Erm...Well this just occurred.
I was talking to SmilesXGiggles about my next chapter of Broken (due probably in June, or whenever she's done with exams...Wish her luck everyone!) and she asked if I planned on putting Cyborg into that story (I'm working on planning it out, though initially, I wasn't going to stick him in there). I then realised that I didn't give Cyborg nearly enough love in my stories and decided that I should do a Cyborg-centric piece.
Then this popped into my head. I was going to make it a one-shot, however, it was getting to be like a 9,000 word one shot so I decided this'll be a two/three shot exploring Cyborg's origins. Because it is an origin story, it'll mostly be an introspection story with little dialogue. Which I'm particularly bad at. And unbeta'ed. So, um, it may be a bit choppy.
It's also going to be depressing. Really depressing at first.
I would also like to say that I know my writing style has changed (in this story and a few of my other chapters) because I've been reading therentyoupay's Legend of Korra stories and I really love how she delineates time (which I use here a lot...not so much in my other stories) and conveys thoughts. I'm experimenting on bringing the elements of her writing that I love into mine and (hopefully) making it my own. So props to her awesome skills and, if you like Legend of Korra, I suggest you check her out when you get the chance.
Finally, again after reading therentyoupay, she listens to 'theme music' when writing. Taking inspiration from this, I also decided to listen to a few depressing tracks on repeat when writing this. In case any of you care to know what music influenced this, the main songs that shaped this piece were: Silent My Song by Likke Li, This Broken Soul from Legend of Spyro, Glitter in the Air by P!nk, The Lonely by Christina Perri, Fix You by Coldplay and Pan's Labyrinth Lullaby.
[Especially influential were the lyrics:
Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?
Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone
from Glitter in the Air]
Disclaimer: I don't own the Teen Titans. Or any of the songs used in the making of this fic.
The Game
The air was buzzing, thick with anticipation as fans from both schools waited with bated breath for the second half of the game to begin. They were neck and neck, with the home team up by one touchdown. Rarely were games this close early on—they were evenly matched. As the band finished up the half-time show, he could see the students in the bleachers come alive, cheering loudly and waving their school colours of white and light blue. He looked for his parents but the bleacher lights were so bright that they reduced the crowd to a dark mass of—cheering, waving—bodies.
He pulled his attention from the supportive fans crowding—overflowing—the steel bleachers to the faces of his teammates—their faces anxious but almost completely under the—searing hot—blinding white lights that surrounded them, like sentinels. They were all looking at him—he was the leader, the quaterback, the star—for direction.
"These guys are tough, don't underestimate them," he began, unsure how he managed to keep his voice from showing the half-time strain, "Y'all know this. But we're up by one. We just need to keep it that way. Know that they're gonna be desperate—and they're known for their dirty plays. Be careful, got it guys?"
They all nodded, trying not to let their nervousness show.
"Good. Now let's go bring home State!"
They all began grunting loudly, their voices low, each of them feeding from the intensity of the crowd and their teammates. They let the energy surge through them—they were no longer individuals but a team and were in the midst of something greater than themselves. Within moments, their fear was replaced by adrenaline—excitement—as they took to the field again.
Like soldiers, they lined the fields, each one taking their assigned positions as they stared down the opposition. Time seemed to slow as both teams sized one another up. He smiled at the looks on their faces, glad that he'd inspired them to embrace the atmosphere. Seeing their determination, he almost believed that they could do this. Actually win the State tournament. They were so close.
He called out the command and watched as the ball was snapped back to him—it was a perfect throw. He caught the leather ball with a practiced ease, backing up a few paces as he searched for an opening to throw to. He scanned frantically as his teammates were all busy trying to break free of the aggressive defence.
Then he spotted it.
There—an opening.
He pulled his arm back to throw—it was only 20 yards, he could make that easily—and let his muscles take over. It was just like practice.
He dodged an attempted tackle—like the ones Danny trained him to avoid—and snapped the ball to Stephen—if it weren't for the lights or all of the noise, he could believe that he was just playing a half-hearted game of catch with the guy after class while waiting for the bus.
He was pulled from his thoughts—from the serene feeling pretending not to be there gave him—by the screaming at each end of the stadium. He allowed himself a triumphant smile as he watched the ball's perfect arc land right into Stephen's outstretched hands. This was what he lived for—to see all of his discipline and hard work come together in pure movie moments as he pulled his underdog team to victory after victory.
And now they were at the State Championships, the biggest tournament of them all. He couldn't wait to see if his team would make it, if they would finally bring their high school the respect and glory it deserved—that they deserved for all of their practices.
