The first thing that Wade noticed was the smell. The strong scent of rot and filth filled his nose and made his stomach turn, and he gagged. It took a moment to realize that he needed to roll over or move, otherwise he was going to choke on his own vomit. And it took effort. Effort that Wade hadn't anticipated he would need to make such a small movement. The motion tipped him over an edge he wasn't aware of, and Wade flopped onto a sticky, putrid floor.
Wade's entire body felt weak, his joints stiff as if he hadn't moved in a very long time. With his healing factor, those aches and pains were seldom present. When he finally opened his eyes, his vision was blurry as if looking through thick, yellow fog.
He took in a lungful of fetid air, and gagged out the only word he could think of, "P-Peter!"
The only answer was complete silence.
With all his strength, Wade pushed himself up to a sitting position, his hands and knees sliding on the slimy floor. His head fell back. His whole body felt weighted down. He was cold and simultaneously hot. Sweat poured from his face even as his body shook and teeth chattered. He did his best to suppress the shivers, which only served to make his insides feel like they were twisting.
"Peter!" he again called out, his hoarse voice echoing off the walls. Again, no answer.
His head was throbbing now, a constant pain that intensified with every sluggish beat of his heart. The pain made thinking impossible. Everything was in a fog. He couldn't remember where he was or how he got there, couldn't remember what he was doing just moments ago. And it felt like he'd been somewhere just before smelling the stench. An old place. A school. Fountain. Stairs. Someone… It was so hard to remember.
Peter was there, wasn't he? He had to have been. But the problem was, Wade was struggling to remember who exactly Peter was. Now and then the fog parted and he saw brown eyes and messy hair, but other than that "Peter" was just a name. A name that made him ache in a different way. A name that made tears come to his eyes.
Wade choked out a sob, gasping the name one more time as he hugged himself and began rocking back and forth. The disgusting scent around him started to fade, but he couldn't quite bring his mind and body back together. Not until he felt the water.
It was warm water. Clean, and he was immersed in it up to his chest. There were hands on him, moving in circles, slick against his skin with soap that filled his senses with the earthy aroma of sandalwood and cedar. Water splashed against him again, and Wade let out a soft sound at the comforting feeling.
"Peter," he whispered, his head drooping forward.
A voice behind him said, "I knew you were starting to wake."
The voice was familiar, but the only name Wade could remember was "Peter", which he whispered again. The person at his back shifted, the water shifting with them, coming to rest between Wade's knees. A moment later a soft cloth was on his face, dabbing gently at his eyes. Wade could feel the gunk coming away with each swipe, and when the cloth was removed, Wade finally opened his eyes.
The person sitting in front of him did not have messy brown hair. Nor did he have dark brown eyes. And his name sure as fuck wasn't Peter.
"Stryfe," Wade said in a voice that was too hoarse to show how much terror he felt in that moment.
Stryfe reached towards him, and Wade flinched back. He wanted to run, but his body was too weak. Seeing the reaction, Stryfe's hand went back in the water, a frown on his face. "I'm not going to hurt you, Wade. I have learned my lesson."
"Lesson…?" Wade managed to croak out. The shivering was back despite the warmth of the water. He finally managed to look down at his body. His scarred skin hung loose on his too-thin arms. His hands looked leathery, and his fingernails were long and clawlike. Even after soaking in the bath, he could see the accumulation of tissue under them, the source of which was probably the deep scratches on his chest and upper arms. He reached up to touch his face and jerked his hand back, feeling bone.
"It's okay." Again, Stryfe reached for him, his hand coming up to cup Wade's face. Wade could barely feel the touch, light as it was. He said, "You've been gone a long time. And I have missed you very much."
"Long time…" Wade whispered. He tried to understand, really understand. But the fog in his head felt even more impenetrable than before. "Where… I don't…" He withdrew from the touch, curling in on himself as he held his head. "I can't remember."
"It is my fault, my beloved." Stryfe sounded genuinely remorseful. He gently stroked Wade's shoulder. "Your mind is so fragile, and I did not take care of you as I should have. I was a fool, and malicious. Your mind broke. And you…" He choked up a little, the yellow glow of his eye dimming as he said, "You withdrew into yourself. As far away from me as if you had died."
Wade shuddered as some of the fog lifted. He remembered so clearly being in Stryfe's presence. Remembered the torture and agony. Remembered blood caking his body and suit to the point it had to be scraped off his body. Not his blood. Blood of those he was forced to torment with Stryfe inside his mind directing each slash and twist of the blade. And the screams. They echoed through his mind as clear as a bell, as horrifying as any nightmare. And their faces…
"They were children," Wade gasped, gagging on a sob.
"I will never make you do that again," Stryfe said, his voice meant to soothe, but all it did was make Wade shake more. The terror was seizing his entire being, amplified by the fact that even with the flood of adrenaline, he couldn't move and he knew it was Stryfe's doing. He was Stryfe's puppet, and the bastard was holding his strings in an iron grip.
