To the soldier, the civilian / The martyr, the victim
He couldn't recall what day it was, and why it mattered.
Out in the hallway, he heard voices speaking in hushed whispers but he didn't try to make out what they were saying. There was a screaming pain in his head that he couldn't get to go away no matter how hard he tried. Vaguely, he remembered that it was the implant, attempting to override his own powers and often failing miserably. He didn't even know why they had placed handcuffs on him - he wasn't going anywhere, not like this. Even if he could form a coherent thought, the white-hot pain that often lanced through him left him breathless and immobile. The mere idea of escaping was too hard to grasp so he sat against the stone walls of the darkened cell, his eyes closed and tried not to think at all.
He couldn't stop the dreams though - once upon a time, there had been truth in his dreams. Pure, unadulterated truth. But that had slowly ebbed away over the last few months, each dream bringing a thought that wasn't his and turning sleep in a constant nightmare. There had been no reprieve even in that darkness anymore and it slowly ate away at him, the simple fact that he couldn't stop any of it, that his entire life had become a cycle of never-ending agony. He had tried to hide it, tried not to make the others worry about something else gone wrong...but Bahorel knew him too well, was able to see the signs of stress break across that carefully constructed façade he had built up. Even Courfeyrac, reeling from the devastating situation with Enjolras, had begun to notice.
Maureen had noticed.
He believed that she was still the one good truth in his life, along with those he considered his brothers. Even if the world was damned and falling faster into a chaotic war that none of them could stop, he knew that there was one constant with them, that they would keep fighting. It was one of the few remaining untainted truths in his life, and he clung to it like a life preserver in the middle of hurricane-ravaged seas. He could only hope it was enough.
He wasn't sure when he had drifted off into that gray area between the nightmarish hell that passed as sleep and the even more torturous world of consciousness, but he was abruptly shaken out of it when the door to the cell swung open. Standing in the entrance, lit from behind like some sort of angelic messenger delivering proclamations of hellfire and destruction, was a man with graying hair, one of the higher-ranking officers in this area of New York. He tried to put a name to the coolly-calculating face, but a stab of pain through his mind ceased that line of thought quickly and he looked away.
"What's his status?" the man asked to one of the guards behind him.
"Physical condition, above average. Mental condition, poor. Malfunctioning implant, one year."
"We believe it's due to his mutant ability," came another familiar voice, quietly accented and almost soothing. He didn't try to place where he had heard it before. "We tried to implement him as a spy against the rebel groups in New York, but his inability to tell or, quite frankly, live a lie made it impossible. It's quite fascinating - I would have loved to study him more. But I think I understand it more now."
A memory surfaced from a year ago, one of the things he tried not to remember. That same voice, belonging to a woman with doll-like features, speaking in clinical terms as they attempted to bypass his own natural ability to only speak the truth. Every word, every action - a thousand sharpened knives didn't hurt as much as speaking lie after lie after lie. Nausea swept over him at the mere recollection of what happened, and he averted his eyes from the blinding light in the door.
"Do you think you can fix it this time?"
"Certainly. If I had been given more time the last time he was here, I would certainly have been able to break through that."
Silence passed between for a few unending seconds before the man grunted. "Fine. Bring him with us. Doctor, you better know what you're doing."
"Of course, of course."
He sensed rather than saw their movement and then the woman with the childlike features was kneeling beside him, a thoughtful expression on her face as cool fingertips gently tilted his chin, turning his face towards her. Her eyes were too green, he thought, the color of a glass bottle. Break it and they were far to sharp, enough to make you bleed. And when she smiled, it seemed as if the sun was rising. There was cruelty here, making one who was so calculating and removed from humanity to be surrounded by such a childlike aura. Children were notoriously hard on their toys, though...
"Do you remember me, Feuilly?"
Yes, he remembered her.
"Are you going to speak? It would make this so much easier."
No. Last time...last time, every word he had been forced to say...he didn't meet her eyes.
"Fascinating. You still understand me. You Amis are terribly hard to break, aren't you? I had the pleasure of being one of the lead doctors in charge of the prison where your friend - I believe his name is Enjolras - was located."
He didn't rise to the bait, and he could almost feel the disappointment radiating off of her. Still, he caught the barest hint of a smile - she was still somewhat pleased with his answer. She said something again, in an accent he was finally able to narrow down as something originating from eastern Europe, and he felt someone forcefully pull him to his feet. He staggered slightly - he couldn't remember how many hours or days or weeks he had been there. Everything was a lifetime in the darkness, in the pain that had enveloped his life. The woman peered back at him expectantly, exchanged words with the officer, and then they were headed down the hall. He didn't pay too much attention to it - it was drab, void of any life, doors that led to other unfortunates like himself. He remembered the brilliant colors he had used for his murals, a wash of brightly-painted reds and blues and greens, so vibrant they could have taken a life of their own. The pain lifted somewhat - there were no lies in his art, though he doubted he could so much as create even a fraction of what he once was able.
