| Aug 26, 2016 21:54:10 GMT -5 |
Post by Feliciano Vargas on Aug 26, 2016 21:54:10 GMT -5
Lately, Feliciano wondered if he was (un)lucky enough to have a secondary mutation alongside his "selective synesthesia". Feliciano couldn't wrap his mind around how quickly his bruises had been healing, and it seemed like the most logical option. The guards and the police hardly let him sleep ever since he'd been captured; his time swallowed up in questions he couldn't (wouldn't) answer and long stretches of nothing but pain. Torturing a mutant for information wasn't inhumane, because mutants weren't human. But the injuries seemed to heal almost inhumanly fast, and he had never passed out so long that another healing mutant would've had time to heal any of the injuries. Or maybe he was just locked in that minuscule cell longer than he'd estimated. The mutant had lost track of the days after the third.
Feliciano was sure it had to be at least a week and a half, because how else would the oldest bruises on his face and torso be that sickly shade of yellow meaning they were almost healed? Not that they weren't mostly hidden by new bruises and cuts, but he could see the grotesque colors if he stared hard enough at his reflection in the table he was handcuffed to. There was little else for him to do, when his interrogators and torturers weren't around.
Broken bones screamed in protest as Feliciano shifted uncomfortably in his seat and attempted to stretch to make himself more comfortable. However, his senses were so dulled by this point that the mutant could regard the aches with a detached regard. They had used his sensitivity any way they could when they were interrogating him: three of his fingers were broken, as were a few ribs, and even a day after they slammed his head into the table, he couldn't quite get his eyes to focus properly. Nerves occasionally seized up or spasmed from the multitude of shocks they'd put him through to reactivate his senses. The worst of it all, though, were his ears.
As time went on, Feliciano found it almost impossible to stay silent in the face of the police's questions. At first, he could just focus all his attention onto one sense, like his sight, or just shut himself down and completely ignore their questions. Of course it only worked so often, but it made it easier to get through the first round of questions. The Underground guards had recalled how he reacted to the shock collar they'd forced on him over a year ago, during the New Year's festival. They passed that information along to the interrogators, who happily abused this "reset" button whenever it seemed like Feliciano's focus was "wandering". Feliciano wasn't sure how long they interrogated him after that. There were a few empty patches in his memory, when they cranked up his new shock collar to maximum and left it on for minutes at a time. It was only the fact that they had kept asking the same questions that reassured Feliciano he hadn't cracked; all he had done was scream. But he had known he wouldn't last--how could he?
So, during one of the few breaks the interrogators had given him (probably for their own sakes, and to see if the solitude would do what their fists and electricity could not) Feliciano had hyper-focused on his hearing. The mutant wasn't sure he'd ever forced his hearing to amplify that much before. He knew that the more he focused on one of his sensory centers, the more blood that flowed there. The more pressure he would put on his eardrums. Once it grew almost too painful to stand, Feliciano had lifted his handcuffed hands to his head and sharply slapped his hands over his ears. The force ruptured both his eardrums.
It was a last-ditch attempt. He hadn't even known if it would work. In his time at Alfred's, and then Gilbert's, Feliciano had done a lot of research into human anatomy. He was no means an expert, but he knew that, in some cases, a blow to the head or ears could rupture an eardrum. Feliciano hadn't been sure if it would cause full hearing loss; considering his mutation, he hoped the damage would be worse than normal. What else could he have done? He was at the end of his rope, and he refused to tell them anything he knew. Feliciano refused to listen to their threats, or any attempts at "bargaining" with him. Feliciano knew there was no such thing as a plea bargain for a mutant.
Feliciano also knew he couldn't answer any questions he couldn't hear.
That had to've been a few days ago, at least. The constantly ringing in his ears had begun to fade, and the guards had even stuffed gauze and wrapped his head to keep blood from leaking out of his ears. Feliciano doubted the action was out of the goodness of their hearts; couldn't risk an infection that could potentially deafen him forever. After that, the interrogators tried every way they could to get him to respond, but without his hearing, Feliciano was like a brick wall. Feliciano had never bothered to learn sign language for potential days where he couldn't hear, or couldn't speak, and none of the interrogators slowed their lips down enough for him to read them. Perhaps he should be scared he couldn't hear what these people were planning anymore. Feliciano had given up his fear for himself the moment that policeman had yanked off his hat and recognized him for what he was: escaped mutant and ringleader of the Underground Breakout. His fear was for Ludwig, (hopefully) still safely stashed away in Gilbert's home; for Nico, a little boy who was just beginning to manifest his mutation; for Gilbert and Alfred themselves, two humans who risked their safety and their lives to give Ludwig and others secrecy and safety. He couldn't repay their kindness, or rob the Freedom Fighters of such hard-working members, by giving them up in a moment of weakness. Feliciano would rather the police kill him, first.
