Helping a Hero
A/N: Wow! 19 Followers in less than 24 hours, pretty impressive considering this is my first real story. I just wanted to write a thank you note to everyone who liked, favorited, or reviewed this story. I really appreciate the feedback. Now that I got that out of my system:
As promised here is the first chapter of "Helping a Hero." I really hope you guys like it!
Chapter 1- The Mirror Room:
DP POV: 5:00 AM, Compound
The day I was rescued, I woke up to another day in my own personal hell.
"Rise and shine, Ghost-scum!" My nightshift guard (Larry? Lucas? Something that started with an "L") shouts as he turns on the bright over-head lights. He reminds me of my old gym teacher—big and loud and always ready to throw a punch. Usually those punches were aimed at me. From the way he stands I would say that he was ex-military, probably dishonorably charged with the way his temper flairs up too. I wouldn't have believed it a few years ago, but I actually miss hanging out with Ms. Tetslaff during gym, at least she couldn't actually hit me.
"Didn't you hear me, Ghost-punk? I said, 'Rise and shine!' That means get up, now!" He yells at me while walking inside my cell. Well, it's not really a cell, it's more like an "observation" room. Three of the walls are made of one-way mirrors, and I know why too (I've seen those detective movies). They want to see whatever I do when I'm not with them, how I do it, and whenever I do it (which is super creepy by the way). I sit in the corner to the left of the door, next to the only real wall of the cell. I have plenty of scratches in neat little rows until it gets to about fifty-something and then they taper off and become less frequent and smaller, uncertain, until you get to the edge of the mirror-wall. There the scratches just abruptly end.
I don't move from my spot while he's yelling; I know better. As the old saying goes, "I'm doomed if I do, and I'm doomed if I don't. Might as well don't." This particular guard is temperamental, and I've already experienced what happens around him—plenty of times. If I follow his orders and get up, he'll take off the Plasma Taser on his belt (all the guards have them) and shock me until I pass out for "threatening" him, and if I don't follow his orders he'll use it like a cattle prod to get me to stand up. This isn't something that I can fight him on, in fact it's fairly typical. At least this way the pain only lasts for as long as I take to get to my feet.
And sure enough as soon as he got within range, he pulls the weapon off and points it in my direction threateningly. "I said get up, boy!" He yells once again before striking. Jeez, I didn't even have enough time to brace myself this time. A familiar pain spreads throughout my system instantly and my muscles automatically start convulsing at the electricity, but even though it hurts—a lot—this is a familiar pain and can usually be dealt with. I grit my teeth and concentrate through it. One hand pushes me off the ground while my feet rush underneath me to balance my weight out.
The pain stops after I'm on my feet, but the aftershocks of the electricity are still flowing through my body: my arms still seize wildly from my lack of control.
"See, isn't it better when you just follow orders?" The guard asks in a false sympathetic voice while grinning at me like a cat that just ate the canary. That's it, I officially hate him—he just earned himself the name Larry. But I don't voice this newfound hatred like I would have if we had met…earlier in life, they had already beaten whatever resistance I had out of me.
This is actually a pretty typical way for my mornings to start, I mean there have been worse mornings with worse guards, but this is usually how I get woken up. I actually have a pretty reliable schedule that I try not to be too thankful about, but it's really hard not to be thankful because I remember what it was like in the beginning. Those first few horrible weeks in the first facility with nothing but "really, really painful experiments," beatings from the guards, and hours of nothing but sitting in a plain white cell really made a person think about what was important in life. It wasn't a very happy time: I tried to escape all of three times before I gave up because after the last attempt I just didn't have the energy for another (the beat-down I took for that last one was brutal). And I tried to keep up with the time that passed while I was there but failed miserably at that too.
In that time I figured out that stability is very important to me—it means that I can predict what's going to happen—well that was pretty important, but there was also two more things on my priority list: sleep and food. Imagine their surprise when they figured out that I had to eat and sleep like a normal person to exist. They figured it out eventually—after a week or so of starving me to death. It's a good thing my ghost-form is so durable or else I wouldn't have made it.