Somewhere in the fog, Wade could see beautiful brown eyes. They looked at him with love and adoration, a twinkle visible even in the dark accompanied by a smile that made the world stop. Beautiful, young, flawless. Perfection.
"Peter," Wade gasped, his shoulders shaking as helpless tears streamed down his face.
"It was a fantasy," Stryfe said softly. "Just a dream."
"No," Wade whimpered, even as the image of the younger man's face started to slip away like vapor. Along with it the feeling of being loved and cared for, something that felt so real. So desperately real that Wade had shouted for this fantasy upon waking. He again hugged himself, rocking in the water, saying over and over, "No no no no no no no."
Then Stryfe's arms were around him, and Wade sobbed and shook. He wanted to scream, wanted to die, wanted to wake up! But the harder he tried to remember his life, tried to remember Peter, the farther it moved from his reach. The only thing he could remember was a bloody table and lifeless eyes. Skin and gore that squished under his worn-out boots, and a smile from Stryfe that twisted him inside.
After bathing and dressing in the clothes Stryfe provided, Wade was seated at a table filled with strange foods that he didn't recall seeing before. Some of it could be identified as some sort of bird. There were vegetables, though he couldn't identify them. Probably something created by the Askani people to be nutritious and quickly synthesized. Somewhere in his mind, Wade remembered eating things like this. He remembered the stringy texture of the birds and the graininess of the roots. It was there, but he didn't remember liking it.
Then again, Wade had a hard time imagining he ever liked anything about this place. He felt numbed by it, like he existed but that was the extent of his involvement in his surroundings. The walls were gray and cold. There was no light coming through the narrow windows; his only view was that of a blackened sky. The air smelled like hot metal and ozone. Wasn't he somewhere better before? Wasn't there something better?
Chewing was awkward with the way his lips were pulled away from his teeth, as if his body had been consuming itself. Just going off the evidence, it was a correct assumption. He was so thin he could count his ribs, and his spine looked like a string of boney beads through the back of his shirt. He was emaciated, dried out. But still, he didn't really want to eat even if it would aid his healing factor. He didn't want to heal. He wanted to die.
"You need to eat, Wade," Stryfe said from his place across the table. "Your healing factor isn't what it used to be."
"Good to know," Wade mumbled before taking another bite of stringy meat. He washed it down with tepid tea made from some kind of cedar. It tasted bitter and hit his stomach like a dose of acid. His jaw was getting tired. His eyelids were getting heavy; everything felt so exhausting. Even breathing. Like he'd forgotten how to do that automatically. Like he was missing something important. Like an arm.
Wade stopped eating and sat staring down at his plate, the fog in his head momentarily lifting. For just a second, he could remember being in a dark bedroom. The young face of Peter staring at him with complete adoration, like he was the most amazing thing on the planet. And a voice… off key. A song…I thought love was only true in fairy tales. Meant for someone else but not for me...
Then the memory was gone, swallowed by the fog before Wade could even put it to words. He rested his heavy head on his hand, propping his elbow on the table for added support.
"Perhaps sleep would be best," Stryfe said. He reached down to lift Wade, but Wade shrugged him off.
"No," was all Wade could get out. He wanted to say, Don't touch me. Don't breathe on me. Don't even think about getting in my personal space. But he didn't have the energy. His voice was just as lost as the memories-or fantasies-he was struggling to recall.
Stryfe stepped away, and said, "Your chamber is where it has always been. If you need help…"
"Fuck you," Wade managed to hiss as he shoved up to his feet and started to walk away from the table. Of course he remembered where his chamber was. It was a dark room directly next to Stryfe's. There was a hard bed, a single blanket, and lots of devices for Wade's torture, torment, and humiliation. He was Stryfe's favorite toy, and one that was used frequently and not well maintained.
The thought of Stryfe touching him made Wade's skin crawl. And worse, he was so damned weak there was no hope of fighting him off. There was never much hope in this world.
It was a long walk, too. Longer than Wade recalled. But the other times that he had made the trek, he'd been strong, moving with mechanical efficiency as only a masochistic psychopath could manage. He hated Stryfe. Always hated him. But… He had the face of someone he loved once a very long time ago.
But Peter loved him recently. Wade was sure of this. He just couldn't remember the details. And as much as he hated to think it was true, maybe it was all just a dream. After all, Wade was ugly and scarred. He was insane. A killer. What kind of person could love him anyway? Certainly not someone as beautiful and perfect as the man in his imagination.
It was all a dream. This was his reality now. He belonged to Stryfe. And at some point, probably sooner than he wanted, Stryfe would come to claim him as he did before. It would be brutal and violent, and Wade would take it because at least someone wanted him.
Wade arrived at the room and stepped into the darkness, wishing desperately for it to swallow him whole. Wishing that he wouldn't fall asleep. Then wishing that he would stay asleep forever, because at least Peter was there.