When he awoke, he was in hell. His head pounded and he was starving. And that's how he knew he was really awake.
He had to be careful; he'd been dreaming. When he slept too deeply – deep enough to dream – he wasn't in total control of his gift.
Controlling that gift was the only edge he had here.
It seemed simple, but a simple prison couldn't have contained him. Not for this long. He'd been here…a month? Two? Scraping by on the barest minimum of sleep, unable to dream, unable to truly rest…no escape in any form, physical or mental.
The cage was largely invisible. It existed beyond a realm human eyes could actually see, but it was there, and it was strong enough that his gift was powerless against it.
It was annoying, actually. It was tall enough for him to stand, but only just. He preferred kneeling or sitting, simply because he didn't like the boundary so close to him. It made his head hurt, not to mention the kind of queasy aftereffect he'd suffered just by being in the confined space for so long.
(He didn't sit more than he hovered, which helped immensely—he was never actually touching the sides or floor of the cage, and it cost him no extra energy. When he was in this form, it was what he defaulted to without thought.)
It was invisible for another reason, too: so that they could watch him. Why trap a specimen in a jar and keep it alive for any other purpose? They wanted to see how he worked. And so he tried not to give them much to go on. After his initial escape attempts, he didn't waste energy.
He couldn't afford to, now. He hadn't slept…hadn't eaten…it was by the grace of his gift alone that he was alive. If he thought about it, he supposed he was hungry…but he tried not to think about it. He hadn't reverted back. He'd never gone so long like this—not reverting back.
He had that final card to play, but he didn't dare do it. He'd seen what this type of equipment could do to normal humans. The ones who watched him always wore protective coverings.
He didn't need to. He was fine, so long as he stayed in this form.
But if he did revert…
It could solve a lot of problems. Or it could create different, more terrible problems.
What if he changed back, and his human form was too weak? The shock could kill him. What if they decided it was a new, weird power of his, and started new experiments? The temperature experiments had been fine. He could withstand those. Even the mild electroshocks weren't too bad. They'd recently started collecting blood samples, and he knew they were anxious to get something else—something worth studying.
(You watched people, but he wasn't a person, he was a specimen. So he was studied.)
What if he changed back…and they realized that all along, he wasn't what they were looking for? He was a bridge, certainly—it was rare that his gifts manifested. So rare, in fact, that he only knew of two others like him in existence. But his breed…ultimately had been an accident.
A twist of fate.
They couldn't replicate it. And he didn't dare entice them to try.
Good Morning, Entity S7.
He jumped, looking around him in wild confusion as his heartbeat throbbed loudly in his ears. The voice came from a speaker above his cage, which he hadn't known existed.
Something was wrong. Something was different. They'd never attempted to communicate with him before, shy of commanding him to hold still while they took blood samples, or trying to verify that he was still cognizant and aware after the rounds of electric shock.
So I'm Entity S7, he mused, trying to think of what the S could stand for. Specimen? Suckass?
New tools have been granted approval, which means we can gather skin and bone samples.
He said nothing. Just narrowed his eyes at the hidden camera below the sprinkler head in the corner. He wouldn't waste energy speaking to them.
It made him uneasy, though. Skin and bone samples? How would they go about obtaining those? He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
The door slid open, and a collection team entered, turning their backs to the cage as they put their tools on trays. So precise. So methodical. He wondered if they'd even believe him if he reverted. If they'd believe he was actually a human boy who'd stumbled across his gift and thought it a sign he should become some kind of superhero.
When he looked up at the scientists again—the collection team—he wanted to laugh. He wanted to forget his plan of playing it cool and not reacting to whatever new torture was on the list for today, and just laugh hysterically because he knew one of the scientists. Realized it before the speaker above his cage confirmed it, knew it before she even turned around.
She was a good foot shorter than the other three, because she was the only woman. She wore a lab coat like the others, and a face mask, as was standard procedure, dealing with his "kind," but he knew her. Knew that underneath the standard issue white lab coat, her radiation suit was blue, not yellow. That the black gloves she wore –different than everyone else's grey—were her own.
She wasn't just a scientist on someone's orders; she was a scientist in her home life, too. She had her own experiments, there, and he'd gotten mixed up in one without her knowledge…she was part of the reason he even had his gift.
New tools, new procedures, and new hires, Entity S7. Welcome our agency's new expert, Madeline. She will be leading the collection today.
The voice in the speaker sounded smug. Perhaps they'd seen him react in some small faction. And no wonder—he'd just comprehended the assortment of tools on the trays of the collection team: surgical tools. Knives, razors, and…a small circular saw.
Something was different. He was in trouble. He stood, ignoring the spots dancing into his line of vision from close proximity to the cage's boundary. He backed away. No. No. This was a whole new game. He considered reverting. It was suicide. But it could save him from whatever they were about to do.
