd rather speak with #000000603, I can always bring him in."
She did not respond to his voice. #000000603. An unnamed child orphaned in the explosion, and presumed incapable of speech. Able to project, create, and inflict any form of pain or suffering he can imagine, without causing any physical damage to the victim.
The perfect torture. If he had any personality of desires of his own, they had been long suppressed. She had almost doubted his existance until a few days ago. She wished they had stuck with electric shock. A swollen tongue would have been an excuse not to answer their questions, at any rate.
The sound of the intercom sent a cold dread through her, as they signaled another round for the unresponsive rebel. For the woman that had been caught nearby the area that Patient Zero had attempted his escape. The woman that knew their propaganda was a lie.
She did not open her eyes--she had no need to see the cold, emotionless expression again. She focused instead on formulas, definitions, recipes, anything to distract herself a little longer before the pain would become unbearable.
Patients. Specials whose existance serves solely for scientific and technological research, due to uselessness in the field or dangerous disloyalty.
The faux joviality of the Head Atendee filtered through her thoughts, and her muscles threatened to spasm in anticipation of what would soon follow.
Subjects. Specials whose ability yeilds negligible scientific potential and little adaptability for practical usage. Generally Specials who have proven themselves safe enough not to remain locked in their cells, but not yet useful enough to allow outside of any facility.
She ground her teeth, as hot rakes scraped across her skin. It made no difference if they were not visible were one to open their eyes--she could feel the solidity, the uneven form of each needle-sharp tooth biting and hissing into her skin.
One more class. Common and uncommon all the same.
The Head gave a token offer and reassurance, but the specifics of the offer was lost to her. She was never meant to endure something like this.
Their name is rarely mentioned for superficial political reasons. Specials who have proven themselves both useful and trustworthy. Specials who are granted the privilege of walking 'free'.
A scream broke free of her grasp, and shattered her dark escape.