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LJ Idol, Week 26: Crabs in a Barrel
Oct. 28th, 2014 09:09 pmRandall scans the common area, rubbing the back of his broad neck.
It's more crowded this evening than most, what with the storm outside and all thirteen of his charges indoors. Near the front door, the eldest of the group are playing a rather noisy game of mind hockey. Two and Four take on One and Three, with Five playing interference. From the looks of it, they're more concerned with their bank shots than who's winning. The glowing puck caroms off walls and furniture, and Five's spending more time ducking and laughing than catching and redirecting.
Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen huddle in a far corner with a portable vidplayer. Its light dances on their soft faces. These three are young enough their voices are still half-changed, their complexions rebellious. There's a state-of-the-art vidroom on the ward, but Randall knows boys. Whatever they're watching, he's guessing it's got women and it's not quite Government-Sanctioned.
Let them have their fun. A smile, thin and brittle, curves Randall's lips.
In the sparring room, Six and Eight face off while Nine and Ten wait their turn. Even through the shatterproof glass, Randall can hear shouts and cheers, the occasional thud of bodies coming together. The crash of Manipulated chairs and other objects missing an opponent or spectator by only the narrowest margin. Randall shakes his head, wishing he still had their energy. Their determination.
Not that it'll change a thing; they can practice 'til the end of time, but they'll never get the best of Seven.
He's alone as he always is these days, apart from training and his time with Brinkley. Seven doesn't talk to the other boys, but he can beat every last one of them in a fight. You'd never guess it to look at him now, slumped in an oversized chair at the back of the ward. His back rests against one arm, gangly legs thrown over the other. Long black hair hides his face; his head hangs as he sits, silent and still.
Even in the state he's in, Seven can sense Randall's approach--he's that good. The boy doesn't move, doesn't give any sign, but that doesn't mean a thing and Randall knows it. Sure enough, as soon as Randall's in earshot, Seven mutters, "Go 'way, Rand."
Randall doesn't move and neither does the kid. Scarecrow-skinny and limbs loose, he looks like a broken puppet, a cast-off toy; he doesn't know he could kill everyone in this place if he wanted and walk away free. They're not about to let him find out, either. Even with Brinkley, their dark knight riding in to save the day, the kid's barely controlled. Anyone who's watched him Manipulate can see that.
"Y'okay, kid?" Randall asks, even though he knows the answer.
Seven nods, a near-imperceptible twitch. It's a lie; the treatments are meant to be a last resort, same as the shocks.
No one was ever intended to withstand what they're putting him through. A weaker boy would've broken long ago, and this one's beginning to. His arms are bandaged; he'll slice himself to ribbons if he's left alone too long. They'll grind him down, given enough time.
Randall intends to smuggle him out before that happens, but that'll be easier said than done. He'll have to get Seven to trust him first, and the kid's locked down tighter than the ward itself. There's the issue of his abilities as well, but unlike most of the staff, Randall's not afraid.
Seven doesn't want to hurt anyone; Brinkley'd be dead if he did.
Brinkley knows it, too. Seven's allegations were classified, but everyone's heard what happened. The Board took Brinkley at his word; they made noises about cutting the kid from the Program, as if "decommissioning" him would be that easy. Brinkley rushed to Seven's defense, insisting it wouldn't be fair to hold his "delusions" against him. He only needed more time. More treatments.
It makes Randall sick, picturing Brinkley with his martyr's smile. I only want what's best for the boy.
Randall knows better than that; he's had Brinkley pegged since he first swaggered onto Ward Zero. Brinkley wants what's best for Brinkley, and he's used to getting it. Used to telling people what to do, guys who've put in their time, worked for what they've got. Less than a year on the ward and Brinkley's doing procedures Randall can only dream of, work he'll never see outside a Multiversity text.
"Rand?" The voice is muffled, paper-thin. "Why're you still here?"
"I worry about you," Randall says without thinking.
The boy snorts. "Heard that one before." He raises his head; the economy of his movements is fascinating. Painful.
Randall puts his hands in his pockets; his instinct's to reach out. To pat Seven's shoulder, brush the hair back from his face. He restrains himself. The kid's like a mutt who's been kicked one time too many--get too close and he'll snap. "You can't go on like this much longer."
"Don't have to." His tone's even, devoid of emotion. "Won't live much longer."
The calm acceptance rattles Randall the most; his words come out in a rush. "What if there's another way out?"
A ghost of a shrug. "Thought of that already. Not gonna kill anyone."
"I know," Randall says. "I can take it all away. Make you normal."
Seven snaps to attention, wincing at the sudden change in position. A hint of hope lights his pallid face before he catches himself. His expression goes blank in an instant, but his amber eyes hold Randall's gaze; they shine like a child's. "You can't."
Randall nods, ignoring the guilt that knifes through his belly. "I can." It's not a lie; he can suppress Seven's abilities, make him forget everything he's gone through here on the ward. Let him live a regular life. And he will, for a while--until the kid's healed.