"Entity S7, please remain still as our team crosses into the boundary of your confinement unit."
He almost wept. He knew her voice. Knew it like he knew his own.
He wanted to revert. God, he wanted to. But a fraction of him wondered if she'd been there from the beginning of his capture. If she'd seen what they'd been doing to him. If she'd ordered it, so that she could study his cellular structure.
If she knew…it would kill her. If she knew who she'd been ordering the torture for…
"Mo…Madeline. This isn't normal protocol," he said softly. His voice was husky, and he was glad of it. She might recognize it, otherwise. He cleared his throat. "What kind of procedure—"
"New procedures, new protocols, S7. Please remain still—"
"—as your team comes into my cage, yada yada. Got it." He tensed; his voice had shifted back to his normal timbre. She…she might recognize it. He looked again at the "procedural tools" they were armed with. He had to escape. He had to. He couldn't do this. Not at her hands. She would never hurt him. If she knew…
They used a device he hadn't seen before, and it caused the cage, rather than opening, to sort of bend around them. Like it was a bubble. He stared hungrily at the devices. His powers could do that. They'd taken that ability from him, and if he was quick enough, he could take it back.
They anticipated him, though –maybe he was too weak from confinement, or maybe they really had been studying his movements day after day, week after week. One of them zapped him with what felt like a lightning bolt, and he crumpled like the husk he was.
It was the worst they'd yet done to him. They'd never preemptively made the shock stronger than he could handle. The spots at the corners of his vision multiplied. He was hardly aware of the team taking advantage of his weakness, and pinning him, spread eagle, to the floor of the cage.
He could see her. See her painstaking deliberation over what tool to pick. How to go about torturing him today.
"Mo—Madeline. We haven't gotten a chance to chat, you and I. How's life? How's your family? The kids? That son of yours—he's a champ, isn't he?" He was hardly in control of what he was saying, desperately trying to muster the strength to escape.
She paused, and he smiled. She knew. She recognized his voice. She was going to order them to release him, because he was—
Then he heard the saw.
She knelt at his side. He knew the look on her face, under the impenetrable mask. Sophisticated scientist, all curiosity. Inhuman. "It's really true, he's a corporeal being, just like your notes described," she said aloud. The others couldn't hear her over the saw, but he knew her penchant for thinking to herself out loud, and had been listening for it.
He closed his eyes. Opened them again. He knew he wasn't dreaming. Even his nightmares had never been this cruel. She wouldn't…she couldn't…
And then the saw bit into his wrist.
He screamed in raw agony, and the spots flickered insistently at the sides of his vision. None of them stopped her. None of them gave a hesitant pause, none of them stopped to wonder why their dangerous Entity S7 felt pain and screamed like a little boy.
Like the boy he was.
No. No. No. It couldn't be like this. Not her. He felt his form flickering, and it intensified his pain—his human side wouldn't be able to handle it. He would die. He willed himself to keep from reverting.
The saw sparked as it cut through to the floor of the cage, reminding him that the cage existed—it existed enough to repel the saw and send sparks, even if their human eyes couldn't see it. His could only see a shimmering outline. Like the cage was very clean, convincing glass. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized the saw had bitten into the floor because it had done its job of sawing through the bones in his wrist. That it had cut clean through.
He hadn't stopped screaming, just became less aware of it. His hand. His hand.
"Interesting. Note, how the muscular structure wants to be human? It retains its shape, even after being separated from the host."
"Should the entity be bleeding?"
His hand. He glanced down in morbid curiosity and his stomach lurched.
"This substance…it's fascinating."
His hand. They—no she—had cut off his hand.
"Notice the way it mimics human blood. The similar consistency as it pools, here. This specimen is extraordinary."
Why would she do this to him? She didn't even care that he was in pain. Screaming bloody murder, and none of them cared. Didn't even look up. Probably thought he was exaggerating.
"Stop that noise," she'd say next. "You and your kind don't feel pain. You don't have nerve-endings."
Something clicked in his mind. Or snapped. He started putting his power into his screaming. His frustrations. His pain. He was fifteen. He hadn't even learned how to drive yet. Hadn't fallen in love. Hadn't ever seen an 'R' rated movie without sneaking in. He hadn't been to prom, hadn't had sex, hadn't tried a cigarette, and hadn't ever gotten a fake ID. Because he'd gotten the gift instead. And had delusions of being some kind of superhero.
Well fuck that. Fuck that with bells on. What did he owe to these people? Because he'd been experimented on, and electrocuted, and beaten to within an inch of his life…for what?
And now they'd sawed. Off. His hand.
"…never seen before, in lesser scales. Entity Scale 7 is perhaps the most complex phenomenon that I've seen."
Scale 7. Because he was strong. Stronger than they'd encountered.
He wanted to laugh. Of course he was. Because he had been human first. He was only part "entity," part of the time.
