Opening her violet eyes, it took her a moment to recognize where she was. It was the same every morning. At least, she thought it was morning. Another test. Tests were a part of life, the thick metal collar around her neck was a reminder of it. He found it funny to slowly drive them insane. See how they reacted without knowing what day it was, what medications have a reaction, what the side effects are. Routine. Everything was a routine, and it was killing her.
A purple strand of hair fell as she gradually got up. Her body ached and her head was throbbing. More side effects. How long had she been there? Days? Weeks? There were just white walls, and a two-way mirror. "Fuck you," she mouthed. Whether there were someone watching her or not didn't matter. Her anger grew as the collar began to vibrate. She braced her self as it shocked her, sending her weak body to the ground. They controlled her now, using her powers against her. Thoughts of pain and anguish screamed in her mind, causing migraines and insomnia.
Two knocks from the other side of the wall. This was the only communication she had with those around her. A type of Morse Code, and it was the only thing that kept her sane with hellish thoughts running through her mind. "Morph," she whispered, knocking twice in reply. There were at least others near her, and Psylocke was grateful of their presence.
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Mutant Testing. The cruelty of humanity was overwhelming when society found someone who was different. Wolverine was a prime example. The adamantium skeleton he carried was a sign of humanity's intolerance to those who had gifts, and showed their desire to manipulate the powers of mutants. His dreams were becoming invaded with violent thoughts of a type of prison. No, prison wasn't the right word. Testing facility seemed more appropriate. Professor Xavier sat there, lost in his thoughts as his small class streamed into the brilliant office.
He knew of hidden testing facilities, places where fellow mutants where treated like lab rats for the gratification of "scientists". These doctors knew nothing, just as the doctors in the concentration camps during the Holocaust knew nothing. They were there for torture, and did their jobs well. He knew of drugs that would cure the mutant disease that grew inside of them all. These scientists looked for ways to cure humanity of these beasts, and they thrived on human testing. Mutant testing, to be correct. Either way, it didn't matter to these men with their PhDs. All they cared about was dealing with the mutant problem, like it was a plague.
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Lunch. They were only allowed to eat outside of their rooms on Sundays. It was to show them that they were cared for on this "holy" day. Bullshit. She was sure it was just another test. A test to see how they would react to seeing each other after another week of isolation. At least she got to see the others, though.
She sat at the table they had claimed as their own. The entire cafeteria was divided into age groups, which was actually a good thing. She had gotten to know these people, as they were also in the rooms around her. There were no mirrors, but she could tell by the way the others looked that she had the same pale-yellow skin and dark circles under her eyes. They had all lost weight, and could now be confused with recovering anorexics instead of mutants used for experimentation.
Morph sat across from her, his black hair matted down and his blue eyes looked dull and lifeless. He resembled a normal human, no physical abnormalities, and the collar around his neck kept him from changing even the color of his eyes, let alone into the form of another person.
Marrow, however, was another story. Her bones were disfigured and protruded out of her skin like knives. However, with her body being constantly pumped by drugs, her bones grew weak and brittle, breaking off with the slightest pressure being applied to them. The scientists, of course, found this funny, occasionally grabbing one of her bones and squeezing until it burst into dust.
Psylocke next glanced towards the blonde sitting beside her. His fair skin now sickly and his crystal-blue eyes full of sorrow. With the stress suffocating him and the constant testing, his large wings were now only sparsely covered with feathers. Angel now seemed only the shell of the person he used to be, as he looked longingly out a window on the other side of the cafeteria.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a small jab in her arm. She smiled faintly as Banshee motioned towards the salt in front of her. He couldn't speak after all the chemicals injected routinely into his body. Often he would wake up coughing, throat cracked and bleeding. He wasn't always like this, usually quite the loud mouth, literally. His yells could shatter glass and cause ears to bleed.
She sat there, starved yet unsure of the meal sitting before her, and longed for things to be the way they were, yet wondered if they ever would be again.