Chapter Text
The white coats watch him through the bars of his cage. They’re waiting, he knows. Waiting for him to move, to try something again. His back still stings from the punishment of his latest escape attempt.
Although ‘escape’ isn’t quite the word he’d use. He’d made it all the way to an inactive turret and shoved his arm inside; trying to access the eco inside of it to blow it up in what ended in yet another failed attempt to kill himself.
Ten lashings for every soldier he’d taken out along the way.
He’d blacked out to the crack of the whip.
He rolls his sore shoulders and rests his head back on his knees. The clinking of the chain draws an eye his way, but he doesn’t do more, so the eyes leave again.
He hates the chain.
It stretches from beyond the door of his cage to the metal ring on his neck. He feels the ring's sharp talons digging with every movement, every breath, every dry swallow; and he knows what they do. He hates that it never comes off.
A guard stands by the door. There’s always a guard now. Maybe there always was, but he doesn’t remember seeing them before The Cage. Always watching. Rifle raised at any movement he makes. And always, always he prays, this is when the guard pulls the trigger. This is when they slip up and finally let him fall through the veil. The guard doesn’t fire. Never does. Hands always just too far to do so by mistake. He hates them for it.
A door hisses open, and he hates that he flinches at it. A practiced greeting and careful steps bring closer the thing he hates most.
“Good morning, freak.”
He hates that voice. Hates the sing-song smoothness, and everything it promises. Hates the way those solid steps make him curl ever tighter. He especially hates seeing those piercing yellow eyes light up with glee the closer they get.
His fingers twitch at the vain hope to tear that grinning face to shreds. The shackles keep them in place behind him, and the steady throb of his raw fingertips, the only reminder that he can’t.
“Still got some fight in you, eh? Good.” His Handler croons at his half-hearted glare. “We’ll see how you do today. And if you’re good, there might be a treat in it for you.”
He narrows his eyes. He already knows there will be no ‘treat’ because he will never do what this man wants of him.
Because disobeying will only hasten his end.
He hopes.
The cage door opens with a clatter, the chain already in that rough gloved hand. It’s pulled gently at first with a command, ‘Come.’
He won’t. Even if his legs hadn’t grown dead stiff, pulled so tightly to his chest, he wouldn’t.
His handler groans something that is not a growl and yanks the chain, causing him to tumble forward and out of his cage and onto the floor. There is a hand tangled in his matted locks before his head can hit the ground.
“Let’s see-” The voice no longer singing, he doesn’t know if that’s better, “-if you remember how to kneel. ”
He does remember. Lost count of how often he’s been forced into the position. Body roughly moved by impossibly large hands that care nothing for their bruising grip. And still, he does not move as he’s being told-commanded. Instead, he sits; held up only by the hand in his hair. He wonders briefly if obeying any command would change what he knows is coming.
Probably not.
His handler growls again and yanks him upward. His legs are stiff and shaky, but they find the ground solid enough to support him still. The chain is yanked again, and he is forced to follow. Another chain rattles between his feet. The guard at the door watches, his rifle raised. Aimed at him.
Now! He begs. Shoot me! Kill me now!
The guard does not fire.
They never do.
More guards grab an arm on either side to…’help’ him along. He knows where they’re going. He can see it from the cage. He watches it; and waits between each awful visit. Cursing its very being.
He doesn’t know which he hates most. The Cage, his handler…or the Chair…
The Cage is uncomfortably small. Barely enough room to sit up straight and even less to lay down comfortably, if he ever did. It sits on a low table far away from any wall. Staying too close to the bars just lets any of the white coats grab or jab or poke him whenever they want, and he hates that there’s nowhere to hide from their grabbing…searching hands.
His handler, his jailer, his mortal enemy if ever he had one, is a different kind of awful. While the white coats talk around him, his handler talks at him. Like he’s a mindess animal that can be trained to heel at their command. Like the only motivation he needs to obey is the promise of pain otherwise. Like he hasn’t already seen through all the lies and empty promises of ‘longer breaks’ or ‘extra rations.’ Part of him wonders if the man really, honestly and truly believes he is that stupid.