As his broken fingers flared to life under another muscle spasm, Feliciano vaguely wondered if he'd damaged more than just his eardrums. Or maybe the electrocution the police put him through were beginning to cause nerve damage. Maybe he was just subconsciously telling his body to move. He couldn't really tell, anymore.
He barely flinched when a hand suddenly appeared in his vision, slamming onto the table. Feliciano was used to these kinds of scare tactics; without the loud "bang" to accompany the harsh movement, he couldn't understand why they even bothered. He couldn't really focus on the guard's face, but he could recognize the gesture to stand when the other jerked his hand up. As the mutant forced himself off the chair, his legs nearly gave out on him. Only the now-shortened chains of his handcuffs kept him from landing on the floor. Instead, cold metal bit into his wrists as they were forced to support most of his weight.
Gloved hands unceremoniously dragged him to his feet and shoved him half-onto the table. Another officer, or perhaps one of the Underground guards, must have entered alongside the first. Feliciano offered no resistance as he was pinned to the table, handcuffs released only long enough to unchain him from the table and reshackle his wrists behind his back. He didn't even bother to ask where he was going when he was dragged from the room entirely, tripping only once or twice on the cuffs around his ankles.
Either they were dragging him to Re-Education, or to his execution.
Feliciano had to close his eyes and look away as he was dragged through the doors and led outside for the first time since his capture. The sky was overcast and the strong wind felt like an icy slap to the face. Even behind his eyelids he could see the dozens of flashes of cameras as he was hauled through the crowds. Feliciano was honestly glad he'd deafened himself. There were a lot of people out here, and when he squinted through his eyelashes, he could see more than one newscaster with a cameraman as he stumbled along. Just with the multitude of people, after the strange dullness of his soundproofed cell, the noises of the crowd might have deafened him anyway.
Considering the presence of the media, Feliciano doubted that he was being executed: at least yet. While mutants were treated worse than animals, he could only pray there was enough dignity for him that they wouldn't broadcast his death live. Even if it was only fear that the violence might "traumatize the children". Feliciano liked kids well enough, but even he wasn't above mentally reasoning their uses in keeping him alive, if only for a few minutes more.
When amber eyes finally adjusted to the brightness of the outside world, Feliciano did his best to look around. The high fencing and grim-looking architecture reminded Feliciano of Weeds, but it was too gray here. He was definitely at some sort of holding facility, or a prison, or something. Feliciano had no idea if Archadia even had a prison in city limits. However, the officers weren't manhandling him to a firing squad, and he couldn't see a car waiting anywhere to whisk him somewhere else.
It only took a few moments to see where he was being led. The crowds eventually parted, opening up to a large, empty space, surrounded by dozens of police officers in full riot gear. They made a perimeter, keeping the crowds of pedestrians and paparazzi at bay. In the center of the cleared area stood two people, also fully armored: one with a coil of leather hanging from his fist, and another holding what Feliciano now recognized as the controller for his shock collar. Beyond them was an A-shaped stand Feliciano also recognized.
This must be part of his sentencing, then. A public lashing. Feliciano didn't even know they still had public punishments, let alone broadcasted them on television.
Despite himself, the fear he thought he'd abandoned crept up in his chest as he was roughly shoved against the reclining stand. He didn't even have time to struggle as he was unshackled, had his shirt tugged off his torso, and was then shackled to the stand: hands together above his head and his feet shoulder-width apart. They had yanked his hands up almost too high for his height, leaving his arms painfully stretched upwards and his back and shoulders uncomfortably tense. This would only make the lashes more painful and more damaging.
Cold fingers dug into the hinge of his jaw and forced his mouth open, so that one of the officers could jam a mouthguard up against his teeth; either to keep him from biting through his tongue or keep his teeth from cracking. Feliciano wasn't planning on killing himself to avoid his punishment, but he was glad for the protection either way. He'd rather not accidentally bite off his tongue or something.
With that done, the officers stepped back, leaving him seemingly isolated. He couldn't see anything but the wood of the stand before his eyes, and with his hearing compromised, he felt almost unbearably exposed. The scars from previous lashing, wormy bold white scars stretched across the full expanse of his shoulders he tried so hard to hide, were bare for all to see. He'd have even more scars to hide by the end of this. Feliciano didn't even know how many lashes he had to force himself through. Nor could the mutant prepare himself for any of them.