Out in the hallway, he heard voices speaking in hushed whispers but he didn't try to make out what they were saying. There was a screaming pain in his head that he couldn't get to go away no matter how hard he tried. Vaguely, he remembered that it was the implant, attempting to override his own powers and often failing miserably. He didn't even know why they had placed handcuffs on him - he wasn't going anywhere, not like this. Even if he could form a coherent thought, the white-hot pain that often lanced through him left him breathless and immobile. The mere idea of escaping was too hard to grasp so he sat against the stone walls of the darkened cell, his eyes closed and tried not to think at all.
He couldn't stop the dreams though - once upon a time, there had been truth in his dreams. Pure, unadulterated truth. But that had slowly ebbed away over the last few months, each dream bringing a thought that wasn't his and turning sleep in a constant nightmare. There had been no reprieve even in that darkness anymore and it slowly ate away at him, the simple fact that he couldn't stop any of it, that his entire life had become a cycle of never-ending agony. He had tried to hide it, tried not to make the others worry about something else gone wrong...but Bahorel knew him too well, was able to see the signs of stress break across that carefully constructed façade he had built up. Even Courfeyrac, reeling from the devastating situation with Enjolras, had begun to notice.
Maureen had noticed.
He believed that she was still the one good truth in his life, along with those he considered his brothers. Even if the world was damned and falling faster into a chaotic war that none of them could stop, he knew that there was one constant with them, that they would keep fighting. It was one of the few remaining untainted truths in his life, and he clung to it like a life preserver in the middle of hurricane-ravaged seas. He could only hope it was enough.
He wasn't sure when he had drifted off into that gray area between the nightmarish hell that passed as sleep and the even more torturous world of consciousness, but he was abruptly shaken out of it when the door to the cell swung open. Standing in the entrance, lit from behind like some sort of angelic messenger delivering proclamations of hellfire and destruction, was a man with graying hair, one of the higher-ranking officers in this area of New York. He tried to put a name to the coolly-calculating face, but a stab of pain through his mind ceased that line of thought quickly and he looked away.
"What's his status?" the man asked to one of the guards behind him.
"Physical condition, above average. Mental condition, poor. Malfunctioning implant, one year."
"We believe it's due to his mutant ability," came another familiar voice, quietly accented and almost soothing. He didn't try to place where he had heard it before. "We tried to implement him as a spy against the rebel groups in New York, but his inability to tell or, quite frankly, live a lie made it impossible. It's quite fascinating - I would have loved to study him more. But I think I understand it more now."
A memory surfaced from a year ago, one of the things he tried not to remember. That same voice, belonging to a woman with doll-like features, speaking in clinical terms as they attempted to bypass his own natural ability to only speak the truth. Every word, every action - a thousand sharpened knives didn't hurt as much as speaking lie after lie after lie. Nausea swept over him at the mere recollection of what happened, and he averted his eyes from the blinding light in the door.
"Do you think you can fix it this time?"
"Certainly. If I had been given more time the last time he was here, I would certainly have been able to break through that."
Silence passed between for a few unending seconds before the man grunted. "Fine. Bring him with us. Doctor, you better know what you're doing."
"Of course, of course."
He sensed rather than saw their movement and then the woman with the childlike features was kneeling beside him, a thoughtful expression on her face as cool fingertips gently tilted his chin, turning his face towards her. Her eyes were too green, he thought, the color of a glass bottle. Break it and they were far to sharp, enough to make you bleed. And when she smiled, it seemed as if the sun was rising. There was cruelty here, making one who was so calculating and removed from humanity to be surrounded by such a childlike aura. Children were notoriously hard on their toys, though...
"Do you remember me, Feuilly?"
Yes, he remembered her.
"Are you going to speak? It would make this so much easier."
No. Last time...last time, every word he had been forced to say...he didn't meet her eyes.
"Fascinating. You still understand me. You Amis are terribly hard to break, aren't you? I had the pleasure of being one of the lead doctors in charge of the prison where your friend - I believe his name is Enjolras - was located."
He didn't rise to the bait, and he could almost feel the disappointment radiating off of her. Still, he caught the barest hint of a smile - she was still somewhat pleased with his answer. She said something again, in an accent he was finally able to narrow down as something originating from eastern Europe, and he felt someone forcefully pull him to his feet. He staggered slightly - he couldn't remember how many hours or days or weeks he had been there. Everything was a lifetime in the darkness, in the pain that had enveloped his life. The woman peered back at him expectantly, exchanged words with the officer, and then they were headed down the hall. He didn't pay too much attention to it - it was drab, void of any life, doors that led to other unfortunates like himself. He remembered the brilliant colors he had used for his murals, a wash of brightly-painted reds and blues and greens, so vibrant they could have taken a life of their own. The pain lifted somewhat - there were no lies in his art, though he doubted he could so much as create even a fraction of what he once was able.