Until he's recovered his strength enough to help Randall get what he wants, just this once.
It's more crowded this evening than most, what with the storm outside and all thirteen of his charges indoors. Near the front door, the eldest of the group are playing a rather noisy game of mind hockey. Two and Four take on One and Three, with Five playing interference. From the looks of it, they're more concerned with their bank shots than who's winning. The glowing puck caroms off walls and furniture, and Five's spending more time ducking and laughing than catching and redirecting.
Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen huddle in a far corner with a portable vidplayer. Its light dances on their soft faces. These three are young enough their voices are still half-changed, their complexions rebellious. There's a state-of-the-art vidroom on the ward, but Randall knows boys. Whatever they're watching, he's guessing it's got women and it's not quite Government-Sanctioned.
Let them have their fun. A smile, thin and brittle, curves Randall's lips.
In the sparring room, Six and Eight face off while Nine and Ten wait their turn. Even through the shatterproof glass, Randall can hear shouts and cheers, the occasional thud of bodies coming together. The crash of Manipulated chairs and other objects missing an opponent or spectator by only the narrowest margin. Randall shakes his head, wishing he still had their energy. Their determination.
Not that it'll change a thing; they can practice 'til the end of time, but they'll never get the best of Seven.
He's alone as he always is these days, apart from training and his time with Brinkley. Seven doesn't talk to the other boys, but he can beat every last one of them in a fight. You'd never guess it to look at him now, slumped in an oversized chair at the back of the ward. His back rests against one arm, gangly legs thrown over the other. Long black hair hides his face; his head hangs as he sits, silent and still.
Even in the state he's in, Seven can sense Randall's approach--he's that good. The boy doesn't move, doesn't give any sign, but that doesn't mean a thing and Randall knows it. Sure enough, as soon as Randall's in earshot, Seven mutters, "Go 'way, Rand."
Randall doesn't move and neither does the kid. Scarecrow-skinny and limbs loose, he looks like a broken puppet, a cast-off toy; he doesn't know he could kill everyone in this place if he wanted and walk away free. They're not about to let him find out, either. Even with Brinkley, their dark knight riding in to save the day, the kid's barely controlled. Anyone who's watched him Manipulate can see that.
"Y'okay, kid?" Randall asks, even though he knows the answer.
Seven nods, a near-imperceptible twitch. It's a lie; the treatments are meant to be a last resort, same as the shocks.
No one was ever intended to withstand what they're putting him through. A weaker boy would've broken long ago, and this one's beginning to. His arms are bandaged; he'll slice himself to ribbons if he's left alone too long. They'll grind him down, given enough time.
Randall intends to smuggle him out before that happens, but that'll be easier said than done. He'll have to get Seven to trust him first, and the kid's locked down tighter than the ward itself. There's the issue of his abilities as well, but unlike most of the staff, Randall's not afraid.
Seven doesn't want to hurt anyone; Brinkley'd be dead if he did.
Brinkley knows it, too. Seven's allegations were classified, but everyone's heard what happened. The Board took Brinkley at his word; they made noises about cutting the kid from the Program, as if "decommissioning" him would be that easy. Brinkley rushed to Seven's defense, insisting it wouldn't be fair to hold his "delusions" against him. He only needed more time. More treatments.
It makes Randall sick, picturing Brinkley with his martyr's smile. I only want what's best for the boy.
Randall knows better than that; he's had Brinkley pegged since he first swaggered onto Ward Zero. Brinkley wants what's best for Brinkley, and he's used to getting it. Used to telling people what to do, guys who've put in their time, worked for what they've got. Less than a year on the ward and Brinkley's doing procedures Randall can only dream of, work he'll never see outside a Multiversity text.
"Rand?" The voice is muffled, paper-thin. "Why're you still here?"
"I worry about you," Randall says without thinking.
The boy snorts. "Heard that one before." He raises his head; the economy of his movements is fascinating. Painful.
Randall puts his hands in his pockets; his instinct's to reach out. To pat Seven's shoulder, brush the hair back from his face. He restrains himself. The kid's like a mutt who's been kicked one time too many--get too close and he'll snap. "You can't go on like this much longer."
"Don't have to." His tone's even, devoid of emotion. "Won't live much longer."
The calm acceptance rattles Randall the most; his words come out in a rush. "What if there's another way out?"
A ghost of a shrug. "Thought of that already. Not gonna kill anyone."
"I know," Randall says. "I can take it all away. Make you normal."
Seven snaps to attention, wincing at the sudden change in position. A hint of hope lights his pallid face before he catches himself. His expression goes blank in an instant, but his amber eyes hold Randall's gaze; they shine like a child's. "You can't."
Randall nods, ignoring the guilt that knifes through his belly. "I can." It's not a lie; he can suppress Seven's abilities, make him forget everything he's gone through here on the ward. Let him live a regular life. And he will, for a while--until the kid's healed.
Until he's recovered his strength enough to help Randall get what he wants, just this once.