Feliciano swallowed thickly before clenching his eyes shut. He could only hope he didn't break now. He had to be strong. There was no doubt in his mind Gilbert and Alfred, the idiots would be watching; forcing themselves to see what kind of idiotic mess Feliciano had gotten himself into. Ludwig might even be watching. Feliciano couldn't let them think he was weak. Feliciano had gone through this before, it was nothing new. All he had to do--
A pained gasp escaped him as the first lash struck his back.
Feliciano was sure it had to be at least a week and a half, because how else would the oldest bruises on his face and torso be that sickly shade of yellow meaning they were almost healed? Not that they weren't mostly hidden by new bruises and cuts, but he could see the grotesque colors if he stared hard enough at his reflection in the table he was handcuffed to. There was little else for him to do, when his interrogators and torturers weren't around.
Broken bones screamed in protest as Feliciano shifted uncomfortably in his seat and attempted to stretch to make himself more comfortable. However, his senses were so dulled by this point that the mutant could regard the aches with a detached regard. They had used his sensitivity any way they could when they were interrogating him: three of his fingers were broken, as were a few ribs, and even a day after they slammed his head into the table, he couldn't quite get his eyes to focus properly. Nerves occasionally seized up or spasmed from the multitude of shocks they'd put him through to reactivate his senses. The worst of it all, though, were his ears.
As time went on, Feliciano found it almost impossible to stay silent in the face of the police's questions. At first, he could just focus all his attention onto one sense, like his sight, or just shut himself down and completely ignore their questions. Of course it only worked so often, but it made it easier to get through the first round of questions. The Underground guards had recalled how he reacted to the shock collar they'd forced on him over a year ago, during the New Year's festival. They passed that information along to the interrogators, who happily abused this "reset" button whenever it seemed like Feliciano's focus was "wandering". Feliciano wasn't sure how long they interrogated him after that. There were a few empty patches in his memory, when they cranked up his new shock collar to maximum and left it on for minutes at a time. It was only the fact that they had kept asking the same questions that reassured Feliciano he hadn't cracked; all he had done was scream. But he had known he wouldn't last--how could he?
So, during one of the few breaks the interrogators had given him (probably for their own sakes, and to see if the solitude would do what their fists and electricity could not) Feliciano had hyper-focused on his hearing. The mutant wasn't sure he'd ever forced his hearing to amplify that much before. He knew that the more he focused on one of his sensory centers, the more blood that flowed there. The more pressure he would put on his eardrums. Once it grew almost too painful to stand, Feliciano had lifted his handcuffed hands to his head and sharply slapped his hands over his ears. The force ruptured both his eardrums.
It was a last-ditch attempt. He hadn't even known if it would work. In his time at Alfred's, and then Gilbert's, Feliciano had done a lot of research into human anatomy. He was no means an expert, but he knew that, in some cases, a blow to the head or ears could rupture an eardrum. Feliciano hadn't been sure if it would cause full hearing loss; considering his mutation, he hoped the damage would be worse than normal. What else could he have done? He was at the end of his rope, and he refused to tell them anything he knew. Feliciano refused to listen to their threats, or any attempts at "bargaining" with him. Feliciano knew there was no such thing as a plea bargain for a mutant.
Feliciano also knew he couldn't answer any questions he couldn't hear.
That had to've been a few days ago, at least. The constantly ringing in his ears had begun to fade, and the guards had even stuffed gauze and wrapped his head to keep blood from leaking out of his ears. Feliciano doubted the action was out of the goodness of their hearts; couldn't risk an infection that could potentially deafen him forever. After that, the interrogators tried every way they could to get him to respond, but without his hearing, Feliciano was like a brick wall. Feliciano had never bothered to learn sign language for potential days where he couldn't hear, or couldn't speak, and none of the interrogators slowed their lips down enough for him to read them. Perhaps he should be scared he couldn't hear what these people were planning anymore. Feliciano had given up his fear for himself the moment that policeman had yanked off his hat and recognized him for what he was: escaped mutant and ringleader of the Underground Breakout. His fear was for Ludwig, (hopefully) still safely stashed away in Gilbert's home; for Nico, a little boy who was just beginning to manifest his mutation; for Gilbert and Alfred themselves, two humans who risked their safety and their lives to give Ludwig and others secrecy and safety. He couldn't repay their kindness, or rob the Freedom Fighters of such hard-working members, by giving them up in a moment of weakness. Feliciano would rather the police kill him, first.
As his broken fingers flared to life under another muscle spasm, Feliciano vaguely wondered if he'd damaged more than just his eardrums. Or maybe the electrocution the police put him through were beginning to cause nerve damage. Maybe he was just subconsciously telling his body to move. He couldn't really tell, anymore.
