Sometimes when he sleeps he is tormented by beautiful figments. These he fears more than his next waking hours. More than the room. More than what they will do to him in it.
He dreams of gleaming towers and golden spires. Of turrets, bridges and resplendent glass. Causeways of crystal stretch through a shining city, buttresses vaulting high above satin waves. Gardens and fountains adorn its terraces. Courtyards grace its hollows. And above it all stretches a vermillion sky, the eternal patterns of the cosmos but a veil's width from reach.
He cannot bear the sorrow he feels when they come to him. They do not feel like home.
o0o
He has been spared sleep this day. The price has been high, but one he has paid willingly.
He curls his fingers slowly, the tubing pinched and kinked between them. With the poison in his bloodstream reduced, he's been able to observe the comings and goings around him and discern their patterns. There has been discomfort. And humiliation. And fear. But there has also been knowledge, and an escape from the confusing tangle of his sleeping mind.
He is rarely left unattended. A constant cycle of nameless people attend to him as he lies prone, checking monitors, recording data, testing his restraints. Sometimes he's deliberately provoked to test his awareness, but the jabs and pinches are easy to ignore. He remains quiescent and quiet. Waiting. Watching.
His cell (if indeed it can be called such) is a simple room without windows or ornament. He lies on a surface he supposes passes for a bed, although it is uncomfortable, hard and cool. His wrists and ankles are secured with straps to its railings which prevent him turning onto his side. These restrictions do not trouble him. If he wills it so he can break them, but he does not wish to test his returning strength just yet. He must hoard his advantages and learn more about his captors if he's to best them, and that's something he sorely longs to do.
He thinks perhaps they mock him.
There appears to be a hierarchy of some form among them, marked somewhat by their strange and uniform garments. The white coated ones inflict the pain. They ask the questions, set the tests, give the orders. They are the ones who invade his mind.
The larger ones are the warriors. These carry weapons, enforce order, respond to their masters' commands. They guard him at all times and ensure his cooperation. Their black-clad bulk is lightly armoured, their hands rarely without weapons.
Then there are the underlings in pale, unremarkable green. Servants of some kind, tasked with menial labour. They see to it he continues to function, attend to his basic needs, aid his captivity and torture. These duties must be lowly ones, because they go about them with resentful malice.
He has snatches of memory of times on the floor. Of less than gentle handling. Of casual abuse and taunts. He notices these now and catalogues them. Searches for weaknesses. For lapses of judgement. When his opportunity comes, he will be ready.
o0o
The rattle of the cart is one he has come to recognise. It echoes along the corridor to his cell long before it arrives, accompanied by two of the smock-clad servants. He watches through carefully lidded eyes as the guard at his door moves aside for them, a bored expression on his square-jawed face.
He recognises these two. They come to take his blood from him, for what purpose he can only imagine. They change over the bags of liquid suspended above him. And sometimes they clean him in the most perfunctory manner they can manage.
The young female is in charge. She goads her companion into acts of casual cruelty, somewhat mindful of the guard at her back but without the caution that would suggest anyone would step in to stop them. The boy seems eager to please and delights in her creativity. They banter and snigger as they perform their duties and enact their unkindnesses, apparently oblivious to the subtle trickery he has managed. He will not risk repeating it until they have left, but that will require enduring the steady slide of poison into his blood in the meantime. With any luck he won't have to suffer it for long.
They make their first mistake soon after.
The guard at the door barks at them to finish their work. The brute is impatient to relieve himself and requires them to seek out another to take over his watch. A calculated look passes between the two underlings that the guard misses, and they make their complaints. They still have work to do. They suggest he cross his legs.
The guard replies to this insolence with some choice insults that only amuse them and orders them to remain in the room. With a final promise to cause them bodily harm if they disobey him, he departs in search of relief.
The two servants grin at each other and hurry into action.
They release him from his bonds and haul him upright, urging each other to speed as they do so. Careful to remain limp and pliant, he allows them to manhandle him from the bed. They kick his legs out from under him and lower him to kneel, a fist in his hair enough to keep him upright.
The boy rummages amongst the items on the cart and removes a small rectangular device hidden beneath folded sheets. The sight sends a thrill of adrenaline through him, but he forces himself to remain still. It becomes quickly apparent that it is not intended to cause harm. It is unlike the one the guards carry.
The woman at his side strikes a pose above him that he supposes is meant to represent dominance. Her free hand she contorts into a fist with small and index fingers extended. Her tongue she extends with an open-mouthed grin, revealing a small metal stud through its middle. The boy laughs, raises his device before his face and activates it, producing a small flash of white light and an electronic noise.
This done, the boy insists upon another pose. One he wants both of them to participate in.
This is their second mistake.
With only weak protest and a glance towards the door, the woman agrees, and they lift him back to his feet. He is propped against the cell wall and the two of them crowd in to either side, their faces pressed close to his. The boy outstretches his arm in front of them, the device pointed towards them. A small screen displays their image back to them, and the boy adjusts the angle to best capture the scene.