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But in a cruel twist of fate, he never got to see the rest of the game.
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Moments later, his world shattered. The last thing he could remember was unbelievable pain.
And the suffocating darkness that overtook him.
He opened his eyes, the first thing he registered was the distant beep beep beep from somewhere nearby. He would answer his cell phone in a moment.
First, he blinked his eyes mulitpule times, trying to blink out the dark splotches that marred his vision. His dreams usually didn't leave his vision so blurry, he couldn't help but think.
Then, he noted, the mass of bodies hovering over him. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but they were clearly stressed, frantically running and checking things near him. He turned his head and saw the bluish-steel door that was marked 11. Like his jersey number for home games. He then noticed the white linoleum floor, decorated with cheap specks of black and brown as though someone had spilled dirt all over the floor.
This wasn't his home.
And what the hell was that beeping?
He tried to reach out and grab his fucking phone—because that had to be it—and realised that his arm wouldn't move.
He heard calm voices, whispering It's going to be okay and Don't worry, you'll make it and he wanted to scream—Make what? What the hell is going on?
He opened his mouth to say something to the infuriatingly calm voices but stopped short when he heard sobs. He turned his head and saw the blurry outline of his mother in her favourite lavender blouse.
"Is-s hhe going to -to be alright?" she asked in between her choking sobs.
He wanted to know what was going on, but the desperation in her voice—she never cried—gave him pause.
What was she so upset about?
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And did he really want to know?
Before he could come up with the answer—decide what he wanted—he felt himself slip into the darkness once again. Like last time, he had no warning, he just saw his world fade into an unrecognisable blur as the room turned into a surrealist painting.
Then blackness.
Again, he awoke to the beep beep beep of his cellphone. Like he did every morning. Groggily, he turned to locate it and shut the damn thing off once and for all. (Like he vowed to do each morning.)
His vision eventually adjusted to the blinding lights that flickered above him. Was he still at the game? But no. He wouldn't hear his phone amidst the noise of a game. And the lights, now that they stopped searing his eyes, were not nearly as close to stadium lights as he'd thought.
It was only when the beeps didn't stop, but rather, continued on in a rhythmic pace, did it dawn on him.
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It was a heart monitor.
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He was in the hospital.
His eyes frantically searched the room for anyone that might be able to tell him what happened, but the room was empty.
It was then that the biggest realisation of all washed over him—hitting him with the force of a colossal tidal wave.
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He couldn't feel his legs.
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Or his arms.
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The worst thing was...no one was there to tell him, to comfort him.
Not when he needed it most.
He had no idea how long he laid there—alone—before someone noticed he was awake. It was as though, when they realised that he was alive, they had better things to do than to sit around and see if the cripple had woken up.
Or maybe they felt too guilty—as they should his mind sneered—to face him.
When a nurse finally did pop in, all he said was, "Nice of you to drop by."
(She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't even respond. And he was in no position to shake an answer out of her.)
He lay there, waiting for her to check his charts, his vitals and his heart rate. When she was done, she all but scampered out, leaving him to quell the fire burning inside him.
Where were his friends? His family?
Perhaps that's what the nurse had been checking—seeing if he was stable enough for visitors—because soon his parents stepped in to his—cold, metallic, utilitarian—room.
He turned his head to look at his parents and, as soon as he did so, his mother burst into tears again. She was always so contained, strong, and this was wrong. She wasn't supposed to need comforting. Not over him.
(Though a sick part of him was glad that she was crying—she deserved it. They didn't even bother to stay until I woke up and they avoided telling me he thought bitterly, feeling the anger coursing through him.)
His face morphed into a scowl at the sight of his parents—they were never there, never around, not when he needed them—and he snarled, "I may be an invalid but I'm not brain-dead."
He swallowed back the tears that threatened to overflow at the sight before him. The sadness in their eyes—the hurt, the pain—was all he needed to know. He was forever changed. No one would see him the same way.
"I just want to be alone right now."
And his parents, clueless outside of the scientific world, just left him there. They couldn't see—the hurt, the lonliness, the fear—beneath his anger. Part of him wanted to call them back, to ask for his mom to hold him and tell him that it would be alright, however, he knew that wouldn't help.
Because it wouldn't be alright.
He wouldn't be alright.
Everything he'd built had come tumbling down in his face as though the universe was spitting on him. What would he do with his life now? Would he be doomed to sitting in the same room—staring at the same fucking patch of ceiling—for the rest of his miserable life? After awhile, would anyone even bother to remember him?
