The Prisoner Trilogy
Prisoner: Y
Prisoner is an alternate universe fan fiction trilogy about the New X-men characters Hellion and X-23.
What if Charles Xavier and his X-men had never existed? What if humanity decided to take care of the
mutant menace for once and for all? Prisoner is told in three parts as a work of speculative fiction by a
mutant anthropologist of the Hope era, imagining what life may have been like for the three pivotal historical
figures that prevented a mutant apocalypse.
~NOTE~
This fiction series is rated NC-17. This is the only chapter of Prisoner: Y that will be posted on ff . n e t,
although the story is 6 chapters long, because of its rating. To read the rest, follow the link to prisoner on
my author page, onelildustbunni, or type in h t t p : / / prisoner . forever . as (remove spaces).
Please do not review for chapters beyond this one using f f . n e t. Instead, post on the forum (link on main page)
created for reviewing. That way, you may feel free to refer to scenes or ask questions without censorship.
Hope you like it! ~ onelildustbunni
-Series Prologue-
The following articles are speculative fiction based on factual evidence of events occurring between the period of 2000 and 2015 B.H. (or A.D. according to history).
The location is thought to be what is now Hope's Field, but at the time was known as the Westchester Internment Camp in Westchester, New York. This is one of
two possible sites; however, several files were recovered from the Westchester camp strongly support the likelihood of the events having occurred there, as this
camp offered records of having interned both a Y-21-A and a X-23-A, although the personal files associated with X-23-A's record have been destroyed. Therefore
the identity of X cannot be proven.
Y-21-A was known to be Julian Keller, a mutant with (unexplored) alpha level telekinesis. Physical records indicate him to be 5'10 in height, weight of 170 lbs.,
Caucasian, with black hair and blue eyes at time of internment. This individual was interned at the age of sixteen, and was referred to the government officials
by a relative (records indicate a Mrs. Elizabeth Keller, presumed to be his mother; it is unknown if she was his birth mother or a stepmother) to ensure family
safety. Records note that his family was under observation for concealed mutants, but none were found. All records of the Keller family disappear after
2008 B.H. (A.D.); either a fake alias was assumed, possibly combined with relocation, or the family may have been assassinated, either by the government
during the middle age of the extermination, or as a revenge act during the transition to the year of Hope.
X-23-A remains a mystery. There are many possible identities for this individual; even at the time they were not sure of her true alias. What is factual is the
data from her physical records and other records. She possessed several powers—a total of six adamantium coated bone claws (two in each hand and one
in each foot, stored in her forearms and inside her feet, extendable and retractable at will through the skin between the knuckles); an aggressive healing
factor, proven capable of healing gunshot wounds; and enhanced senses (in all five areas), as well as heightened agility, reflexes and speed. She was 5'7 in
height, weight of 125 lbs., Caucasian, with black hair and green eyes at time of internment. She was interned at fifteen years of age, and had a notable criminal
record under several aliases. At the time of her capture, she worked as a street walker in the sex trade near the New York metropolis area. She was also wanted
for 117 murders, many of which were thought to be for mercenary jobs. Records note that she carried several fake passports: Kennedy Green of Nebraska,
Laura Kinney of Arizona, and Wanda Stills of Idaho. It is possible that she possessed more, but these were found on her person during the arrest, and kept on
file should orders come that the internees be released.
The second alias is speculated to be the most likely to be true of the three choices; the name Laura Kinney has been tied to the Weapon X cloning project, which
would have commenced roughly sixteen years prior to the internment, meaning that Laura Kinney would have been about the age recorded on the internment file
for X-23-A. It is also to be noted that this clone of Weapon X bore the alias X-23, as she was the twenty-third attempt in the series. A total of fifty clones had been
planned, but the previous twenty-two clones expired in gestation, and clones 24 through 50 were destroyed by X-23 in a bid for freedom (the treatment of the clone
by the facility was inhumane). This individual's existence is not well documented and remains a legend, which is why X-23 cannot be confirmed to be the identity of
X-23-A. It should also be noted that X-23's mother was killed by her hand due to a trigger scent, and this agrees with some of the actions and attitudes of X-23-A.
For the purposes of this narrative work, it will be assumed that X-23-A was, indeed, X-23 of the Weapon X cloning project.
This work of fiction is, again, a reconstruction, made by historians that wish to speculate on the creation of Hope and the beginning of Hope's era. Every effort has
been made to ensure its accuracy, when facts are available; many inconsistencies still occur and remain unexplained. What experiences did Y-21 endure? Where they
more or less inhumane than portrayed here? How did the two individuals really meet and exist, amidst the heavy security of the internment camp? How did their story end?
The decision of whether the events here occurred is left up to the reader.
With humble thanks to:
Raine Lin
Samantha Olson
Jeffrey Gates
David Alleyne, Society of Pre-Hope History
- The Author
prologue
It was a beautiful September day. That was the last pleasant thing he'd noticed, would notice for a long time. The blue sky, clear and pure like tropical water. The kind he'd seen
on vacation with his parents in the Caribbean, last summer. He had finally been old enough to go, at sixteen, something that made him feel grown-up. Not left with the nanny, but
allowed to go with his parents and his older brother, to sit on the pale white sand and watch girls go by.
