Title: Unnatural Redux
Author: BlueLunacy7
Chapter Warnings: Reference to torture, nothing graphic
Pairings: None at the moment but future Sam/Bee
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, the any quotes or lyrics, or song titles in anyway, shape, or form.
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Chapter 2: Vice and Virtue
You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it.-Robin Williams
He slept deeply and dreamed of fire, smoke, and death.
Dreamed of a metallic world filled with large towers and spiked spires, metal body parts littering every surface, explosions of light that showered hot sparks, huge clouds of black smoke, vast smolder craters, unimaginable destruction, and total devastation as far as the eye could see.
He was held by someone, safe and warm and small in their arms as they ran from the hum of weapons, the sound of metal on metal blows, ran from the trilling, whistling, rumbling noises, sounds no human throat could produce and no human ear could hear.
But he could hear them, could understand them for to him those strangely familiar sounds were voices, a clamor of voices screaming in rage, in agony, in anguish and unholy joy.
:…keep safe….hidden…:
:…So small….may not survive…:
:Sleep little one. I will be here when you awake:
He woke up, panting hard, skin drench in sweat. He lay still for a moment, trying to calm his breathing and trembling limbs. That dream again, it was always the same nightmare, never truly fading into nothingness when he woke as dreams usually did, it seemed to hover on the edge of his mind, waiting. Sometimes he wondered if it was more, so vivid, detailed, and so unlike any dream he ever had.
Even though it was just a dream, sorrow and anger flowed through him at the thought of the other who had been carrying him, who lied when they promised to be there when he awoke. His nails bit into the palms of his palms, the small pinpricks of pain allowing him to calm down. There was no use getting upset over a dream of all things, it wasn't as if it was real after all and anger would do him no good here. Knowing he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he sat up in the bed, leaning his back against the cool wall.
Painfully bright white walls glared back at him, seeming almost to glow under the bright lights. He'd long gotten used to the sight of his cold and sterile cell. The only amenities, if one could call them that were a bare sink and toilet. Across from him was a wide mirror embedded into the wall. Two-way, he knew having seen it on the other side.
There was no privacy, no protection, no place to hide, just hour after hour in the cold white cell with only the sounds of his breathing and the humming light overhead most days when the 'tests' weren't being conducted. He should have been placed in a padded cell, straightjacketed and foaming at the mouth long before this.
Even now, he wanted to scream, rant, and rave, to inflict deep and bloodily wounds on himself as he had in the first days, when it feel as if his skin was crawling with horror as blue blood welled up from the wounds. The tank behind the toilet no longer had a removable lid after he used it break the mirror and then attempted to bash one of the 'orderlies' skull in when they tried to stop him.
That had been some time ago (days, weeks, years? With the lights always on, time here had blended together a while go). He knew couldn't afford the attention insanity would bring him but being completely sane was out of the question as well, enduring the 'tests' wouldn't allow decent mental health.
Sanity is relative. Patience stated softly, having picked up his line of thought.
'So says the voice in my head.' He grumbled, tucking his cold feet beneath himself in an attempt to warm them.
Perhaps you're a voice in mine, a figment of my imagination.
'Well, dream me up better accommodations would you?' He requested, making her laugh.
Auditory hallucinations were associated with psychotic disorders or brain damage (God knows he'd been hit in the head enough times to do permanent damage) but while there were more than a few nuts in his family tree and which side of the sanity line he stood on was up for debate at the moment, he was fairly sure he wasn't crazy crazy. It was the loneliness, he figured, the need to speak to someone else, to be someone more than simply Subject 2501.
Besides, didn't the insane have a multitude of voices in their heads? He only had two: Wrath and Patience. Maybe it was odd to name figments of imagination at all, but it was a step better than calling them The Voices. Besides, Wrath couldn't remember his original name and Patience had never offered hers.
They claimed to be imprisoned like him, their location unknown. Of the two, Wrath concerned him the most. Even though what it would mean about his mental health scared him, part of him prayed that Wrath was simply a figment of his mind; otherwise, the world was in trouble when Wrath escaped. Intense violence and viciousness seemed to flow off Wrath like lava, his hatred for humanity on the forefront. The few times him spoke, it was always in blissful tones of how once he was free; he would cleanse the planet of its human inhabitants.
Patience was like her namesake: quiet, steady, even-tempered and the one who talk to him the most. At times, she seemed far older than himself, at other times it was like she was child with too much curiosity. However, she wasn't happy with Wrath, he had done something to earn her anger, but she never said what.
The click-click of high heels on the hard floor in the hallway outside his cell interrupted his thoughts and Patience fell silent. The high heels pointed towards a woman, which was a bit unusual for there were no female orderlies and even if there were, high heels weren't a part of dress code.
Highs heels made it so much harder to stay balanced when a Subject fought back.
Therefore, that meant one of the scientists was standing outside, watching him through the mirror. Maybe today was just an 'obverse and assess mental health' day, not a 'how much pain could the guinea pig take,' day. Though with the way his luck ran, it was the latter rather than the former.
Suffocation, electric shock, burning…..lately they seemed fascinated by how fast his bones healed from fracture. Fighting would only result in malicious use of a shock stick. He got off the bed and pressed himself into the corner farthest from the door, knowing it was useless, praying silently to whatever Gods were listening that today wouldn't be a bad day, even though such a prayer was a waste of time.
'Please God,' he begged as the lock clicked and the door opened, 'please God, please God….'
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Happy holiday,
-BlueLunacy7