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Chapter 4
When I wake up this time, I'm immediately nauseous and have a matching headache.
Before my mutation activated, I used to have brutal migraines so this is nothing compared to what I suffered through during puberty. Once again, I take stock of my accommodations and discover that my roomies are gone and I am no longer in the trouble truck. To be honest, I miss my roomies a little (a lot). I was feeling much braver when I had an audience to entertain.
Stay calm and pay attention, I say to myself. Constant Vigilance!
The room can't really be called a room. It is clearly a cell, and a small one at that. Prison cells never looked this cramped on Locked Up.
I hadn't really paid attention before but my hands are bound and I have enough sensory memory to know that they were bound in the trouble truck, as well. These guys are really overestimating my awesome.
The light in the room is coming from overhead florescent panels that line the walkway in front of my cell. There are more of these little cages, lots of them. I suddenly feel like I'm in a kennel; a mutant kennel. This does not bode well.
I'm propped up against the back grate (there are no true walls), facing the walkway. From my current position, I can't see any other occupants but I have a feeling that won't be true for long. This seems familiar, somehow; like the memory of a dream. Snatches of things flit across my mind, sparks, tables, monitors… and I begin to realize that these are memories but they're not mine.
As soon as the realization comes, I feel the presence of another mind. It hovers just outside my awareness, like a phantom. Whoever it is, they know enough about my mental defense system to keep their distance. But, how am I sensing their memories? Again, as soon as I ask the question, I realize that it is actually me doing the invading this time. I must have reached out while I was unconscious and made a connection somehow. That leads me to the conclusion that these memories belong to my Empath.
My Empath? I repeat to myself.
An interesting shift to ownership, I'll wonder on that at another time.
Just as I begin to consider making a more obvious connection, a door slams open to the right and I hear footsteps pounding down the walkway, tapping an urgent cadence on the grated floor. Great, someone's in a hurry to get to me and I bet that's not a good thing.
As I suspected, Commando # 3 stops in front of my cage. #1 is the guy with the AK and #2 is the one that laughed at my joke. Therefore, #3 is…this guy. For a moment he just stares at me, considering. I bet he's wondering what the fuss is all about. Oh buddy, you don't wanna know. Really.
Finally, he seems to come to a conclusion (most likely to follow protocol, despite my lack of danger-ness) and motions for two more commandos to stand in front of the cage with AK's while he depresses the lever that opens the door. It swings open, but I just sit and wait. I observed Eric and Mystique enough to know that caution is the better part of valor here. No sudden movements. Don't want to spook the natives.
"How's your head?" Commando #4 asks.
He actually sounds a little concerned. I bet he's the one that laughed at my Princess Bride reference which would really make him #2 but I'm not sure so he'll stay #4 for now. Perhaps I can make a few "friends" while I'm at it, maybe gain some leverage, sympathy, anything that increases my chances of getting out of here…at all.
I know the odds. Once they figure out they can't kill me, torture and captivity will be the only means they have to control and threaten me. They're not wearing masks and I've seen enough action flicks to know what that means. When the bad guys don't care if you can identify them, it's because they don't expect you to ever leave…alive, at least.
"It hurts." I complain. "Was that really necessary? I'm mean seriously; he practically dared me to complete the scene. And I'm the one that get's brained for it. Bad form."
Commando #4 laughs again. It's a nice, rich sound that soothes my nerves. I have to remind myself that, despite his seemingly good spirits, he'll shoot my ass if I make a wrong move. I suppose that's what you would call a love/hate relationship. Tragic.
"You sure are mouthy," Commando #5 chimes in.
It seems I've got a fan club. Good. Better for them to see me as a real person rather than just another mutant…or worse, a vulnerable woman. Gooseflesh races up my arms at that thought. Let's not go there unless it's absolutely necessary. It better not be fucking necessary, EVER.
"I've heard that before, but I prefer to think of myself as highly opinionated."
Both of them chuckle at that. I have to assume that their willingness to talk to me at all means that Commando #1 aka Asshole with a Gun (AWAG) is not here. Good. At least I can hope I won't be hit again.
"Opinionated. Mouthy. Same thing. Are you gonna puke or something? He hit you pretty hard. I bet he thinks you're one of those rapid healers…are you?"