He'd only been 'aware' of girls for about two years now. Before that, it had been normal boy stuff—fast cars, weapons, military. Sports. He'd always been the best at everything,
and he loved to make it known. He had been thrilled to find another area to succeed in, when he began to pay more attention to his female counterparts; however, he'd found it
different than the other interests he had. Not all girls were interested in him. It was a challenge.
He didn't give up, because he knew he was different. Powerful. When he turned fifteen, he discovered that could do things that other boys his age couldn't do, something people
didn't believe until he showed them.
On that day, though, he didn't feel like being different was a good thing. Not when he opened the door—the big oak door—and walked into the marble hallway—in which stood
two armed soldiers, with his mother.
"Mom?" he'd asked in a small voice.
His mother had tried to smile at him. Had smiled at him, her pale blue eyes twinkling in the delicately made up face. "Sweetheart…it's for the best."
Everything about her was made up, he realized. Her life was made up, with delicate cosmetics hiding ugly truths.
His life was made up, too.
Ffflpt. His eyes had rolled back in his head and he'd seized on the ground, still conscious, still afraid. He has recognized the symbols on the soldiers' uniforms.
He couldn't believe his parents had sold him out.
His own mother.
-1-
He blinks away the thick, sticky mucus in between his eyelids. He feels heavy, and thirsty, and itchy, but he can't move.
Move. Movement.
He watches the tattoo needle as it approaches his skin, his gag biting into his cheeks, forcing a smile he doesn't feel. The man holding the needle doesn't look anything
like an artist. He is a plain, older man, with a sour face. He looks like he enjoyed his job, though.
"GRRRRRRRRAH!" He snaps his head back as the needle stabs him, over and over, grazing over extremely sensitive spots. Pounding his skin into a bloody pulp. He is tied to
the chair, and something else is tied, too. He isn't different anymore. He can't move things.
Cotton. He tastes cotton, and blood, from his nose. Someone, earlier, slammed the heel of their palm into his nasal bone, causing it to rupture and bleed. It is now aching dully,
no where near as sharp as the fire vibrating up his bones as the tattoo takes shape over his inner forearm.
"STRP!" he yelps through the gag. "STRRP! STRRRRRRP IT HRRRTS!"
"God, will you shut him up?" the man says. "I'm going to end up branding him an X this way. See how that goes over."
WHRUMP! A heavy rifle butt makes contact with the side of his head.
-x-
He is awake again, his head lolling on his limp neck. He raises it slowly, afraid of the pain. What if moving makes it worse? What if his head comes off?
He certainly won't be different anymore if it does. Just a headless corpse.
He is moving. He is in the back of a dark van that smells of urine and decay. Festering wounds. His shoulders cramp behind him, his wrists aching under the
heavy rope restraints. He realizes that the mouth gag has been removed. "There must be some mistake!" he shouts, struggling. "I'm not just anybody! I'm
a Keller! My father will—"
No one answers him. His voice is muffled; as soon as the words leave his mouth, they disappear. He has never felt so alone, so lost. He is really and truly scared.
"Let me GOOO!" he shouts, fighting as hard as he can in a hysterical manner, and getting nowhere. His situation seems full of no.
"HELP ME! SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP MEE!"
He wonders if it's all a dream. A bad dream. The truck lurches as it stops; was someone finally coming for him, having heard his cries for help?
No—the truck simply starts again.
Two days. He is hungry, starving, and he has to go to the bathroom again, but the smell is already bad enough that he can detect it through his blood-caked
nostrils. No one has opened the door, no one has fed him. No one has given him water. He thinks longingly of home. He'd been planning to go to the kitchen
and pour himself a glass of refrigerated soda, when he'd encountered the soldiers. He'd thought he'd been thirsty, but now he knows what he felt
then was nothing.
He leans his head back against the wall of the van and tries not to cry, because that will make him thirstier. And a pussy. But it is hard, and in the end he fails,
adding more bodily fluids to the sticky mess.
Three days. He slips in and out of consciousness, falling over at one point. He is too weak to sit back up, having a concussion from the several head wounds he
now sports, so he simply lies in his own filth. Something feels so wrong. His body doesn't feel right. They've done something—they've taken his power away. He
feels dull and lifeless without it, all injuries and malnourishment aside.
On the fourth day, he is aware that the van has not moved for a long, long time. He panics and begins to yell again, thinking that they have walked off and left
him. Or maybe they're dead, and he's going to die, alone in the dark. He rolls around on the floor, away from his spot, and forces himself to his knees, determined
to find something to cut the bonds with. There is hope—there is always hope. He's special, no matter what they've done.
"GRR!" he says as he clambers about.
The doors to the van open, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the barrage of light that blinds him, makes his head scream with pain.
"Shut the fuck up, mutie!" whoever opened the door snaps. "If I hear one more god-damn sound, I'll forget about even taking you to the camp, you understand? I have
the authority to shoot you point-blank and deposit you in the woods."
