The Glass King
by Unanon unanon@yahoo.com
Summary: Magneto: imprisoned, but never conquered. Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not mine, please don't sue. Archive: Diebin's Trailer fic site, anyone who asks. Notes: Written and inspired by Diebin's Trailer fic challenge. Image #45
~~~~
They lock me in here, this plastic prison, comfortless and cold.
They're convinced that I'm broken, so they pretend to indulge me, allowing me small concessions: an hour of music daily, the chessboard, the sketchpad and charcoal sticks, graphite pencils that pull weakly at my blood, igniting small tremors of my magnetic power. But not enough, no, never enough to do more than hint at the delicious pull of my gift. I thank them, showing my teeth as I smile.
Hating them beyond measure.
I watch them file past the observation window, high level executives and government officials, wardens and guards. Occasionally someone sneaks a wife or girlfriend, curious and giggling, in to view me: the mutant rebel, the oddity, the goddamned zoo creature.
My days pass slowly, broken only by the seemingly regular arrival of meals and fresh laundry. In the beginning, I consoled myself with sleep, rolling my body into my blankets, shielding my flesh from the loss of sunlight and fresh air. I closed my eyes against my monochrome prison until the smell of the plastic mattress beneath me, seeping through the whiteness of the sheets, became too much to bear.
The chemical stench of plastic is inescapable. I request pungent foods, garlic laden dishes, smelly cheeses. The scent of a good roast can linger for hours. I once concealed a particularly fragrant bit of meat in my slipper; they now search my cell after every meal.
They claim to be humane, but their actions prove otherwise. Hypocritical bastards could have used wood in the décor occasionally instead of plastic or, for God's sake, something other than the impersonal, cold glare of overhead fluorescent lighting. Everything surrounding me is so clinical, so sterile, so utterly devoid of warmth of any kind. I'm beginning to dream in black and white.
I cut myself shaving one morning and a single drop of blood fell into the sink. I stared, transfixed, at the color, marveling at its richness and the sheer purity of its beauty. I waited until it had coagulated then touched it with one finger, pressing and smearing it slowly against the hated plastic. I had found my source of color.
They've removed all readily breakable items from my cell and assigned an extra guard, replaced my glass chessboard with one of heavy plastic. Their voices tremble slightly when they threaten to take away my pencils.
As long as I'm caged here, I will not submit. I am no mindless zoo creature, weakly accepting defeat and extinction. They cannot crack me; I will not break.
Even plastic has sharp edges.
~fin~
Summary: Magneto: imprisoned, but never conquered. Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not mine, please don't sue. Archive: Diebin's Trailer fic site, anyone who asks. Notes: Written and inspired by Diebin's Trailer fic challenge. Image #45
~~~~
They lock me in here, this plastic prison, comfortless and cold.
They're convinced that I'm broken, so they pretend to indulge me, allowing me small concessions: an hour of music daily, the chessboard, the sketchpad and charcoal sticks, graphite pencils that pull weakly at my blood, igniting small tremors of my magnetic power. But not enough, no, never enough to do more than hint at the delicious pull of my gift. I thank them, showing my teeth as I smile.
Hating them beyond measure.
I watch them file past the observation window, high level executives and government officials, wardens and guards. Occasionally someone sneaks a wife or girlfriend, curious and giggling, in to view me: the mutant rebel, the oddity, the goddamned zoo creature.
My days pass slowly, broken only by the seemingly regular arrival of meals and fresh laundry. In the beginning, I consoled myself with sleep, rolling my body into my blankets, shielding my flesh from the loss of sunlight and fresh air. I closed my eyes against my monochrome prison until the smell of the plastic mattress beneath me, seeping through the whiteness of the sheets, became too much to bear.
The chemical stench of plastic is inescapable. I request pungent foods, garlic laden dishes, smelly cheeses. The scent of a good roast can linger for hours. I once concealed a particularly fragrant bit of meat in my slipper; they now search my cell after every meal.
They claim to be humane, but their actions prove otherwise. Hypocritical bastards could have used wood in the décor occasionally instead of plastic or, for God's sake, something other than the impersonal, cold glare of overhead fluorescent lighting. Everything surrounding me is so clinical, so sterile, so utterly devoid of warmth of any kind. I'm beginning to dream in black and white.
I cut myself shaving one morning and a single drop of blood fell into the sink. I stared, transfixed, at the color, marveling at its richness and the sheer purity of its beauty. I waited until it had coagulated then touched it with one finger, pressing and smearing it slowly against the hated plastic. I had found my source of color.
They've removed all readily breakable items from my cell and assigned an extra guard, replaced my glass chessboard with one of heavy plastic. Their voices tremble slightly when they threaten to take away my pencils.
As long as I'm caged here, I will not submit. I am no mindless zoo creature, weakly accepting defeat and extinction. They cannot crack me; I will not break.
Even plastic has sharp edges.
~fin~