Probably…
But the Chair…he shudders every step closer. The Chair does not lie. It does not deceive or trick or delay. It promises pain. It delivers pain. Only here are his hands uncuffed; only to be stretched far far too far apart, pinned by metal so rough and ragged he’s surprised his hands are still attached. Three long, sharp, tainted needles hang above in waiting as he’s strapped down. They hum and spin when they’re brought to life and move slowly slowly down until they pierce through his chest.
The rest is agony.
Someone told him once that Dark Eco was chaos incarnate. Unpredictable. Violent. It cannot be contained. It cannot be controlled. And it will alter anything and everything it touches.
With every passing moment, more sludge than Eco, being pumped through those needles and into his body, he believes it. Has believed it. Below the static, he feels it moving. Travelling every which way, forcing his body to move unnaturally in every effort to attack, to flee, to stay, to tear his heart out, if only to be free from the prison of his own skin.
Distantly, he hears the dying cries of some pitiful creature. Part of him hopes it can find rest.
He knows it will not.
It stops all at once. The Eco is released, the needles removed, and all movement from the machine above folds neatly into a smooth metal dome.
“Eco injection cycle complete. Life signs: nominal and unchanged.”
He’s only dimly aware of the machine’s voice announcing the end of this session. He can still feel the Eco within him continue to make him twitch and thrash; all the while, he’s trying and failing to catch his breath. If he can just control his breathing. If he can just keep breathing, his heart will stop racing. If his heart can stop racing, he can channel this new Eco in with the rest of the muck instead of the old and the new fighting to tear through every piece of him. He can do it. He’s done it before. He’s had to. It’s all he can do. He just needs to-
-SNAP-
He jerks back to reality.
-SNAP-
He’s still in the Chair.
-SNAP-
His hands too far away to stop it.
-SNAP-
Fingers already held by the rough gloved hands of his handler.
-SNAP-
As each one is pulled.
-SNAP-
And forced into the jaws of a tool.
-SNAP-
That takes each and every newly grown claw.
-SNAP-
And cuts it down.
-SNAP-
He should be used to it.
-SNAP-
“Make a note: Following exposure, subject continues to regrow altered keratin in the form of claws. Maintained dark colouration. Length measured at forty millimeters from the knuckle. Required force to trim sits at an average of nine fifteen. Will need to continue using the clipping machine for all future sessions.”
His teeth easily find their way to the tiny grooves he’s worn into the pipe between them. He chews with every interest of trading it instead for the throat of his handler.
“Now then…” the yellow eyes gaze down at him. “Let’s give this another go, shall we? Who knows? If you do well, I might be feeling generous enough to forget about that earlier…performance.”
He only glares at the man that is not a man. No man would hide behind eyes so sharp, grin so crooked, voice so falsely sweet. This man, he’s certain, is no man, but a singing monster that feasts on harm and drinks sorrow. Growing fat on his solitude by its hand.
It’s become a sick routine.
Cage.
Commands.
Chair.
More commands.
Back to the Cage.
Over.
And over.
And over and over and over.
The spell only broken by the rare occasions they decide he needs a hosing, or a shave, or a bag of goop -he only loosely understands is supposed to be food - is attached to the straw in his nose.
The water always cold. The razor always just too careful. The bag never emptied.
At least they’re not making him fight anymore.
He remembers Fighting. Constant. Constant fighting until his lungs were screaming and his limbs refused to move; and still he kept fighting. Kept going on and on and on until even he, in all his stubbornness, gave in to sleep and collapsed.
He misses sleep.
He misses the peace and the quiet that came with it. Misses being able to do so without eyes always watching. Misses the rest, the true rest, that it used to bring.
He wonders, now and then, if he will ever sleep again.
He’s so tired.