His screams were beyond voice, now, and the scientists finally started to take notice. Beyond pain. Beyond rage. Raw power. He summoned everything he had. Any shred of reserve he'd been saving in case he needed it. He let it come out. He didn't care about repercussions. Not now.
The walls of the cage cracked, starting with the slightly weaker point on the floor that the saw had gotten—the tiny scratch under all of the phosphorescent blood. His blood.
They were trying to restrain him. He felt the juiced up Taser sending volts through him. He took that, too. Took the electric energy spazzing in his body and directed it into his scream.
The cage shattered, but he wasn't done. He saw the scientists blown against the wall by the sheer force he generated. Her face mask cracked, and then shattered. She had squinted her eyes shut as the pieces blew against her face. She had a cut on her cheek bleeding freely, and some of the surgical knives had embedded themselves in her right shoulder, one of them in her chest.
The scream died, and he looked over at her. His breathing was labored, and those white spots had become thick stripes threatening to overtake him once and for all. His body wanted—needed—rest. She looked shocked, pained…afraid. She thought he was going to finish her off.
He reached with his stump to pick up his hand, not realizing that it wouldn't work that way. His right hand eventually came to help, fumbling tiredly over his body. He couldn't reach it.
He wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. It was ridiculous. It was horrible. He tried to get to his feet, forgetting again that he had no left hand to lend leverage. He pushed the stump against the ground and pain tore through his whole arm. He fell back in surprise. The white stripes were trying to claim him.
Not yet. He had to at least try to reattach his hand. He wouldn't be able to as a human. But if he did it now…now he just might pull it off.
He rolled to his side, letting his right hand grope around for the left hand. He found it, against all odds, and pulled it to his chest, pressing the two stained green stumps together. He probably looked nightmarish. Especially in ultraviolet light.
"You…You didn't regenerate," she gasped, unable to speak, winded. "The…the hand…didn't dissolve."
"Sorry to disappoint. My hand is kind of attached to me. Or, you know. It wants to be."
He felt hollow. All of his emotions had been screamed raw, and the only thing he had left…the only thing he could use to protect her…was fading. He was fighting unconsciousness. Each time he blinked, he had to fight to open his eyes again. His form flickered, and a renewed surge of pain came from his wrist. He couldn't handle it. His human form was too weak to process the pain.
Despite everything the deep hero complex in him wanted to keep her safe. Keep her from knowing. But he couldn't do it anymore. He offered a grimace to Madeline that he hoped could pass as a smile. "Sorry to disappoint, Mom. But I'm not strong enough." He finally succumbed to the half of his consciousness that was done coping, and in too much pain to process anything else.
When he awoke, he was in a warm bed, with doctors attending his severe malnutrition and mangled left hand. He saw his sister. His dad. His friends. And his mom.
She wasn't looking at him as he blinked awake. She let the others crowd around his bed, carefully not touching him.
He heard nothing. He comprehended nothing of what they said to him. It wasn't real. This wasn't real. He was warm and safe and in so little pain. His eyes wanted to drift closed. But he looked at her.
He wasn't sure if he was really awake. And he felt the cast on his arm. He reached his fingers inside, reassured to feel the thick scar that encircled his wrist. She did look at him do that, and flinched.
They told him his mother had been inside—that she must have helped save him from the explosion that they'd found him in, but that she hadn't made it. The force of the blast had sent shrapnel with such intensity that it had cut off his hand. And driven into her heart.
He nodded.
It was bullshit. They saw what they'd wanted to see. They hadn't been there. Hadn't even realized that the place was a secret torture facility he'd been locked in. They'd assumed him dead, of course. Hadn't seen him for a month and a half. They'd given up searching, his disappearance a real tragedy.
She sat there, by the foot of his bed, and blinked sadly at him. He knew that the "blast" had only driven the knives into her right side. The knife in her left side—the one that had gotten her heart—hadn't been driven there by his scream.
He tuned out the implications of this. He couldn't cope with it right now. But it felt oddly reassuring;
He had awoken to find himself in hell.
That's how he knew he was really awake.
-o-
E
www . fanfiction u / 1312054 / HaiJu (type without spaces)
HaiJu wrote some amazing DP ficcage that Greatly (Greatly) influenced this piece. I actually wrote it for a writing group, and I wanted to see, if I made it ambiguous, whether or not people could place it as a Danny Phantom fanfiction. (A few still totally could.)
I can't even take credit for the ideas, really; this is really just a fanfiction of a fanficiton. (A really awesome piece, too; read it!) This can maybe be considered an AU of her piece Phantom of Truth.
I also took some lyric inspiration from the song 'Evilized' by Dream Evil.
This is really...dark. I'm sorry. TT_TT. Reviews appreciated, but I urge you also to read the piece that inspired me! www . fanfiction s / 7476808 / 1 / Phantom - of - Truth (but without the spaces)