Ah, good soldier; using a little friendly interaction to ferret out some info. I'll take the bait. Better to let him think I'm naive rather than dangerous. The best way to tell a lie, is to smother it with a bunch of meaningless truth. That way, it's harder for them to tell where one ends and the other begins. Tells are blurred, especially if you ramble through the whole thing. Thank you Burn Notice.
"I'm pretty nauseous but I don't think I'll puke unless you make me stand up too fast (truth). I think you guys are clearly overestimating my mojo here (lie). I'm no rapid-healer (truth). You should be able to tell; I've got visible scars on my arms. Rapid-healers don't scar (truth). Besides, the taser burns are still there, which was way fucking overkill by the way (truth). And where's the asshole that sheep-doged me?" Perfection.
They look thoughtful at my statement. I shift my sitting position so they can see the scars on my left arm. One from a surgery when I was little and another from hitting my arm on the lip of the oven while I was baking. They seem to take my rambling statement as truth. Win. Commando #4 pipes up again.
"Why? You wanna share your opinion with him?" He's smirking and I can't help but grin back.
"Fuck no. That was the fastest and furthest I've ever run in my life. I wanna hire him as my personal trainer. I'll actually be dangerous in no time if I work out with Scary McStalker."
I can see the implication of my statement sink in even as they laugh at my self-deprecating humor. Good. There figuring it out. Clearly, there were expecting me to be as physical and strategic as Mystique and evasive as Eric. Maybe now they'll stop treating me like a live grenade, knowing that I'm no Jason Borne.
"I'll be sure to let him know. I bet he could use the cash." That was #3.
Got 'em all talking. Nice
"Cash? Oh no, honey. I just finished grad school and I have a six figure student loan bill coming down the pipe line. I won't have cash until the next millennium. I pay in cookies, cake, or other assorted food items. It might be counterproductive for me but I bet you guys work out enough that you could eat your weight in sugar and not gain a pound. I secretly hate you for that, by the way."
They all laugh at that one and 4 and 5 look a little put out.
"What?" I ask.
They turn to each other and then back to me.
"We like cookies too."
Ha! So it is true: the way to a man's (commando's) heart is through his stomach. Typical, but I'm not complaining. I'm about to try my hand at negotiation when I hear more boots coming down the walkway. Uh oh, party's over.
"What the fuck is taking so long. Get the freak out of her cage and let's go."
Oh, nice. I bet that's AWAG. At least 3, 4 and 5 have the good sense to look chagrined. I can't really tell if it's because of AWAG's description of me or because they got caught chatting up the prisoner, but I suppose it really doesn't matter. The bit of enmity between the four of us is gone and I am officially persona non grata again.
"Shall I stand, or would you prefer to drag me out by my hair?"
Apparently I just can't help myself. Fortunately AWAG ignores me in favor of glaring at 3, 4 and 5. They look properly chastised.
"Yes, sir" they reply in chorus.
I manage to not make a comment, for how. I'm all over that as soon as AWAG is out of hearing distance though. A girl's got standards. Finally, AWAG heads back out of the kennel. 3, 4 and 5 turn back to me and 4 motions for me to make my way out of the cage. I have to stoop. The cage isn't tall enough for me to stand upright. I'm only 5'9'' so that's saying something.
Keeping my eyes on them, I move cautiously onto the walkway and wait for instruction. Compliance is acceptable so long as the orders aren't unreasonable.
"I'm having a hard time believing you're a mutant," 5 confesses. "We know you are. We have your blood work. (Oh…the hell?) We know you haven't been 'cured.' But I have to admit, I expected a bit more…ah…"
"Dramatics?" I supply.
He has the decency to look embarrassed. Smart man. Tasing a girl while she's working on her never-going-the-beach body is such a dick move. Not to mention the guns, potential concussion and dog cage. Do they really thing we can all do what Phoenix did? Disrupt and destroy the very bonds of matter? No such luck.
We begin to make our way down the walkway and I take a moment to look around. There really are no other people in the cages. Somehow, I'm relieved. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Well, maybe AWAG, but that's beside the point. Just as we move past the last cage I see something on the floor. It doesn't register right away and it takes me a few more steps to realize that it was a puddle of drying blood. Not a stain. Not dried blood. Drying blood. The last of my good humor evaporates and my head snaps back forward.