If he sits just right, head on his knees, pulls his legs just close enough to keep warm, and forces his shoulders to relax, he can convince himself to drift away, just a little. ‘Meditation.’ That’s what it’s called, he thinks. Well…he doesn’t think. He just…drifts. Lets himself float somewhere between where he wants to be and where he is.
The only focus is the movement of Eco within him; and shifting it to match his ragged breathing. Eventually, they both settle. And by then, the white coats are back from wherever they go, or the guard changes out, or the Singing Monster brings the Man with the Metal Face to see him.
Metal Face never looks at him, never talks to or at him, never commands him, never stays, never touches the Cage, never does anything but yell and command the white coats and his handler.
“My lord, the subject is resilient, but I don’t- we’re not certain he’ll survive another examination.”
He hates Metal Face.
“I don’t care if it survives, I want RESULTS! ”
Because it’s only by their will that he was still alive.
“P-perhaps the external mutations are more gradual…”
And it terrifies him.
“We'll get an abdominal exam scheduled right away.”
He hates the white coats.
They make the guards carry him to the Chair. They have his handler tie him down with all the stiff leather straps that only get used during ‘exams.’ They wait until the straps over his eyes and under his chin are in place before finally, finally, stepping forward and touching him themselves wearing layers upon layers of smooth clean colourful gloves. They hold tools that glow against the sickly green lights.
Hold them against him.
Cut him open.
The pain is dulled in the fog of sleeplessness. Maybe he’s finally getting used to it. He doesn’t know how he feels it at all.
Smooth gloved hands split the skin of his chest to reveal something he knows they’re looking for. He knows they put it there, somehow still remembers waking to find it. The little acid nugget in his chest. He knows it used to be much smaller because they talk about how much it’s changed.
The Dark Eco crystal that was once the size of his thumb had grown and merged to his ribcage so completely that they were one in the same.
The white coats are excited.
One is encouraged to cut through his arm to see just how far it’s expanded. There’s barely more than skin in the way. They get to bone within moments. No more crystals past his chest, but they say his bones are pure black.
Hands are inside him. He feels them against his lungs, touching his heart, grabbing his liver - which is also pure black, but apparently still fine.
They take their tools. Their sharp, sharp knives… and they cut.
And they cut.
And they pull.
And they grab.
And they take.
And they take.
And they take.
And still they search and poke and pull and find new things they think again to take.
He drifts. Waits. Closes his eyes. Waits longer. Waits for that comfortable darkness to finally take him away. Away. Far far away from the Chair, the white coats, the Cage, the Singing Monster, the Metal Face and all their guards.
He waits for sleep. Waits for death.
And still….
And still…
He’s in the cage when he comes back to himself. Laying curled on his side and somehow taking up the entire bottom of it. He meets the smiling yellow eyes that grin as they and he both realize.
He survived.
He doesn’t know how. There’s a hollowness inside of him where many somethings once were. Somehow. Somehow, they made him live.
The cage is opened. The chain pulled by rough gloved hands.
“Get out, Freak! I want to see you moving.”
He glances at that crooked grin. The command was to move. He will not. He closes his eyes, his only defense.
He’s so tired.
The ring on his neck springs to life. His body moves without his will. Jaw clenched tight around the pipe. Hands contorting in impossible shapes. Every scar and scab on his back and front sings from the inside out.
The monster does not sing, does not smile. They merely grab the chain between his feet and pull him out. He falls to the ground and is left to ride out the spasms until finally, blessedly, they stop. He lays, a puddle of himself, panting.
“I expected better out of you.” His handler almost sounds sad. “To think of all that work and effort just wasted.” A kick to his stomach leaves him dizzy on his back.
He hates being on his back.
“Don’t you worry though-” he shudders. “- I can be rather stubborn, myself.”
The routine continues.
Metal Face comes.
Stays.
Watches.
He’s given commands from them as well, now. Commands that he still refuses. He’s promised new things for obeying: bandages, clothes, bedding. And still he does not. Metal Face yells orders to have him beaten and lessen his rations for each failure.