He opens his eyes slightly. He needs to see. A man in uniform, a Purifier uniform, with that horrible mutated cross. Yes—they think mutants are horrible—so does he.
The mutants in question are different, though.
They're the mutants, to him. Mutated beyond human compassion into something else entirely. Monsters?
Beyond the man is what he wants to see though. He is terrified—his eyes widen. He is finally silent, realizing that his family name isn't going to pull him out of this grave,
no, not this one. A long, endless train of vans, identical vans, with men in uniform at the wheel. They are on the interstate, creeping forwards. And in the vans are others.
Others like him—different people. Mutants.
"Christ." The door slams shut and all is quiet again.
-x-
Click.
The door opens again, six days later. He doesn't look up, hanging his head and staring sullenly at the floor he can now see. It doesn't matter.
"Get up." A rifle pokes him in the ribs and now he looks up; the man is in the back of the van. He falls onto his knees and remains there, too weak. He is
grabbed by his restrained wrists and dragged across the floor, his knee catching an unprotected nail head and sustaining a flesh wound.
Crunch. He drops like a stone to the ground, a distance of four feet, from the truck bed to the gravel. He moves his face slightly to the side and spits out
pebbles, amazed that he didn't break any teeth on impact. That will probably come soon enough though.
"Pathetic," the man says, looking down at him from the truck bed. He jumps down and lands on the gravel with a crunch, then picks him up by his wrists again
and drags him along the rough surface, ignoring his cries of pain.
-x-
"New. For cleanup. Fucking thing pissed itself and bled all over my truck," the man grunts, kicking him on the floor in the stomach. Not in anger. Just with mild
annoyance, that he's a thing, and has to be such a burden. He feels humiliated, but he can't even pick himself off the ground because his legs are tied at the
ankles like he's going to be roasted on a spit.
What would want to eat him, in the condition he's in?
"Typical," a new voice murmurs. A man. "Well, let's get the hose on it. Go and sign out with delivery. Least you get a commission…good rate too, that
was a pretty fast round-up."
"You know it." Scuffling, sound of pen on paper.
"Alright. See you later, Jim. Take care of yourself out there."
Footsteps.
Wham! Right in his side, a boot. He curls around it in a fetal position, his eyebrows drawn together and blood running out of his mouth, but he refuses to cry, to
snivel. He would've done that a week ago, when his mother betrayed him, but he had a lot of time to think in the van.
A hand reaches down for what he thinks is his restraint, but instead he feels a sharp pain in the wrist that he can't see. A needle. His heart pounds in his ear,
they're injecting him with something and he doesn't know what it is. A nightmare.
The world slows, a few minutes later, feels like glue. He is dimly aware that his ties have been severed and that he is being hauled to his feet. And that his
clothes—his favorite shirt—is being cut away, with scissors. Despite the tranquilizer, he is scared as the scissors pause near his boxers. He knows what the
man is thinking. He catches the man's eye. Please, don't, he thinks, but his jaw is too stiff to get the words out. All that comes out is "Urrrr…" like a growling
dog. A growling, stupid animal.
WHAM! His head snaps to the side as the man backhands him. "Don't you look at me, abomination," the man shouts. Spit hitting him in the face.
The man bends over again, the cold scissors touching his leg and slicing through the fabric. But in the end, all he does is strip them away.
He hangs his head, his eyes closed. The man shoves him in the shoulder blade with a leather-gloved hand, and he stumbles forwards, into a room of white
tiles, almost losing his balance. He looks up slowly, and through doubled vision sees shower heads.
Gas? He wonders, his heart beating in his ear again. He wants to throw up but there's nothing in his stomach, plus his throat seems frozen.
No, it's just a shower room. He stumbles into the wall, having forgotten to stop his legs in his drugged state, and he slides down it, leaving a trail of blood
and pus from his new tattoo on the white surface as he sinks to the floor in a heap.
The man enters the room, and an enormous jet of ice-cold water suddenly bursts out of a hose he is carrying. It stings, quite badly, and his entire body numbs,
then begins to ache. He closes his eyes. This is worse than the filth.
-x-
With blue lips and a thin paper outfit (shorts), he is led to another room and forced into a big chair. A machine starts—wurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—and is applied to his head,
making his skull vibrate as it slices away the last thing he has left of his former life, his hair. He is made to watch in the mirror, but he doesn't show any emotion. He
wonders how they could hope for emotion when they've pumped him too full of drugs to feel.
"Y'like that, you damn Y?" the man asks, pushing the razor in purposely so it nicks his scalp. He winces. He felt that.
"Didn't think so. Y, you motherfucker, why should I care? Your kind goddamn killed my wife. Put your monster seed in her. The thing clawed its way out and she bled to
death." The barber wrinkles his nose. "I could make you bleed to death, slit your throat, hell, jam this down your throat and watch you twitch."
"Urrr," he says, his eyes wide with fear. "N-no, ppl..pleeze…"
"To hell with you," the barber says, turning off his razor. "Get the fuck out of my chair and thank your lucky stars that my blade's too dull."
He stumbles out of the chair as the next guard grabs his arm.