5 looks to see what changed my mood and his eyes narrow as he realizes what I saw. Yeah, party is over. We're silent for the rest of the walk. Reaching our final destination takes a few more minutes. The facility is large and sterile but old and made of a shit-ton of concrete. I take some notice of the ache in my shoulders, likely as much from being bound behind me as being tased. I attempt to roll my them to loosen up the cramping muscles, but 3 presses firmly my back from behind.
"I'm not trying to get away. I'm just trying to stretch my shoulders."
"Fine," he replies and I can hear the tension in his voice.
I guess whatever progress we've all made is gone with the reminder that they kill mutants …and I'm a mutant. That would put a cramp in any relationship.
The room we finally arrive in is spacious and mostly empty. It's at least four or five stories high, made of dirty gray concrete and as long and wide as a football field. After taking in the sheer size of the room, I focus on the one area of the room that seems to be recently used. In fact, it's in use now. It takes me a minute to understand what I'm seeing. As the details of a hospital bed, medical equipment and half-naked man coalesce into a comprehensible image, I feel panic bubbling in my gut.
"Okay," I whisper. "Now, I am gonna puke."
3 turns to me, alarm clearly written across his face. There's no time for him to reply, whether he planned to or not, because two more sets of commandos enter the room with Eric and Mystique in tow. Great. Clearly they want something from me and are going to use Eric and Mystique to…motivate me. I don't know what the hell they think I can do. I don't see anything in this room I can manipulate to their advantage. And I know they don't know about the Network.
"Ah, the good doctor is in."
A voice echoes from deeper in the cavernous room. He's clearly in good humor as the laughter in his voice suggests. Someone likes laughing at their own jokes. Awesome; a psycho comedian. I thought that was my shtick.
"My name is Colonel..."
"Sanders?" I supply.
Eric smiles and it's Mystique that lets a chuckle escape this time. Yay.
Col. Sander's good humor evaporates quickly. 4 bumps my shoulder, probably telling me it's time to stop being a smartass but all he really does is aggravate my taser burn. I hiss at the impact and he grimaces at me in apology. At least now I know I haven't lost them completely.
"My dear, you seem to be operating under the mistaken belief that you have some leeway here."
I go for broke, too freaked out by the bed and it's occupant to really understand what I'm risking. I'm scared and when I'm scared, I snark.
"Oh no, I am profoundly aware that I have no leeway here. It seems that you are the one operating under the mistaken belief that I can benefit you in any way. I really don't know what you think I'm capable of but so far, you have seriously overestimated the power of my mutant whammy."
Col. Sanders (henceforth, he will be called) glares at me. Original. How about a villainous monologue? Go!
"I know exactly what you are capable of, freak. And you will do exactly as I say or things will start to become…uncomfortable. Don't you see? Abominations like you are the reason…" Blah, blah, blah. I stop listening at this point and take the time to observe Eminem. (I can call them that in my brain and they will never know!) Neither of them seems particularly interested in the monologue and each appears to be casing the joint. Nice. I hope they take me with them in the Great Escape.
I feel my Empath, still like a phantom, resting against my mental barrier. I don't know why but I get the impression that it's a "he." He's just there, waiting. For what, I don't really know. I wish I could reach out to him for some help. I'm quickly getting to the point where I think it might be worth the risk. Especially since Col. Sanders' voice is getting louder and more impassioned. MutherFukin' Cray Cray.
It's not until he announces, with more than a little dramatic flair, that he will reveal to me his greatest creation.
Who says that anymore?
I tune in just in time to see him gesture to the prone man in the hospital bed. I've avoided paying him any attention until now, too terrified to process the implication. His head is shaved bald and his skin is the color of honey, tan and beautiful. Not a single scar or blemish. And he's cut like a freaking statue. If he's this defined unconscious and relaxed, I can only imagine what he looks like awake and flexing those corded muscles.
Hot dog
Focus!
"The project was scrapped after Colonel Striker screwed the pooch but I knew there was a backup plan. He thought I was just some dumb, jack-boot thug. Not so dumb now, eh?!"
This guy has serious self-esteem issues. Textbook Narcissist. And Canadian? Good to know.
"May I present to you, Weapon XI…or Wade Wilson; his slave name, as you would say Ms. Darkhölme. He's stable…for now. And you, my good doctor, are going to keep him that way."
Uh, what?!