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n3m3sis43"I'm proud of you." Brinkley's voice is full of fake cheer. "You made a lot of progress today."
I don't answer, don't even look away from the vid I'm pretending to watch. Slouch low in my chair and try to disappear. Pretend the simple movement doesn't make my vision blur and the room spin. The treatments mess me up bad, scramble my brains so I can't talk for hours after. But that's not the worst part of my sessions with Brinkley.
They'll never believe you, Number Seven. The treatments tend to make you imagine things.
The truth hurts. No one'd take my word over Brinkley's.
They brought him in special to straighten me out. He's supposed to be good with "troubled boys" like me, and I'm supposed to be grateful. Like they're keeping me in the Program out of the kindness of their fucking hearts. Sure, I've broken every rule I can think of. Tried to escape more times than I can count. I keep my hair long and I bit the last guy who tried to cut it. Got a tendency to isolate and a wicked addiction to razor blades. But I train like crazy and I've picked up Manipulating like nobody's business.
I learn fast, always have. Learned to hate Brinkley right off the bat, with his silky voice and smarmy smile.
You're surviving, not thriving, Number Seven. I'm here to change that.
Funny how it's all so clear, even through the treatment-fog. The chill of the room, the sick-sweet smell of his hair gel. Metal restraints biting into my wrists as I struggled. The sandpaper scrape of his stubble on my skin. His breath hot against the hollow of my neck and mine caught and held as his tongue traced my collarbone, trailed down my chest. My body turned traitor when he took me in his mouth, hips bucking under his hands. Still shivering and straining, but not from fear anymore. His smirk as he shoved my legs apart.
I knew you'd warm up to me sooner or later.
A shudder runs through me and I squirm in my seat. It fucking hurts. Didn't imagine that, did I?
"I've got to do rounds. Keep up the good work." Brinkley gives my shoulder a squeeze and leaves.
I close my eyes and sigh. Try to think of something happy. Friday night double features with my best friend--
Oh, shit. I can't remember his name. It's just... gone.
You're adapting, Number Seven. I knew you had it in you. All you needed was a little extra attention.
Bile creeps up in my throat, burns as I swallow it down. Never gonna get used to what they've done to my voices.
They're part of the recruitment package, sort of a helping hand. Tell you when you're letting your thoughts go places they shouldn't. When I first got my voices, they were like something out of a monster vid. Strange, scraping whispers that froze my blood and made me think I'd lost my mind. Trouble is, their tricks don't work on me anymore--not the voices and not the shocks that come with 'em if you don't listen.
So they keep changing things up. Trying different voices, increasing the strength of the shocks and hoping they'll hit on the right combination. Their latest attempt is shocks that'd take down an elephant and voices that sound like Brinkley. I don't mind the shocks so much. There's something kinda beautiful about a pain so intense it blots out everything out. Something peaceful.
Brinkley's voice in my head, though? It's almost enough to make me do what I'm told. Almost, but not quite.
"Not fucking adapting," I mutter to no one.
Oh, but you are. You've turned a corner. You're finally starting to let go of your past.
I'm not gonna let go of him. I can't.
He's holding you back. Keeping you ordinary, when you're meant to be so much more.
Meant to be what? A Manipulator? Big fucking deal. Sure, they look all scary, the way they move all boneless and graceful. They can change your surroundings, everything you see and hear and feel. I'm supposed to want to be one of 'em, to crave that kind of power. Guess I'm broken or something, because I don't much care about any of that. All I want is my best friend back.
Now, now, Seven. Let's not go down this road again. You know where it leads.
White-hot light explodes behind my eyes, courses through my veins. My whole body jerks with the force of it. Brain rattles inside my skull, muscles tense and nerves scream. My heart stutters in my chest and my vision goes dark. The pain's excruciating, almost ecstatic. It's all there is, all there ever will be... and it's not enough. The shock passes too fast and I'm shaky, hollowed out and heavy.
And I want more.
They can use my body however they please, make me forget my best friend's name and maybe his face next. They can snuff out the last spark inside me, destroy my will to survive. But they can't make me stay in the Program, not when I can use their own weapons against 'em. Make 'em shock me 'til I'm free once and for all. I picture him in my mind, clear as I can. Warm brown eyes, wide-set and long-lashed. A mop of dark corkscrew curls that'd never behave. The way his smile lit up his whole face and his laughter filled a room.
The next shock's so powerful it snaps my head back hard, fills my brain with static.
Eric. His name was Eric.
My head lolls forward and I smile as the world goes black.
