Well, here we go. I introduce some fairly important original characters in this chapter, and if that bothers you, consider yourself warned and turn away now. If not, try to keep them in the back of your head, because we won't be seeing a few of them again for some time.
Chapter Two: Jayden Stone
The door to his cell opened and bright light flooded in. Scott instinctively shrunk away from the glow of florescent lights. The memory of the less than hospitable treatment he had been given so far made his stomach churn and he leaned over, vomiting up phlegm and stomach acid that left a burning feeling in his throat and mouth.
"Awe, poor little freak's sick to his stomach," one of the guards taunted.
"Fuck you," Scott returned half heartedly, as the other hoisted him to his feet roughly.
"Get up," he ordered. Scott tried as best as he cold to support himself, but his knees buckled under him, and he was forced to lean on one of the guards for support, as the took him from the room.
The hall was dimly lit, but it was a welcome change from the absolute dark of his prison. About halfway down the hall they crossed paths with a young woman. She was about 5 foot 10, sturdy hourglass shape, with long hair appearing dark with the tint of his visor, but with lighter highlights. She had a pleasant round face, with gentle high cheek bones, full lips, and almond-shaped eyes. She moved like an animal, graceful and confident, hunched over slightly, head down, eyes up. She moved almost like Wolverine—Scott didn't think a woman could move like that. As they passed each other the guard who had taunted him earlier went to smack her backside.
"Shaw!" She growled ominously, throwing him a dirty look before she continued on her way, muttering: "Fucking Neanderthals," as the two guards laughed. Scott couldn't help but let his eyes follow her, and wonder if she was a prisoner here too.
They took him into a small room and forced him down in a chair in the center of the room with spring loaded bands that automatically secured around his ankles and wrists. He couldn't help but be reminded of a Chinese raping chair—Damn Ororo for leaving that movie on human cruelty that day I subbed for her.
"Hello Mr. Summers," the son of a pig in a suit that had come to his cell before greeted him from his position across the room. "I hope this morning finds you well."
"Go have sex with yourself," Scott shot back with as much vigor as he could manage. If his students could hear the things coming out of their teacher's mouth these days.
"I think we might have to work on that attitude," the man taunted. Scott watched with morbid, detached interest as the Doctor wrapped a leather strap around his forearm with a wire leading from it to a machine just behind the chair.
"What do you want from me?" Scott demanded, wrists straining against his bonds. Suit and tie sneered at him from his position across the room.
"Well, the tricky thing is," suit and tie answered, feigning thoughtfulness. "We don't exactly want you." Scott frowned. If they thought they were going to learn anything about the institute from him they could torture him until hell froze over but he wasn't going to say a word. He wouldn't tell them anything about the professor, or his kids, his wife, his friends, his family. He'd die for them.
"What is your name," the doctor asked him in what sounded like a thick Swiss or German accent, maybe a bit of both.
Kurt, Scott sighed mentally, keeping his mouth shut, watching the doctor palm what appeared to be a chunky, black remote. The doctor hit a button on the remote, and Scott felt a strong electric current surge up his arm and across his chest before spreading to the rest of his body. He bit down hard to contain the shout of agony that would have escaped from him.
"What is your name?" The doctor repeated, as the pain began to ebb. Scott paused to reconsider: was this really the kind of question he should put up a fight about? They already knew the answer anyways.
"What is your name?" The doctor pressed, no less calm or cold than he had been the first time.
"Scott Summers," he replied grudgingly. Immediately another wave of pain shot through his body. This time he couldn't suppress the cry of surprise and pain.
"I answered your goddamn question, what the hell was that for?" He demanded. Suit and tie sneered as the doctor went on.
"Your name is Jayden Stone," the older man informed him. Scott took a few panicked breaths as the man rambled on. They were trying to brainwash him, or something, he decided in alarm. Make him think he was someone else—what was he supposed to do? Xavier never trained him for anything like this.
"When were you born?" The doctor asked him. Scott blinked behind the visor; he had missed that tidbit of information. He decided not to give his own because that was definitely not the right answer and opted for:
"I don't remember. Do you think you could repeat that for me?" Another shock and a whimper of pain.
"You were born July 27, 1976," the doctor continued.
"You made me a Leo," Scott noted. "I mean I've never actually been too big on astrology, but I think I could live with that. I never really liked being a Virgo, but my girlfriend always told me I was borderline." Another wave of electricity surged through his body. Scott shouted in pain, trying desperately to shake it off.
"You know this is starting to get old," he informed them. Suit and tie waved a finger at him.
"Attitude," he warned. Scott felt another shock pass across his upper body, this time it felt like someone had dropped a sack of bricks on his chest. He felt his heartbeat go askew and realized he was going into cardiac arrest, or arrhythmia, or something painful like that, and most likely deadly. Jean was the doctor, after all, not him. He grit his teeth against the pain and lurched forward in the confines of his chair. And for a while the other two stood there watching.
At that moment he thought that was it. He was quite certain he was going to die like that. And in retrospect, over the next few weeks, he was quite certain he would have preferred it that way. But after a moment the doctor stuck a needle in his arm, and whatever it was, it stabilized him. At least then they decided that he had enough for one session, and the next thing he knew the two guards were hauling him out of the chair and back towards his cell.
"Dr. Kovit treat you real nice, huh, mutie," the bald man—Shaw—taunted as he twisted Scott's arm until he yelped in pain. Scott fought then, thrashing and kicking as hard as he could, despite the convulsions still coursing through his body. His efforts didn't last long, as someone—possibly the doctor, or suit and tie—stuck a taser in his lower back. He cried out in pain sinking down on his knees, before the two guards hauled him up roughly and dragged him down the hall.
They tossed him in the cell and slammed the door loudly behind him. As he pulled himself up, he could see enough as he glanced around the room, to realize that it had been cleaned out in his absence. Although there was still that damn pole and the broken pipe hissing near the back of the cell.
He was still jittery and queasy and soon sunk to the floor, he just laid there with his face pressed against the cold concrete. They had kidnapped him, starved him, beat him, and electrocuted him, they wanted him to believe he was a whole different person, and gave him a heart attack. He started to wonder what else they could do. At least they hadn't raped him, yet. Scott was fairly secure with his masculinity, but he was well aware that he had an unnaturally pretty face for a man, even with the glasses, or the visor, or whatever the hell it was they had strapped to his head right now.
The door opened and soft footfalls entered the cell. Scott stayed where he lay. Whoever it was, he wasn't going to fight them, but he sure as hell wasn't going to cower away from them in fear. Against his will he felt another phantom spark shoot through his body and he jumped a little as his visitor silently knelt besides him. She, he assumed she, from the long hair that touched his arm slightly as she leaned over to examine him—possibly looking for any physical wounds—before she laid a dark fleece blanket over his shoulders.
She rubbed the soft fabric up and down his arm gently. And, having always liked soft things, he couldn't help but give a gentle sigh and close his eyes. She might have thought he was asleep in the dark, but whatever she thought; she decided to stay there and rub his back gently.
Scott kept his eyes shut, feeling her hand move up and down, back and forth and in gentle circles. He found that he was soon reminded of what Jean did for him some nights when they had returned from a mission that hadn't gone exactly as planned, and it comforted him. So in spite of himself he decided to stay still, let her rub his back, and allow himself to buy into the illusion that it was Jean there comforting him, and not some faceless woman.