To either side of him, the pair of them choose their pose. The woman leans in to kiss his cheek, her eye playfully directed towards the recorder. The boy pulls a face like a child, presumably to suggest scorn. Again the device emits a flash and a sound, and the two pull away laughing, fists bumping together in a display of triumph.
That small distance is all the space he needs.
The pair of them squeak in dismay when he captures them both by the throat. He allows himself a brief moment to enjoy their shock before bringing their heads together with a crack. The device clatters to the floor and he releases their limp bodies to join it.
He steps over their inert forms to the cart and inspects it for anything that would serve as a weapon. The needles are sharp but flimsy and do not look likely to stand up to much force. He dismisses them as useless. He will be better served relying on his reflexes until he can procure something more substantial. He finds nothing else of use.
He steps from his poor excuse for a prison and considers his options. He takes a right. It's the direction the guard took when he left, but it's one he hasn't been forced along before. More importantly, it's a route away from the white room.
It has evidently been some time since he last walked unaided. Even without the poison in his veins he does not feel as strong as perhaps he should. His muscles ache with disuse and neglect. He rolls his shoulders to loosen the stiffness there and flexes his arms. He will need to work with what he has.
He is tested soon after. He slows to a stop as he nears an intersection and cocks his head to listen. The sounds of booted feet approach. He readies himself. The returning guard rounds the corner, coming to an abrupt stop at the sight of his prisoner standing in his path. The man gapes and scrambles for something at his side. He doesn't quite find it in time.
The man's cheekbone makes a satisfying crunching sound as it meets the corridor wall.
After some investigation, he finds an object strapped to the guard's belt that extends into something resembling a baton. It won't help him in close quarters, but its weight is reassuring. He finds no blades or projectiles, but to his disgust he does locate a means of torture. He considers taking it and attempting to operate it. Using it to bring down his enemies would be sweet revenge indeed. He finds however that even handling the device causes his gorge to rise, so instead he smashes it into pieces under the heel of the baton.
The last thing he takes is a ring of metal keys. He rips these from a belt loop and examines each one, but there is little to distinguish between them.
He rises to leave when a sound of static emanates from another device at the prone guard's shoulder. He can't quite make out the words, but there's an undeniably urgent tone to the voice that follows.
Almost immediately the overhead lights go out and he's plunged into total darkness. Next comes the shrill blare of an alarm and the distant sounds of people shouting.
This is inconvenient.
He supposes the discovery of his escape was inevitable, but he had hoped for more time than this. His captors will be all the more difficult to overwhelm with prior warning. Still, the darkness could also play to his advantage. He finds he feels comfortable in it for all its unknowns.
He pads further into its embrace, one hand skimming the wall, the other clutching the weapon at his side. It is several frustrating minutes' work to open the metal gate that bars his way, but with patience he's able to fit the correct key to the lock he locates with the pads of his fingers. He locks it behind him before he goes.
He encounters two more guards soon after. The first he takes by surprise with a swift upper cut, the club catching him just below the jaw. As that one staggers back he rounds on the second, blocking a similar blow to his collar bone and using the momentum to throw the guard to the ground.
The thrill of the fight is electrifying, and he finds he needs little conscious thought to guide his movements. He trusts to the simple wisdom of his reflexes, instinct driving each block and counter-attack. These men cannot seem to match him for physical strength, and their almost negligible body armour barely offers any protection from his blows.
It is over quickly, but there is no time for a further weapons search. Drawn by calls for aid from their struggling comrades, he hears the ominous approach of reinforcements.
There is nowhere for him to hide. He will not return the way he came. He pushes onward, and he will face what may.
Hand-held lights strobe through the darkness ahead of him as the group of men approaches. They stop when they see him emerge from the shadows and raise their weapons in warning. He ignores their commands to stop and begins to sprint. They fire.
Projectiles whistle over him as he throws himself into a slide, taking out the legs of the man nearest him. A second trips over his fallen comrade with a yelp as he rises, disarming a third with a sharp blow to the man's wrist.
He's required to flip one attacker over his shoulder when the man attempts to tackle him bodily. The distraction allows another the opportunity to bruise his ribs with a vicious strike, then follow it up with an agonising jolt of current that forces him to release the choke-hold he'd like very much to maintain.
A pulse of purest terror lends him the strength he needs to push his assailants back, and with a renewed sense of fury he launches himself back into the fight. He cannot afford to allow them a second strike with their electricity, so he opts for speed over finesse. The last guard to drop is dispatched with a sharp twist at the neck, but not before he's earned himself a number of additional bruises.
He stands over the collection of fallen bodies and works to bring his exploding breath under control. If he's to leave this place he needs to avoid open confrontation. He's not certain he'll be able to hold off better prepared assailants in greater numbers.
He takes a moment to examine the projectile weaponry the guards have dropped. He's disappointed to find them seemingly inert, though whether this is because they are empty or because he is unable to operate them correctly he is not sure. He wastes no further time lamenting this and lets the darkness of the hallway ahead swallow him once more.
His heightening senses lead him easily toward a promising doorway. It opens into a spacious area that must act as some sort of waypoint, with many other doors and passages leading from it. The unmistakable coolness of sweeter air draws him towards one in particular, but when he pushes at its smooth, metallic surface it resists his efforts. His questing hands find no lock or even a handle, just a seam running horizontally down its centre.