At the turn of his thoughts, he could feel the loneliness creep in. Finally, he allowed some of his tears fall.
It wasn't until they soaked his face and his pillow that he remembered he couldn't even wipe the evidence away. He just wanted to punch something—do anything destructive—but every time he tried to move, no matter how much effort he put into it, nothing happened.
And that was a position he wasn't used to being in.
A place where nothing would change.
Where effort didn't matter.
After the first few days, he stopped bothering to keep track of the days. Time lost all meaning as his days were all the same endless torture. He was only checked up on every few hours to be fed—like a blubbering baby—and have his vitals checked.
He couldn't find a doctor in the place that he liked—to him they were all responsible for what happened. Every fucking doctor in the place. They had let him be paralysed. They did the bare minimum. Still did the bare minimum in taking care of him.
But at least they provided something to his otherwise dull days. They were a small reprieve from being alone with his own thoughts.
Especially because, after he told his parents to leave him, they hadn't bothered to come back. They were probably busy ignoring him (as usual) because he was now a bigger disappointment than ever. Now, not only was he not smart enough for the sciences, but he was dumb enough to ruin his sports career before it had even started.
(They probably wanted nothing to do with him, now.)
No one did.
(He still couldn't help but listen for the ring of his cellphone to prove that someone still cared about him. Or even thought about him.)
He hated himself for wanting someone there—someone who wouldn't regard him with pity. Who wouldn't burst into tears when looking at him.
But the room was silent except for the occasional medic.
He was alone.
He couldn't help but think that all of the team bonding he'd harped on back—eons ago—when he was quarterback was just bullshit. None of his teammates had visited him yet. Did they even care?
(Did anyone?)
He just existed, waiting for anyone to take notice of him.
He wished that he had full use of his arms if only so that he could reach out and grab the morphine that was on the table near him. This place reduced him to a self-loathing husk.
And as if that that weren't enough, the flickering lights just continued to remind him of the bright stadium lights. If he closed his eyes, there was hardly any difference.
Stadium lights.
He could almost feel like he was back out on the field, playing the sport that he'd grown to love. It was just him and his team working in tandem, the white jerseys moving in formation across the enemy's turf.
They would wait for him to throw the ball. Taking a few paces back, he'd twist away from the stray teammates who always tried to tackle him down. But he would not be beaten. He worked hard, trained hard, to be the best.
He was untouchable.
He always then scanned the field for an opening. The light of the bleachers made it difficult to see, but there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Under these lights he came alive. The crowds were screaming, further fuelling him. Finally, an opening.
He pulled his arm back, calculating the distance and the force he'd need to apply. Forty yards. He could do that with all of the time he'd spent at the gym lately.
He pulled his arm back, squinting against the brightness, and threw the ball, revelling in the perfect arc of the throw. He smiled, it was a perfect throw. A tight spiral. He felt like cheering with the crowd as it was caught.
Then, impact as something collided against him.
His head jolted up, as though he'd just been hit, brown eyes snapping open as he came crashing back into reality.
He couldn't even think about his sport without reliving the moment that sent him here. He hadn't even been thinking about that game and the memory intruded—as though it wouldn't be denied. Forgotten.
He swallowed back the bubbling tears of frustration, looking out the window. He didn't want another doctor to come in and have to wipe his tear-stained face. Thankfully, from the small patch he could see, raindrops splattered against the window and the clouds hung low—as grey and lifeless as he felt
...he briefly noted the surprise that he still felt anything at all...
But the weather gave him something to focus on. Something other than the traitorous thought that bubbled up reminding him that, despite his heart monitor spiking when he awoke, no one had come to check on him yet.
He kept his eyes glued to the window, willing himself not to think about the impact that had landed him here. Or anything else about his predicament. He watched the raindrops as they rhythmically thudded against the window.
(For the first time since he'd arrived, he fell asleep without the aid of a drug.)
He had no idea when his team decided to drop by, but when they did, it was with the championship trophy. As if he cared about that anymore. He wanted to throw it into the wall—it was only a reminder that their world continued just fine without him.
He was insignificant, even to those who should care most about him.
They chatted amiably about the rematch, how Martin had filled his shoes—replaced him—and helped bring them the trophy. And the half-time song was dedicated to him—a brief, obligatory show of concern that would fade from everyone's mind quickly.
The only good news was the player that had vengefully tackled him was going on trial soon and they expected he'd be put in jail for his crime.
(It still didn't seem fair. That kid was still able to move and he wasn't. What could make up for that?)
He nodded at the news. "That's good," his voice rasped out dully.
