Chapter 1 - First Night
The cabin smelled like roast chicken and potatoes, and the soft light didn't burn his skin.
One of the guards behind him jabbed hard Jon between the shoulder blades, which were already pulled together because of the hand cuffs. He gasped and stumbled forward into the cabin, and the ankle monitor cut into his skin. It had been itching for the past hour. It looked like an oversized watch with a hard plastic band. It felt like a spiked collar had been turned inside out and tightened around his leg until the circulation was dead.
Jon had barely enough time to take in his surroundings—the overstuffed beige couches, the over full bookshelf, the scuffed hardwood floor, the photos on the mantle that looked just like his family, but happier—when his grandpa came to greet them.
No. Not his grandpa, though it was hard to say whether that was better or worse, considering their last encounter. General Lane came to greet them. "Thanks for bringing him," he told the guards.
"Should we stay?"
"I can take it from here."
Jon took a step back, only to brush against the guard and find himself shoved forward harder, to his knees. He clenched his teeth against the new pain, heart and mind racing. He couldn't begin to imagine why they'd brought him here.
General Lane scoffed. "Get out," he said, and Jon jumped to obey before realized he'd been speaking to the guards, who nodded and filed out of the cabin.
Leaving Jon alone with the Head of the Department of Defense.
Jon didn't dare rise from his knees. He hardly dared to look up. General Lane stepped behind him, and Jon felt his arms shake against his hand cuffs.
Then they loosened, and his hands were free.
Jon yanked his arms forward and rubbed his wrists. They were raw, red and inflamed.
"Stand up," General Lane ordered.
Jon did, and he stood at attention.
"Head down that hallway. Your room is the last door on the right, and your bathroom is dead at the end of the hallway. Get showered and changed. Dinner in fifteen."
Jon's voice caught a few times.
"Jon-El."
Jon flinched, and he all but ran down the hall. The awkward heaviness of the ankle monitor gave him a slight limp.
He went into his room first, and he did a double take. This was some kind of trick, a taunt. It had to be.
The room was carpeted and fully furnished—a twin-sized bed with a thick mattress and a deep blue bedspread, a nightstand with a few drawers, a small desk, a dresser with a mirror over it, which he avoided looking at. Jon ran his hand over the bed, and it felt soft enough to be new. In the corner was a closet door. A quick look inside revealed shelves stocked with extra pillows, blankets, and a few towels and washcloths, along with a t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and fresh boxers. They all looked a little oversized, but the clothes he'd been wearing were stiff with dried sweat, and so itchy it almost stung. Under the shelves was a hamper.
There had to be a catch. Jon had learned in history about people in concentration camps sometimes being treated decently for the first few weeks, while they were worked to death. Maybe this was like that.
Whether he was going to die here or not, General Lane had given him orders to follow, and Jon knew he didn't want to be punished. Besides, trick or not, the food had smelled really good. Jon took the towels and clothes and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind himself with a little hesitation. He hadn't had any privacy since . . . he squeezed his eyes shut.
Stripping away his jacket and shirt was easy. The ankle monitor got in the way of kicking his shoes off the way he usually did, and he had to work his socks out from under the tight binding, which did nothing to relieve the pressure. His pants were another issue. They were just too tight to work off over the monitor. He got his left leg out okay, but ended up tearing up his right pant leg over the monitor.
Jon threw them down, his throat tightening, and all at once he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to hold back the tears. It was so stupid. They were just pants; he'd lost so much more without so much as a flinch. But his clothes were really all he had from home. Meanwhile, he'd only been wearing the ankle monitor for an hour or so, and it was already driving him crazy.
He turned on the water, assumed the monitor had to be waterproof if he was going to have to wear it for the rest of his life, and stepped under the spray. It was hot, and the pressure was even better than he'd had back home, and the soap smelled fresh. He couldn't really clean under the monitor, but everywhere else he felt his muscles relax. He wanted to stay in the water forever, but he'd only been given fifteen minutes, so as soon as the soap was rinsed away and the water dripping off of him went from brown to clear, he stepped out and toweled off, changing into the oversized clothes. He limped back into his room to drop off his dirty clothes into the hamper, and the carpet felt soft between clean toes.
