Sleeper
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep."
The first thing he remembered feeling was uncertainty. He remembered being confused a lot, and he was remarkably docile for a long time, but he only knew that in brief flashes that weren't really connected coherently. He wasn't even sure that they were real memories as opposed to his frequent dreams, so he dismissed them. Therefore, his first real memory was that of staring at the door to his cell, feeling uncertain. He knew it was a real memory because he could still feel the metal floor under the palms of his hands, the cold of the wall at his back. He'd been in a corner, protecting his back as best he could. He remembered the uncertainty of knowing that the next experiment could come from anywhere at anytime, and this one he might not survive. The corner wasn't any safer than the middle of the room, but even a science-made spark had instincts, and one of the first that made itself known was the urge to seek as much safety as he could fool himself into believing. The wall was a cold presence at his back, and that gave him the illusion of solidity, that nothing would attack him from that angle. It limited the options of approach to his front.
He couldn't quite remember why he was so wary at the time, but from later experience it was because nothing that came through that door or from the walls was ever anything but painful. He didn't like pain. It hurt. The 'bots that hurt him didn't seem to care that he hurt, however. They poked and prodded, and he screamed or stared uncomprehendingly when they made noises at each other. He knew they were communicating, but they never tried to say anything to him. He was just there to be poked and prodded. He was unimportant. He barely existed. When they were done with him, they put him in a square metal box until they wanted to experiment on him next. He didn't understand them, or what they did. If he'd had any pride at all, it would have been humiliating. As it was, he was just confused most of the time, and often in pain.
So he put his back to the corner and felt uncertain. There was nothing secure in his life. The 'bots who opened the door and got him out changed from day to day. The 'bots who worked on him disappeared and reappeared erratically. He never knew what would be inflicted on him next. Sometimes they gestured and barked noises at him, and if he could figure out what they wanted, he'd obey. If he couldn't understand, or if they didn't consider him intelligent enough to warrant gestures, they'd grab a body part and use it to steer him. It had gotten to the point where he knew exactly how far forward he was supposed to walk when someone shoved him in the small of the back, or where he was supposed to stay if they turned him by his arm. The one time he'd resisted (at least, the one time he could remember), whimpering and cringing at the sight of a machine that had ripped open his chest to rake over the spark inside, they had used short rods to shock his limbs to limp quivering, then restrained him. He hadn't tried again after that. He REALLY didn't like pain.
Sometimes he woke up in different places than where he'd lost consciousness last. Sometimes it was the pain that had knocked him out, and he'd be back in his cell when he struggled out of the nightmare of memories. Sometimes strange gasses had come from the walls, and he'd wake up strapped down on a table, either ready for a new experiment or left wondering if they'd finished what they wanted to do already. He never recharged naturally unless exhaustion forced him to it; he'd woken to find himself outside the cell with no idea how he'd been taken out far too often. It wasn't paranoia if it was real. He at least wanted to see them coming.
But he never knew when they'd come, and he never knew what experiment was next. He knew he was unimportant. He was just another 'bot to poke and prod, like the empty shells he sometimes replaced on the table. One day, he'd be just like them, hollowed out by the pain until they took out his spark, and even then he didn't know if he'd escape the agony. If he went into recharge now, would he wake up again? For today, he'd have to risk it. He was too tired to stay awake much longer.
In his corner, young and uncertain, Protoform X heaved a sigh and slowly let his systems shut down. He hoped he'd wake up again, but foremost in his mind was the vague wish that if he didn't, he at least wouldn't feel it when the 'bots took his spark away.
.
.
"And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
You know, I don't think anyone's taken quite this angle on Rampage before. It took me by surprise, anyway, and I didn't think I had that in me for Rampage stories anymore. This Rampage has a wary, uncertain side to him. No, he's not afraid, but he's young and keen on avoiding pain. This side of him hasn't learned that if he deals out the pain first, they can't hurt him. He hasn't learned to be anything but a science experiment yet.
He will, though, when the sleeper awakens.