...Quiet...It is so quiet...
The Shackles, they burned into his skin as they were fastened, quick and tight, the leering faces above blurring into shadows, jackal grins standing white against the darkness.
Where...? Where am I...? I-Itex...
The injections, they were the worst, the fluids they released into his veins not fit for the rats that wriggled across his body each and every night, their flashing teeth sinking into his skin to taste the tainted blood that flowed through him.
Something...Something is missing...
He no longer remembered when or where or what, he no longer knew of the one who he searched for every night, the walls that held him to thick even for his vision, his scrabbling, bleeding hands as they scratched fruitlessly against the roughened walls during those brief, sunshine filled moments of sudden clarity, the clouds of confusion descending all to soon over his all-seeing eyes.
I...I can't remember...I can't...
They always came, slick hands pulling him upright to force the blessedly cool liquid down his throat and into the ball that was his stomach, bits of bread forced along until he would double over at their studded feet, retching all the would come to the cracking floor, crawling with the last of his strength onto the steel frame that served as his resting place, lids closing over to dream, to dream of the freedom that now eluded him.
How long...How long until I die...
It was like he was melting, he observed wryly, holding up a ghostly pale hand, olive tone next to nonexistent as he was hung once more from the shackles, bare back against the wall. He would enjoy it once their blood was spilt, eyes boring into his captors back as they slinked from the room, brushing the bloodied feathers from the forms, his wings laying useless against his sides.
Yes, he would see them bleed.
-( Fate of Man )-
The papers, they wouldn't have usually brought about Sam Witwicky's attention as he forced the reluctant Goverment employee's into action, his car turned alien burbling happily as he carried the Holy Grail of his planet, cradling in his arms like a newborn babe.
As he said, on a normal day he wouldn't have noticed them, but this day was far from normal. Far, far, from normal. So far, in fact that-
Okay, enough with that.
But, as fated for the poor boy, the diminutive stack of paper in an otherwise sterile environment loaded with guns was just the edge he needed to arouse in his frantic, frazzled mind.
"Hey, Simmons, yeah, yeah, you. Would you mind telling me what the hell these are?"
He shoved the files beneath the Sector Seven's field agent rather unceremoniously, jaw jumping in irritation as his eyes flitted between the allied men...and women if you counted the hackeress and delinquent.
"Listen here, little man, I am not authorized what is or what is not in those files, got that?"
Yeah, cause that is so going to work. Rolling her eyes, Mikaela Banes, the dark haired beauty who had been Witwicky's object of affection for a while now, grabbed the papers, the sandy folder rough against her palms and achingly familiar to the countless ones that had been slammed down before her in her early years.
"So," she stated brusquely, cocking a hip as her blue eyes scanned the files critically, stopping on a list of names and numbers. "You don't know who Subject F320B7, aka Fang? And you, of course, wouldn't have the faintest idea who this little girl, Subject Z841K909 is? Or her alias, Angel?"
The photo was held up like an offensive note, the smiling girl exactly as her name said. An Angel. Blonde curls pulled up in a sloppy bun, her eyes were bright and crinkled with the force of her mischievous grin, holding a beaten up Teddy like it was her lifeline, dressed in a pink ballerina tutu.
She looked to be ten, twelve at the most.
Beside her like a silent guardian stood a young man with womanly long hair (actually, it was most likely longer than Mikaela's, Sam observed), the dark mass knotted into a topknot held in place with a single purple band, his unsmiling face almost cruel next to the girls, but his loosely curled hand around the girl's spoke otherwise.
Simmons averted his eyes.
Clenching his teeth, Sam slammed a fist into the wall, the image of the girl imprinted into his mind. What was a girl like that doing in a place like this? Never mind with the name of "Subject Z841K909".
"Where is she?" he growled, closing his eyes in exhaustion. What more could life throw at him?
"We don't know." As calm and collected as ever, Banachek shuffled some of the papers on the solid desk, pointing to the most recent document, mouth quirked slightly in a smug grin.
Subject Z841K909 has escaped.
She was reported missing after her feeding at 0800 hrs this month (June) of this year (2007). Teams have been dispatched for her recovery.
"What about the man?" he murmured, wiping a bead of sweat from his neck as the room temperature rose, the pipes groaning in seeming pain as they sucked up the increasing humidity. "Where is he?"
Simmons mouth opened once more the spew his disapproval, but the barrel of William Lennox's gun was enough to silent the unruly man. "Subject F320B7," he stuttered as the gun dug into the back of his neck, "Is still in our confinement. I saw to him myself at 1300."
"You're going to take us to this boy, you got that?" Lennox growled, forcing the agent down the hall, "And you're gonna release him too, understand?"
At his nod, a smile cracked the granite of his face grimly, eyebrow quirking to signal to their motley group that they should follow.
-( Fate of Man )-
The prison cells, it seemed, lay several levels below the one they had originally ventured, and, soon, Sam was gasping for breath as the heat and humidity rose to an almost unbearable level. The elevator upon which they were crammed rattled in protest as it came to a grinding halt, a sudden breeze of freezing air chilling their bodies and cooling the sweat that had poured from them, the flickering lights above revealing the horrors of any prisoner unlucky enough to offend the American government to such a degree as to land themselves here.
The place was barely lit, a dusty light bulb lighting up every fifty feet or so in the long hallway studded with steel reinforced doors, names and dates inscribed upon each and every one. In most cases with the death date accompanying soon after their original imprisonment.
Bronislav Utkin -b. March 11 1919, imp. September 24 1962, d. December 30 1980-
And so it went, over and over as they descended ever deeper into the labyrinth, empty cages like gaping mouths, starving in the dank tunnels with the suffering ghosts of their prisoners.
"Here, this is it."
Carelessly, Simmons swung open the latch of a rusted door, frowning as filthy water spilled down from the frame and onto his pressed sleeve, keys rattling as they slid into the lock. Impatient, Sam tapped his foot as it took both Epps and Lennox's strength to force open the hatch, hissing as it swung open.
Complete darkness met them.
"Uh..."
"Oh, look, their back, what will they do today?" The voice erupted from deep inside the cell, the voice twisting with the edge of a manic of insanity, chains clattering as an emaciated form crawled into view, blue black hair falling in a fan around his face as he raised it, onyx eyes wild. "Will they cut or slash? Force and bite? Or will they make I fight?"
"Boy." Simmons acknowledged, hands shaking as they reach for the fetters around the boy's hands, the thigs clattering as they fell to the stone floor.
His eyes briefly registered confusion as he stood on shaky legs, emaciated form skeletal against their Sam's own skinny hide, the midnight wings upon his back flaring, mouth splitting in a maniacal grin.
"I never break a promise..."