NOTES: Story takes place as part of an RPG which I'm involved in, in early 2019 shortly after Doug's parents died. Chronologically takes place after Man of the House.
April, 2019
The room he was in now had to be ten sizes smaller than the one he'd woken up in. The one that had smelled of antiseptic, urine and blood, that had tasted of fear and hopelessness, a chemical cocktail so strong he'd come back to consciousness screaming in thoughtless terror.
What had happened afterwards wasn't entirely clear to him. It had been a quicksilver blur of people running and shouting, of needles flashing in cold air. His only coherent thought was of the warm presence that eventually flooded his mind, and the arms that had wrapped around him in a feeble attempt at comfort. It would never happen again, but later he found that he didn't especially mind; the memory was branded into him.
Time had warped, then. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd fallen back asleep, or managed to wake again. All he knew was that the room was cold, and every attempt he made at using his telekinesis resulted in a shock. His hands still tingled painfully from the last try.
When he stopped pacing anxiously, instead opting to occupy a small corner between the wall and the cot he woke on, the door opened. It startled him, and the woman who entered looked his way when he jumped. She reminded him of a big cat, of the tigers he'd seen on Divinity Isle, all piercing green-gold eyes and liquid grace.
Within seconds, he recognized her as the comforting presence from earlier. The tears weren't anticipated on his part, but once they started he was unable to stop. This time, she remained silent and motionless. His empathy -- his too strong and unrefined empathy -- barely registered her, and a half-formed thought of ~cold, so cold~ sent him into further hysteria. When she kneeled next to him, his fear, palpable, did all the work for her. He fell unconscious again before she could knock him out.
The third time wound up being the charmed one. He woke to find her leaning against the farthest wall, studying him with mild curiosity.
"I do hope you have intentions of not hyperventilating this time." Her voice was an amalgam of accents, yet had a smooth quality despite. Her mocking tone caused him to look away in embarrassment. She didn't seem nearly as frightening now.
A moment of seemingly endless silence washed over the room. He suspected that they were both sizing one another up. The second the thought left his mind, he instantly regretted it. He recognized the gleam of amusement in her eyes; one did not grow up amongst a household of telepaths without becoming familiar with it.
He thought that she almost smiled when he threw his mental shielding into place, helter skelter. "Not quite so effective as you were hoping for, I'm afraid. You have a few chinks."
Paling, he hurriedly broke eye contact. "Where am I?" The way his voice shook was humiliating. His parents would never react like this.
"In a holding cell." Amidst her sarcasm, he was pretty sure she liked that his curiosity had finally spoken up.
"Where?"
"Headquarters for an organization called the Time Corps."
"Why?"
"Because you were wanted."
"For how long?"
"You've been here for close to three weeks. You're staying."
His hands were shaking, he noticed. Three weeks... was he even still in England?
"My family..."
"Think you're dead."
His throat clamped shut, and he ducked his head in a pointless attempt at hiding the tears which had welled up. This was all his own fault for parading around like some real member of the Spandex Brigade.
"You're one of us now. I'm sorry." His breath hitching unsteadily, he ignored her as she walked out, taking the light with her.
Two years had been enough time to mold him. His potential was significant enough that he'd been deemed worth any trouble. She was still not entirely pleased at being decided on as his mentor.
The first six months were likened to hell; forty children required training. Most had been taken by force. All were ruled entirely by their own fear of what had happened to them.
For an empath, no situation could have been worse. Corps personnel had repeatedly noted Douglas Wisdom's constant emotional breakouts. After he had been separated into a smaller group of ten, training began. They were there to learn about the world, about people, the past, present and future. They would enforce laws. They would bend and obey, or be broken.
He did fine once she explained to them that there was no need for fear. She would not hurt them unless they hurt her. Things went downhill once the first confrontation hit. Tapestry was a wolf. So were the children. None of them realized just how much until she killed the first of them. Over the course of two years he accepted it as a show of dominance, and she was glad. But it took him two years. A small eternity when one was there to hear his screams, the ones that started and just wouldn't stop.
His aversion to death grew. The concept terrified him, overwhelmed his thoughts and darkened his eyes. Nightmares became frequent. His cell -- 10x10, dark and silent -- was a tomb in which there was no escape. The screams continued until Tapestry told him of the Corps' growing doubts of his usefulness.
Quite suddenly, Wisdom fell silent. When Tapestry took him aside for separate training, the improvements became noticeable.
After three years there, he began to accompany her on missions. He had started to speak again, this time with only a momentary pause of fear after the equipment necessary for time travel was surgically implanted. Tapestry quietly rewarded him with copies of newspapers and magazines, allowing him a small glimpse into the lives of his old family.
For the first time in three years, he dreamt.
March, 2025
" 'Yana's been pissing people off again."
She stilled in the doorway of his cell for a heartbeat, then moved forward. The door whispered shut behind her. "Does she ever not?" Tapestry kept her tone mild, resisting the temptation to smile. She had never met Mayana or Lily Drake, Gwenyth Parker, or Robert or Susan Summers. Through her 20 year-old charge, she knew them all reasonably well.
"Of course not," he said, then looked up with a sly grin. "Why do you think she and I got along so well?"
She made no effort to answer, instead looking past his smile and the copy of the Daily Bugle he held. His back and shoulders were swathed in glaringly white bandages.
"The fucker had a knife. He smuggled in a goddamn knife. A Corps trainee had a blade on him... Christ," he said calmly, his even gaze contrasting with the curses.
"He's been taken care of, Lore."
"Doug. My name is Doug. Can you not get that though your fucking head?!" The outburst was a surprise she didn't react to. The newspaper he threw at her landed halfway across the room.
"Not here. You're one of us--"
"You're pathetic. Can you even remember your own name, Tap? They've bent you until you broke, and you don't even care!" His words hung in the air, venomous and accusatory. She said nothing.
"Jesus wept, you won't even defend yourself, will you?"
In her continued silence, he threw his hands into the air. Blood spotted the pristine color of his bandages.
"I know everything, you know. I hacked into the personnel files, Tap. You let them take everything from you, your entire fucking family, then turned around and begged for more. Christ, I know you hate it here as much as I do... how they hell did they break you?"
Her voice startled him, and when she finally spoke, he jumped. "Piece by piece, Lore. The same way they'll get to you."
When she left, he sat and studied the papers on the floor. The empty feeling he'd been carrying since shortly after his fourteenth birthday intensified, and somewhere in the distance, he heard himself bend another notch.
Bent
matchbox twenty
If I fell along the way,
Pick me up and dust me off.
And if I get too tired to make it,
Be my breath so I can walk.
If I need some other love,
Give me more than I can stand.
And when my smile gets old and faded,
Wait around, I'll smile again.
Can you help me? I'm bent.
I'm so scared that I'll never
Get put back together.
You're breaking me in,
And this is how we will end,
With you and me... bent.
If I couldn't sleep, could you sleep?
Could you paint me better off?
Could you sympathize with my needs?
I know you think I need a lot.
I started out clean, but I'm jaded.
Just holding it in,
Just breaking my skin.
Start bending me,
Keep bending me,
Until I'm completely broken in.
Shouldn't be so complicated,
Just touch me,
And then just touch me again.