He barely flinched when a hand suddenly appeared in his vision, slamming onto the table. Feliciano was used to these kinds of scare tactics; without the loud "bang" to accompany the harsh movement, he couldn't understand why they even bothered. He couldn't really focus on the guard's face, but he could recognize the gesture to stand when the other jerked his hand up. As the mutant forced himself off the chair, his legs nearly gave out on him. Only the now-shortened chains of his handcuffs kept him from landing on the floor. Instead, cold metal bit into his wrists as they were forced to support most of his weight.
Gloved hands unceremoniously dragged him to his feet and shoved him half-onto the table. Another officer, or perhaps one of the Underground guards, must have entered alongside the first. Feliciano offered no resistance as he was pinned to the table, handcuffs released only long enough to unchain him from the table and reshackle his wrists behind his back. He didn't even bother to ask where he was going when he was dragged from the room entirely, tripping only once or twice on the cuffs around his ankles.
Either they were dragging him to Re-Education, or to his execution.
Feliciano had to close his eyes and look away as he was dragged through the doors and led outside for the first time since his capture. The sky was overcast and the strong wind felt like an icy slap to the face. Even behind his eyelids he could see the dozens of flashes of cameras as he was hauled through the crowds. Feliciano was honestly glad he'd deafened himself. There were a lot of people out here, and when he squinted through his eyelashes, he could see more than one newscaster with a cameraman as he stumbled along. Just with the multitude of people, after the strange dullness of his soundproofed cell, the noises of the crowd might have deafened him anyway.
Considering the presence of the media, Feliciano doubted that he was being executed: at least yet. While mutants were treated worse than animals, he could only pray there was enough dignity for him that they wouldn't broadcast his death live. Even if it was only fear that the violence might "traumatize the children". Feliciano liked kids well enough, but even he wasn't above mentally reasoning their uses in keeping him alive, if only for a few minutes more.
When amber eyes finally adjusted to the brightness of the outside world, Feliciano did his best to look around. The high fencing and grim-looking architecture reminded Feliciano of Weeds, but it was too gray here. He was definitely at some sort of holding facility, or a prison, or something. Feliciano had no idea if Archadia even had a prison in city limits. However, the officers weren't manhandling him to a firing squad, and he couldn't see a car waiting anywhere to whisk him somewhere else.
It only took a few moments to see where he was being led. The crowds eventually parted, opening up to a large, empty space, surrounded by dozens of police officers in full riot gear. They made a perimeter, keeping the crowds of pedestrians and paparazzi at bay. In the center of the cleared area stood two people, also fully armored: one with a coil of leather hanging from his fist, and another holding what Feliciano now recognized as the controller for his shock collar. Beyond them was an A-shaped stand Feliciano also recognized.
This must be part of his sentencing, then. A public lashing. Feliciano didn't even know they still had public punishments, let alone broadcasted them on television.
Despite himself, the fear he thought he'd abandoned crept up in his chest as he was roughly shoved against the reclining stand. He didn't even have time to struggle as he was unshackled, had his shirt tugged off his torso, and was then shackled to the stand: hands together above his head and his feet shoulder-width apart. They had yanked his hands up almost too high for his height, leaving his arms painfully stretched upwards and his back and shoulders uncomfortably tense. This would only make the lashes more painful and more damaging.
Cold fingers dug into the hinge of his jaw and forced his mouth open, so that one of the officers could jam a mouthguard up against his teeth; either to keep him from biting through his tongue or keep his teeth from cracking. Feliciano wasn't planning on killing himself to avoid his punishment, but he was glad for the protection either way. He'd rather not accidentally bite off his tongue or something.
With that done, the officers stepped back, leaving him seemingly isolated. He couldn't see anything but the wood of the stand before his eyes, and with his hearing compromised, he felt almost unbearably exposed. The scars from previous lashing, wormy bold white scars stretched across the full expanse of his shoulders he tried so hard to hide, were bare for all to see. He'd have even more scars to hide by the end of this. Feliciano didn't even know how many lashes he had to force himself through. Nor could the mutant prepare himself for any of them.
Feliciano swallowed thickly before clenching his eyes shut. He could only hope he didn't break now. He had to be strong. There was no doubt in his mind Gilbert and Alfred, the idiots would be watching; forcing themselves to see what kind of idiotic mess Feliciano had gotten himself into. Ludwig might even be watching. Feliciano couldn't let them think he was weak. Feliciano had gone through this before, it was nothing new. All he had to do--
A pained gasp escaped him as the first lash struck his back.
