Feuilly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lavidate_ensenara) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
microchips2014-04-19 10:37 am
lavidate_ensenara) wrote in microchips2014-04-19 10:37 am
(no subject)
He wakes up and the overpowering smell of antiseptic is strong enough to reach down his throat and choke him. He only clenches his jaw against the nauseating stench and tries not to gag. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room - hospital room, cell? He can't remember. A gray fog has penetrated his memories and all he can remember is gunfire, screams, blood...doctors...the whirling mechanical sound of something close to his eyes...pain, more pain...
...stop, please stop...stopstopSTOP...
"It won't take. Not with his power being what they are..."
"Try something else. The last thing you need is a malfunctioning weapon on your hands."
He winces, as if physically trying to avoid the blurry memory. For some reason, he is not surprised to find that he is restrained. The metal cuffs chafe his wrists and forearms, and he doesn't have the energy to do much more than tiredly slump back against the wall. His head hurts, and he's not sure how much of it is from whatever concussive blast knocked him out in the first place or the twinges of his power making itself known in this unfamiliar location.
Was it like this before? How much time has passed? A day? A week? Years?
He is about to close his eyes again, fall back into the relative calm of unconsciousness when a glint of gold catches his eye. For a moment, he thinks he is just seeing things, a fragment of memory or insanity tugging at the edge of his thoughts. He doesn't dare give thought to it, lest it be untrue. He only quietly turns his attention to the other person in the room, frowning unsteadily at him.
And waits.
...stop, please stop...stopstopSTOP...
"It won't take. Not with his power being what they are..."
"Try something else. The last thing you need is a malfunctioning weapon on your hands."
He winces, as if physically trying to avoid the blurry memory. For some reason, he is not surprised to find that he is restrained. The metal cuffs chafe his wrists and forearms, and he doesn't have the energy to do much more than tiredly slump back against the wall. His head hurts, and he's not sure how much of it is from whatever concussive blast knocked him out in the first place or the twinges of his power making itself known in this unfamiliar location.
Was it like this before? How much time has passed? A day? A week? Years?
He is about to close his eyes again, fall back into the relative calm of unconsciousness when a glint of gold catches his eye. For a moment, he thinks he is just seeing things, a fragment of memory or insanity tugging at the edge of his thoughts. He doesn't dare give thought to it, lest it be untrue. He only quietly turns his attention to the other person in the room, frowning unsteadily at him.
And waits.