He is considering how best to leverage it open when the sounds of people approaching disturb him. He tucks himself around a corner as a group of three people skid into the space, beams of light bouncing from their hands. They are white coats, and they are agitated.
He watches as one of them swipes a flat rectangle through a protuberance in the wall next to the door that interests him. They repeat the action with progressively more frantic motions, apparently not achieving the desired effect. A short argument ensues and he listens with interest. The door apparently leads 'up', but without power they are unable to open it. They opt to go for help or to search out an alternative exit elsewhere, and he lets them pass unmolested.
He waits for a full minute before he emerges from his hiding place. The white coats do not return. He focuses his attention back on the door and runs his hand along its seam. He's able to hook his fingers into the narrow gap, and with some repositioning wrenches a wider space in between.
His eyes begin to adjust to the darkness again as soon as he's on the other side; light must be filtering in from somewhere nearby. A shaft disappears up into a shadowy recess above him, cables hanging from some unseen mooring, and a network of wires, pipes and runners spider across the brickwork on all sides. Cooler air caresses his upturned face. He decides to follow the draft.
The cables are greased, but with some effort and the aid of unclad feet he pulls himself up into the dark.
The climb is awkward, and before long he finds his way blocked. He quests in the dark for the exit the white coats talked of but finds no hatch or opening above him. He is about to descend when he makes out a sliver of pale light in the wall before him. Another sliding door.
This one is more difficult to open without the leverage necessary, and he is required to wedge himself onto the narrowest of ledges in order to get purchase at all. It's almost more than he can manage, but with a final push that strains at his shoulder he gets the doors moving.
He tumbles out into a corridor similar in layout to those he has left behind, but these have small, high windows lining one side. The night's sky is just visible through them, but even if he were tall enough to reach them they are too small to force a way through. He is encouraged however, even despite the sounds of chaos around him.
Were it not for the lack of people in his immediate vicinity, he would assume he has emerged into a scene of battle. To his left he hears the sounds of running. Shadows flicker past the panes of glass in the doors at the far end of the hallway as people hurry past. To his right he hears shouting and what could well be the report of weapons fire.
He wastes no time wondering at this development. Neither does he move to investigate the commotion. A short distance from where he stands is the door to a room he has a view of through a pane of meshed glass. It is lined with desks and monitors and uncomfortable-looking chairs, but these are not what interest him. Beyond is a line of windows, and beyond those is an outside space.
He tries each of his stolen keys, but none of them fit this door's lock. He throws them away in frustration. Backing up a couple of steps, he waits. A fresh round of weapon's fire is all the cover he needs, and he slams his heel into the centre of the door. It splinters down the middle, and with a second kick gives way entirely with a crash and a heavy scrape.
Ignoring the cut to his foot he negotiates his way around a jumble of overturned furniture displaced by his violent entrance. The crude barricade has done precious little to stop him, but it does beg a question. He sweeps his gaze over the room.
Two white coats cower beneath a desk in the far corner, their arms cradling their heads. One of them whimpers when they see him.
Outside is an area of grass enclosed by a high wire fence. Vehicles idle haphazardly along a track leading to a heavily-guarded gate. Fighters swarm like ants at the perimeter, long-barrelled weapons in their hands and baying hounds straining at tethers on their wrists. At a shout a group of them pivots to aim their weapons at the sky, and a volley of explosive blasts strafes the ground around them. It's enough to send them fleeing for cover, although their attacker remains out of sight.
He watches this with some apprehension and considers his options. He cannot stay here, he will not go back, and yet ahead of him lies a veritable army and an unknown assailant. Perhaps if he could find an alternative way out…
Louder shouts reach him from the interior behind him, followed by projectile fire only a corridor away. The white coats respond to this by trying to make themselves smaller where they huddle, and a particularly reverberating hit is enough to make him flinch. It ricochets off something metallic and is followed up by a building whine. There's a pause, then a pulse of light, then the airborne figure of a man hurtling past the ruined door.
He makes his decision. He flings a chair at the largest window with all the power he can manage, heedless of the cacophony of shattering glass. He yanks the nearest of the two white coats from their hiding place by the collar of the man's shirt and swings him towards the jagged exit he has just made.
The man begs for his life as he does this. He has no intention of taking the white coat's life himself; he'd make a poor shield if he were already dead.
He's about to launch them both through the gaping window when something monstrous steps into the room.
It is man-shaped, but it is no man. It gleams red and gold, an unnatural blue glow shining from its chest. There's a pneumatic whirr as it moves, and its eyes glow with baleful light. It is terrible to behold.
There is nothing to be done but to hold his ground, and he pulls his living shield to his body with a single arm. The other holds a shard of glass to its fluttering throat, his own blood running freely down its side. He barely feels the slices to his palm. His attention is entirely focused on the threat before him, the adrenaline singing in his veins.
He stares the metal man down and waits for it to make its move, but move it does not. Instead it speaks with an electronic voice, its words both baffling and absurd.
"Huh. Well, this I was not expecting. Do me a favour, Cuckoo's Nest – put the mad scientist down."