He avoided their gazes, he knew that—like everyone else—they regarded him with pity. They knew what he was like before the accident—attack—and, seeing him waste away into nothing, filled them with sorrow. Pity.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to kick them out—he was desperate for interaction at that point. Even if it was one-sided.
He barely noticed the conversation drift toward school—Mrs. Irving gave us a shitload of homework, she still has that stick up her ass—as he tuned in and out of the conversation.
The conversation was bland but he couldn't help but envy them. Mrs. Irving—and passing her class to stay on the team—was the biggest of their concerns. They didn't have to worry about what to do with the rest of their fucking lives. If they would be able to ever do anything.
"When are you gonna come back, man?" Ben asked, oblivious as usual.
The group quieted as though he'd stepped over an invisible 'Do Not Cross' line in the conversation. They all waited with baited breath at his response.
"Dunno." he replied with a shrug. Or tried to before remembering that his muscles no longer responded to his demands. He turned his head away, feeling overwhelmed by the discovery—as though it were the first time he was finding out.
And, really, he didn't know when he'd be back. Or if he even wanted to go back. To be reminded of what he once was.
Of how far he'd fallen.
Eventually, when the obligatory—painful—visit was over, his team shuffled out, all of them surrounding Martin as soon as they left his room, making sure he was okay. The way they all looked at Martin—still gangly, but tall and fast, with calculating brown eyes that instinctively knew the field—was exactly how they used to look at him. He used to be their leader, their nucleus, and now he was useless to them. Martin had stepped up and taken his place and now that they had a nucleus, they no longer needed him.
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No one needed him anymore.
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He suddenly wished they hadn't bothered to visit.
He turned away from the door, tired of only being able to hate himself. He wanted to do something—something to forget how useless he'd become—but, of course, there was nothing he could do.
Every time he tried to go back to that moment, he was never able to do anything but think about how his life fell apart. Trying to pick up the shattered pieces of his soul—his broken soul that no one cared about—he only succeeded in cutting himself open more, exposing more of his weaknesses to himself.
And he hated it.
Hated himself and what he'd become.
"I would like to talk to you about a treatment option, Victor."
He snorted in amusement before sneering, "Last time I checked, paralysis isn't treatable, Doctor."
Unsurprisingly, the doctor was unthreatened by the cripple. He was no longer threatening.
(You're no longer anything you used to be he inadvertently reminded himself. Like a broken record.)
"Of course. But we'd like to...operate. Meld your body with the latest technology so that you'll be able to move."
You'll be able to move rang in his mind. He couldn't help but wonder if the doctors had purposefully waited before bringing this up, ignoring him until he felt desperate enough to go for the first experiment they offered like Pavlov's stupid dog.
But he was unable to push those five words from his mind.
They were like a promise. They held a future.
You'll be able to move.
It was the most enticing thing he'd ever heard—a chance to reclaim what he'd once been.
"I'm down," he replied, his voice as determined as he felt.
Until this moment, he hadn't realised that this was the first thing he'd felt besides anger and despair. It felt already like he was doing something—that he was combating the anger that had begun to eat him away.
"There are some...risks, however," came the doctor's soothing voice.
Of course there are he thought bitterly. But he would not be deterred. This had to be better than sitting around like a vegetable for the rest of his life.
"I don't care," he snapped, willing the doctor to just get on with it. The sooner he could move and pretend this didn't happen, the happier he'd be.
"Be that as it may, I must inform you of the risks involved," the doctor stated coolly—as though he were only discussing the weather—continuing with,"The process can be lethal. It is an incredibly painful procedure and, sometimes, the heart can't take the strain and gives out. We will, of course, apply anaesthetic, however, we will be melding this technology to your functioning nerves. No amount of anaesthetic will completely dull the pain."
"I said I. Don't. Care."
"Wonderful," the doctor replied, "I'll see when the parts can be made."
It was as though the visit was only a dream. It had been a long time since he'd had his first consultation with the doctor about his experimental procedure and no one bothered to let him know when it was happening. Or if it even was anymore.
Even with the only decision given to him during his stay at the hospital, he was still merely a pawn. A tool. And he was disregarded when he had no use.
Victor was glad when the doctor showed back up. Even though he was a means to an end for the medic, he was glad that the visit hadn't been a figment of his—broken—mind. The offer was real. Concrete.
And the procedure was happening next week.
Boo-yah.
So, yeah. That came out. Not sure how well I portrayed him. Meh. I tried.
Hope you all enjoyed!
Please, please drop me a review!~
~RR