He spends each terribly short rest in the Cage barely breathing. Savouring the soft, gentle touch of Green Eco on the worst of his wounds.
Healed just enough not to die.
Fed just enough not to starve.
Chained so he cannot run.
And still he prefers the Cage.
There’s something desperate in Metal Face that he recognizes. He remembers being so sure he’d find something he was looking for if he just kept searching. He’s not sure he ever found it. He’s not sure it even mattered. He wonders if the thing Metal face wants so badly will also be forgotten.
He cannot find the will or strength to move, so he doesn’t.
Instead he waits. It’s all he can do.
“Eco injection cycle complete. Life signs: Nominal, and unchanged.”
Metal Face huffs. “Nothing…”
“Increasing the percentage doesn’t seem to affect it at all, my lord.” The monster sings.
“No. We’ve gotten everything but a weapon out of this project.”
“Shall I transfer the-”
“No. We’re done.”
“Sire?” The song wavers.
“I said, we’re done , Commander. We’ve wasted enough resources on this…thing. We’ll move forward with the contingency.”
“Understood. And the subject?”
“Kill it.”
The song returns.
“I want it out of this building within the hour, do you understand, Commander?”
“As you wish.”
Metal Face leaves.
The white coats leave.
The guard stays. There’s always a guard.
“How disappointing…” Singing, singing, always singing. “Although I have to admit, I’m impressed you’ve survived this long.”
The monster climbs onto the Chair with him, sits in the hollow of his stomach. A gloved hand grabs his chin and turns him to face that crooked grin.
“Oh don’t look at me like that, it's just pathetic.”
He chews the pipe.
“Do try to struggle for me, will you? I want to enjoy this.”
The hands move the metal ring until they can circle his neck. Well…nearly. He never realized how small those hands were. He knew their strength well enough, though. They press into his neck until he cannot breathe and still they squeeze. His own hands pinned far far away on either side twitch and throb from their fresh cuts.
The command was to struggle.
He will not.
It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.
Through his blurring world, he looks to those piercing yellow eyes. They contort in anger, face red with rage. The singing monster is not enjoying this.
Good.
He lets his eyes slip closed and feels himself smile as the world becomes black. He’s getting what he wanted for so so long.
He’s dying.
He’s finally dying.
By the will of Metal Face and the hands of the Singing Monster, he’s going to die.
He’s won.
Distant. Distant feelings, sensations. Shackles unlocked, chains removed.
Wrapping. Wrapping pinning his hands and feet together. Wrapping his arms up and up and up to his elbows. Feet, up and up and up to his knees.
Words. Commands. Orders. Instructions.
He’s put in a large bag. He’s lifted. He’s moving. He’s falling.
Falling.
Falling.
He falls on something hard and sharp that cuts the bag. He tumbles out of it. Rolls. Falls. Stops.
It’s dark.
It’s different.
He dares to open his eyes.
He’s on his back, he hates being on his back, and he sees countless little lights above him. They’re not eyes. They’re not smiles. They’re not promises. They’re little lights that look more and more to make little shapes as he stares. A bright green light sits among them. It glows softly against the great black.
A green star.
He chokes.
That’s the Precursor Star.
Those lights are other stars.
He remembers stars.
Somewhere…somewhere far away, somewhere he knows he used to be, someone talked to him, taught him about stars. What they were, where they came from. That they were a gift, a message. That each one carried a soul to paint the sky and help to guide the lost and the living home.
Home.
Home was somewhere.
Somewhere…
He forgot Home. He can’t believe he forgot home. Home was important. Somewhere important. Somewhere he needs to go.
He’ll find it.
He’ll find it.
He’ll rest a while…and then he’ll find it.
He’s so tired.
His eyes close.
He waits. Shifts.
Falls.
Falls.
Falls.
He’s so tired.
He doesn’t fight it.
He drifts.
Drifting.
Floating.
Weightless.
Peace.
_-*-_-*-_-*-_