Shortly after they figured out that I wasn't quite what they thought I was, they moved me to a different facility, I think, because here nobody wears those bug-eyed gas masks when they're around me, and my ghost-sense doesn't go off every few minutes like it used too. Oh yeah, and I got that snazzy new mirror room where I could see every bump, bruise, and blood stain everywhere I turned.
Other than the blatant lack of privacy, this new room isn't as bad as the first. I have a cot to sleep on, a small bedside table full of the stupid white uniform they want me to where, and a sink in the back corner (with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a plastic cup of all things—I guess they got tired of me having stinky breath). Those are some of the most precious personal items I own other than the black comb that they gave me for "good behavior" (I liked that guard—her name was Mary). The only other thing in the cell with me is something to "entertain" myself: a red bouncy ball. Seriously, how old do they think I am? I know that I'm short and all, but I've gained a few inches, and, after that run-in with Dan, I know that I'm going to hit a growth spurt sometime within ten years. I don't look that young, but I've got to admit that on the rare afternoons that there isn't anything scheduled for me to do, that bouncy ball has kept me sane. My high score is 783 bounces without dropping it or being interrupted by the guards.
I'm getting side-tracked again, aren't I? Well anyways, my schedule is pretty decent. I get up at five every morning, six on Saturday, if it's going to be a good day. After they wake me up I have fifteen minutes of uninterrupted free time—I'm guessing that they expect me to get dressed and ready to go. I'm escorted from my cell to the gym, which usually only takes about fifteen minutes. From five thirty to seven thirty I practice in the gym to let the scientists test and monitor my powers, and they let me have a water break at six o'clock and seven o'clock. On a more positive note, I can now successfully lift a little over a ton. Which is pretty impressive considering I only weigh like what?—175 pounds…or maybe it's 165?
After I'm through with the full body work out, I get to go back to my cell and they bring me breakfast. The food isn't any better than the cafeteria food I ate back home (it even comes on one of those cafeteria trays too!), but at least the meals aren't trying to kill me like my mom's. However, I'm pretty sure they drug the drink that they give me at night because after dinner I'm out like a light.
After breakfast I'm whisked off to somewhere else at eight o'clock. It's always to either flight or fight practice, which usually takes up the rest of my morning and goes on until at least two o'clock, with a lunch break at twelve and periodic water breaks. I don't know why but the scientists are insistent that I constantly train to improve my powers and take care of my health. They always have some new technique for me to fly faster, hit harder, shoot straighter…it's all very annoying to say the least. They won't let me quit until I do it perfect at least fifteen times. It's a welcome distraction from the monotony from my cell but…at the same time though I can't help but wonder why they would want me to do with these newly acquired skills. It makes me nervous.
Training takes up most of my day, but after that my day is smooth sailing with me just hanging out in my room (probably being watched by those creeps) until dinner. Unless it's a Friday, in which case I'll be taken from my room after thirty minutes to go to a lab, where they proceed to strap me to a bed and test different things out on me. There isn't much more they can test on me at this point, I think. I've got scars from numerous tests and procedures that I can't exactly remember but have terrible nightmares about. The tests are the only reason I get to have an extra hour to "rest and recuperate." The only thing they do that is consistent, however, is to pump me full of what they've called the "C.M." I don't really feel like doing anything after that—thinking, talking, or…hurting them for what they've done to me. I will follow orders, though, whether I want to or not; it's not like I have a choice. I hate the way Fridays end—a lot.
I have a theory that they created those drugs specifically for me and that my body has learnt how to counteract them, but that it takes almost an entire week to lose the potent effect of the drugs. After about Wednesday, I can start resisting in my own little ways and by the end of Thursday I am fully capable of doing whatever I want. The second part of my theory is that the blackouts—those times when I can't remember anything for a specific amount of time—are from times when the doctors gave me extra medicine and my mind completely shuts down while doing whatever they tell me to do, like a living puppet. Well it's either that or a side-effect of taking the CM.
The idea of training me and using me as a (half) human puppet is a totally ridiculous idea on their part though because why would they want a super-strong, well-trained captive who hates your living guts?
Published: 2/03/16
