A/N: This is the last chapter of Prisoner Y that will be posted here. All further chapters will be on the website due to their content rating, so if you like this story, please check the site. Again:
h t t p : / / prisoner . forever . as
Remove the spaces. Enjoy!!
-2-
In a big room, with thousands of other people, in thin white garments like him, their heads shorn, their arms tattooed. Covered in cuts and bruises. People
of all different appearances—many not even normal colors, or shapes. There are some that look like piles of rock, dinosaurs, rainbows.
What happened? He wonders, his eyes slowly taking it in. So fast...we were safe and then…
He reaches up and touches a facial wound, marveling at the fact that he can move his arm again, after so long. He'd almost forgotten he had them.
He sits, cross-legged on the ground and watches the others curiously. Many talk to each other, others don't. There are couples, sitting together. He wonders
if they knew each other before or if they have just met and cling together so tightly for reassurance. To his astonishment, he sees couples having sex, in the
open, and he averts his eyes, even though he secretly wants to look. Now doesn't seem like the right time to be a boy, although that's what he is.
Or maybe he isn't. He's not sure anymore.
Gradually, he starts to listen. He doesn't like what he hears. His blood freezes, cold, and his fingers are numb.
Murmurs. Fearful tones. "The government passed it, I saw it on the news…just before they came…I mean it was obvious…the whole Mutant-Registration
act bullshit…no hope…"
"Directive…"
"Government..."
"…U.N…"
"…worldwide…"
Passed it. It sounds like a bowel movement. He draws his legs up to his chest. So this isn't an isolated incident—this isn't some horrible experiment,
some private, wealthy organization that is just taking whatever they can get.
They are being exterminated. By the government. By the world.
The world's had enough and they aren't welcome anymore.
"Blamed for the power plants on the coast…the radiation…toxic spills…the wastelands, all our fault, apparently…"
He rubs his head, the stubble itchy, especially where he has been cut by the razor. His forehead is wrinkled. Just a week ago…a week ago, he was
a privileged person…the son of billionaires, one of only two children. An heir. He'd seen the news, read the newspapers best he could, because he
was interested in others of his kind. His father had done his best to keep him uninformed.
He'd always thought he would be safe. Billions of dollars was like a security blanket, a cushion, bail money that would keep him out.
"Sweetheart…it's for the best."
His mother—telling him, in fewer words, that those billions of dollars were worth more to her than his life. He makes a sour face, grinding his teeth
together and stares off into space, flexing his hands as they hang between his knees.
"Whatchoo lookin' at?" a man asks, his legs suddenly blocking his gaze.
"Wha—nothing," he says.
"You looked at me! I sawed it!" The man bends over and grabs him by his chin, for lack of a shirt collar to grab. "Why you lookin' at me, man? You
got some kinda problem? You freakier than the other freaks here?!"
"Uh—no," he says, trying to yank his face away. "Sorry, I was just thinking. Didn't mean to look at you or anything."
"WHY THE FUCK WERE YOU LOOKING AT ME?!" the man starts screaming, twisting his hand violently and causing him to fly to the side, into a mattress.
"Ooof!" he says, exhaling involuntarily.
"WHAT THE FUCK?! WHAT THE FUCK?! ARE YOU GAY OR SOMETHING?!" the man pursues, and he looks up, his face pale. The man has friends, all
with a slightly crazy look in their eyes.
"N-no—I swear I didn't—"
They are upon him, kicking surprisingly hard. One has a foot made of something like rock, and he feels it dig into his stomach. He doubles over, involuntary
tears leaking from his eyes at the pain. There's no way he can fight back—he's about two thirds of each man's size, he is injured to begin with, weak and
malnourished, and there are about five men.
The rock-foot draws back, ready to kick him in the face. His blue eyes widen as he realizes what that will do. Lights out, for good.
"Leave him alone."
The men stop, turn, and he looks through their legs too, confused. There is a girl—a girl, about a foot shorter than himself—equally thin, her fists bigger
than her scrawny arms. She looks like she should be in a casket—a mass grave.
Except her eyes are horribly alive in her pale face, brilliant green.
"Oh yeah?" the leader of the pack asks, but he sounds a bit different.
Fear?
Respect?
A few of his friends have backed away.
"What you gonna do?" the man asks.
The girl holds up her fist. "Inserted through your small intestine, draw up through sternum and sever cardiac muscle in half, aorta ruptured and spread,
death would occur in approximately five seconds."
He can't see what she's talking about. She's like a toothpick, and he feels the bizarre desire to laugh, or to tell her to move on and let him get what's
coming, before these crazy fucks decide to rape her on top of everything.
"…" the man holds up his hands. "Aight, aight. Jesus. Man gets hungry."
Man gets hungry. He looks up, terrified. Were they going to…
They are gone, and the girl is still there, watching him. "Get up," she says.