He let himself look at himself in the mirror, then. His hair had grown just enough that it had felt matted before the shower; now, it was mostly plastered down to his head. He needed to shave, too. He couldn't really grow a full beard yet, so the stubble just looked bad. General Lane probably wouldn't give him a razor, though, since he might use the blade as a weapon.
That was a shame. He could really use a weapon.
A heavy knock on the door made him jump, and then the door swung open.
"Been twenty minutes. Food's getting cold," General Lane barked.
"I'm sorry, sir." He hated the way his own voice sounded, like a simpering coward. He'd been a damn superhero on his own planet. A few too many beatings from the guards in that cell had cut down his bravado. It was just as well: no one could see him cower here. No one would hear him scream, either.
"Get on out there."
"Yes, sir," Jon said, though he had to admit that General Lane's voice didn't sound cruel or even angry, just cold and detached.
Jon hid his limp as best as he could on the way out to the dining room table, but he didn't sit until General Lane had taken his place at the table, then Jon sat across from him. He didn't dare serve himself, but General Lane handed him the serving spatula for the dish of chicken first, and the spoon for the bowl of roasted potatoes and other vegetables.
He took only a small amount at first, not sure how much he'd be allowed, and he had every intention of eating it slowly, but he was starving, and it was good. Besides, the knife he'd been given was so dull, it wasn't easy to cut the chicken into small pieces, so he ended up taking huge mouthfuls at a time. He'd cleared his plate all too soon.
"Get enough?" General Lane asked, not halfway through his meal.
"Y-yes, sir."
"Don't lie to me, Jon-El," General Lane said, and he put down his fork and reached for the serving spoon again, angling it so the handle was pointed toward Jon. "You're getting up at 0600 for chores. Breakfast isn't til 0800. My Jonathan eats twice as much as you just did when he's not hungry."
My Jonathan. Jon suddenly felt like he was going to lose what he'd already eaten. "I'm full. Sir."
General Lane sighed. "Fine. Then let's go over the rules. You do not leave this house without my knowledge, and you do not leave this property. I've had a fence installed, which I don't recommend touching, if you catch my meaning. Won't kill you, but it'll sure bite."
"I understand, sir." Ankle monitor, electric fence, armed guards on speed dial. It was an awfully nice prison, but the fact that it was still prison made the small comforts all the more unsettling.
"You will not touch anything that has not been given to you, and you will not enter my room. You will obey orders and speak to me with respect. You will not lie to me. You will not attempt to contact anyone from your old cult. You will keep your ankle monitor charged—battery life is about twenty-four hours. Understood?"
Go to hell was what he wanted to say, but he hated getting hit, and there was no one to impress with a brave face, so he said, "Understood, sir."
"Chores in the mornings and after dinner. Between lunch and dinner is your free time. The TV and bookshelf are available to you, contingent on good behavior. You may also spend time outside, within property lines, with permission. Free time is a privilege you may lose. A minimum of two guards will stay with you when I'm not here."
Jon swallowed. He had nothing to say.
"Since it's your first night, I'll dismiss you from evening chores. You may retire to your room. Do you have any questions?"
Jon had more questions than he could count. They all boiled down to one thing, though: "Why am I here?"
For a moment so brief he might have imagined it, General Lane's eyebrows drew together in what might have been sympathy. "You're a kid, Jon-El," he said. "You messed up, but you don't deserve solitary for life."
Jon realized for the first time that General Lane wasn't just calling him by his full name to indicate he was in trouble. He considered his full name to be his name; Jon was General Lane's grandson. "So I'm staying here for life?"
General Lane nodded back toward the sink. "Leave your plate in your kitchen. I'll see you in the morning."
Letting out his breath as silently as he could, Jon obeyed. He hadn't slept well in weeks; he normally wouldn't sleep right after dinner, but he wasn't turning down the soft bed. He went back to the bathroom to find a toothbrush and toothpaste in a drawer, and he brushed his teeth using clean running water, which he'd once never believed he could appreciate. He flicked off the lights and settled into the tightly made bed, between cool, smooth sheets and under thick, heavy blankets.
It didn't matter why he was here. He was out of the cage. That was what mattered.
Finally, he could start working on an escape plan.
A/N: I consider this story to be set in the same universe as my "Out of Love" series, and it is in some ways a followup for Sam, but it's also a very separate story, which is why I'm not tagging it as part of the series. Also, recognizing that my timing is bad, I'm sort of ignoring season 3.