"I-I'm hurt. I need to lie down." He wipes blood off his mouth.
"No." The girl moves towards him and grabs the arm he has just made the movement with. "You are conscious. Sit up. You are foolish to show such
vulnerability in this place."
"I've been through a lot! You have no idea," he says angrily.
She pulls him upwards, despite the fact that he is resisting. Despite the fact that she is a toothpick. She is strong, deceivingly strong. She is silent
regarding his comment, and close up he can see scars on her skin. Her hands are horrifically deformed between the knuckles, with bumps of clotted,
partially healed scars.
He wonders if he misjudged her. He does have a tendency to misjudge people. Only now is he really owning up to that, being honest with himself,
that he doesn't know as much as he thought he knew.
"Uh…thanks," he says, realizing he owes her gratitude. She just saved him from having his skull literally bashed in by the stone foot.
She is silent, studies him. She crouches down in front of him and fixes him with her vivid green eyes. "How old are you?" she asks.
He blinks. "Uh…sixteen." His voice cracks. He pauses. "You?"
She doesn't answer that enquiry. "Are your parents here?"
"No," he says, his tone unintentionally full of annoyance. He doesn't like when people remind him that he is young, and that his parents should do
everything for him. He wants to be grown up, independent.
At least, he wanted to.
He hasn't considered how he feels now. That will come later.
"You are alone." This is a statement.
"Yes." This is his answer.
The girl blinks and leans closer for a moment. He crosses his eyes, trying to keep her in focus as she smells him, and she smiles slightly.
She might have been pretty, once, he thinks, when she smiles. She doesn't look so dead, like a dried husk.
"You do not presently have infections," she says seriously.
"My arm," he says, looking down at the angry sore that is the tattoo. It's covered in shiny white fluid, and the skin is red and bloody in areas.
She takes his hand and examines the area critically. "It will heal," she says finally. "It will scab over. They all become infected, at first. You should
wash it with antibacterial soap, pat it dry, and apply antibacterial cream."
"Sure…I'm assuming they provide you with all that," he says sarcastically.
Blink, blink of her green eyes. "No."
"Okay then," he says, but he doesn't pull his hand away. It feels good to hold her hand—it's warm and muscular, although she's bony like a
fish. And he realizes that she is the first person to show concern for him, respect as a human being, in over a week. Suddenly his eyes well
up and he grips her hand hard.
"You are hurting me," she says.
"I'm s-sorry," he says, looking away angrily. "I…they…my m-mom…"
She doesn't pull her hand away, just sits and watches him. "Was she killed?"
"N-no," he says, blinking. Realizing she thinks his mother protected him. "She sold me out…she told them where to find me…I came home and
she h-handed me over…sold me out to keep her m-money…"
The girl shows no change in expression. "You should not cry. You are displaying weakness," she says, instead of something comforting.
But somehow this is comforting, her bland recommendation. He sniffles, but the tears stop and he stares back at her blearily. "What's
your n-name?" he asks.
She pauses. "I am internee X-23-A."
"NO! Not their name," he says, a little more powerfully than he meant. "Your real name. I'm Julian." He doesn't bother with his last name. It
doesn't mean much to him anymore, after what has happened.
"You do not have another name." The girl turns over his arm again, looking at the tattoo. "You are internee Y-21-A, signifying that you are
male, number 21 on the threat list for your gender, and an alpha class mutant."
"To hell with that!" He yanks his hand away. "That's letting them win! They can't win! I'll die before I give up my identity."
"You will die, then," the girl says, expressionless. "You must remember your designation. You will be punished if you ever allow
yourself to forget it."
"You're crazy. You've been here a while, haven't you?"
She pauses. "I was one of the first to arrive, yes," she says, unoffended.
"How long?"
"Two months," she says. "They began to prepare this internment camp when they were still in the negotiations process."
"What the—that's totally illegal!" he bursts, the first thing that comes to his mind.
A stupid thing.
"HAHAHA!" The girl throws back her head and laughs, startling him. Displaying two missing teeth on her upper jaw. He wouldn't have thought
she knew how to laugh, as serious as she is. The laugh is over quickly, but she still smiles. "You will see how it is here," she says, still amused.
She stands up.
"Wait—where are you going?" he asks, a little desperately.
"It is almost meal time. Bring your bowl and follow me."
-x-
He stares at the potato in his steel bowl, slimy and wet and horrible. He didn't know food like this existed. It was so cheap to get properly cooked food.
"What—"
The girl pulls him along quickly by his free hand. "Do not stand in lineups. You will be pushed, and probably injured," she hisses.
He follows her, and eventually they reach the concrete wall. He watches her as she slides her behind down it to sit, the bowl held in front of her in her
long fingers. He wonders what she would look like with hair.
"Uh—should I get some forks, or…" he says.
The girl shakes her head. "They do not allow us sharp objects."
"Oh." He hesitates, then sits down beside her, pressing his bare leg against her bony and equally bare one. He'd thought he was malnourished, but
he was still pretty strong and healthy compared to her. Her thigh was warm.
She picks up the potato and bites into it, with the side of her mouth that is not missing teeth. Holding the potato with her scarred, malformed hand.
"What happened?" he blurted.
She looks at him, chewing.
"To your hands."
She pauses, considering him. Then she swallows her potato chunk in a large lump. "Adamantium plating was installed in my hands and my feet to
prevent popping of my claws, in addition to the disconnection of the neuromuscular junction that would allow the trigger such an event," she explains.
"They could not just remove the claws. This procedure would result in my arms being atrophied and useless." She's so cool, so unconcerned.
He glances down, and sees the same horrible scaring between her big toe and middle toe. "Jesus," he says. "You have claws?"
"Yes," she says. "Do not tell anyone about the plating," she adds calmly. "It is not common knowledge, and affords me with some protection."
"I won't," he says, picking up his potato. He realizes he is too hungry to not eat it, and suddenly he crams it towards his mouth like a ravenous dog.
"Eat slowly!" she rebukes. "You will damage your stomach that way!"
"Mmph," he says, his mouth already full of potato (which is still raw in some areas). "Can' hllp id. Really hungry."
"You will not be later," she warns.
She is right. Later, he needs the washroom and she accompanies him. There is no privacy—they are a series of buckets on the ground—and she stays to
keep him safe. He is embarrassed, but she makes no comment, does not seem amused. She doesn't even say 'told you so'.
Nightfall. There are no mattresses, no blankets, and it is cold. He breaks into feverish chills and curls on his side in a fetal position, already weakened
from his violent bathing of earlier, and the injuries sustained throughout the last week. His arm stings, along with other cuts, and he feels nauseous.
He has a headache.
The girl curls up along his spine, pressing her bony front against it. Her breasts are almost nonexistent, small bumps on her chest. He stops—is she
coming on to him? He's never gotten this close to a girl before—actually sleeping with one—even if she is ugly. It's dark and he doesn't really care,
at the moment. He can pretend. He tries to roll over smoothly, to hold her instead, because it seems weird to be held; she lays a hand on his shoulder.
"No. I will lay along your spine. Your shivers will stop."
Oh. He lays still again, and a few minutes later, at the verge of falling asleep, he realizes she is right. He relaxes and sleeps—real sleep—another thing
his body has been craving for a while. Even if he is sleeping on concrete.
For a week, it is like this. One potato per day, a concrete floor to sleep on, a bucket to toilet in. No baths, no showers, no first aid. His wounds scab
anyway; the tattoo begins to heal. He does not shiver at night because his spine is kept warm, and listening to her advice he does not bolt down the
potato any longer, rather taking his time and eating it in small bites.
Sometimes they sit in silence, sometimes they talk. The girl asks him a few questions about his life before, but still refuses to call him by his real
name. It is always Y-21 to her (he notes, triumphantly, that she has dropped the A). He calls her X, sometimes, since it seems like a nickname,
kind of. He doesn't know anything about her anyway—she could be anyone. The daughter of kings, a whore off the streets. Maybe she will give
him STDs if they do anything. He thinks it's unlikely to happen, at least that's what he thinks during the day. Free from the delirium of fever and
in full lighting, he acknowledges to himself that he will never see her as anything more than a friend. She is too ugly and deformed for him to feel
physical attraction.
At night, however, he forgets how she looks, and his mind wanders. If his hand tries to wander, too, she stops it in process and lays it back at his
side, preventing him from groping her bones (which is what he will find if she lets him continue).
They never speak of these nighttime interactions, mostly because they happen when both parties are almost asleep.
Then the whole camp changes.
-x-
"X'S HERE!" Bellows the guard, gesturing with his rifle to the long line of skinny females. "Y'S THERE! YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO COMPLY! ANYONE
OUT OF LINE WILL BE SHOT BETWEEN THE EYES!"
The girl shoves his food bowl into his hands. "Hurry," she says, her voice serious like her eyes. "Do as he says."
"But—" he holds his empty bowl against his chest, like a hat. "Am I going to see you again?" he asks.
The girl looks down. "No."
Silence. He reaches out and touches her shoulder. "Thanks. You're—you're a good friend. You don't deserve to be here."
"Neither do you," she says, and he is surprised to see that her eyes are wet. A tear rolls down her cheek and he catches it on his finger, then realizes
what he needs to do. He leans in and kisses her lightly.
"Thanks," he says again when he pulls away, his eyes wet too. They stand for a moment in silence, like their friendship is an actual person whose death
they are mourning together.
"ONE MINUTE!" The guard bellows again, shooting into the air. Raised voices, fearful, and scampers. The girl turns and runs to the X line, leaving him.
