You need a more positive outlook, mate, ❰ enzo says, and for the first time in what feels like years, you smile. katherine's locked in a tomb, stefan still hasn't rescued you, you're some crazy doctor's test subject... but you have a friend, at least. you're not alone. this would be so much more unbearable if you were alone.
your happiness is short-lived.
the door to the cells opens, and you push yourself up to standing — slowly, because your stomach is still stitching itself up, but something about being on the ground when whitmore's around makes it twist even worse than it does when he's got his hands inside it. you're helpless right now, weak and starving, but you don't want to look it. vulnerability isn't something that comes easily to you.
even so, you can't look whitmore in the eye. ❱
Who's next? ❰ he says, spinning the key ring around his finger. neither you nor enzo say anything — neither of you want to draw attention to yourselves, neither of you want back under his scalpel — and eventually whitmore makes the choice himself. he steps toward your cell, reaching for the door. ❱ Two one zero five one, you seem to have more energy.
❰ you take a step back. you can't help it, you don't want to go back in that room — you were there yesterday, there's still an angry red line slowly closing up on your stomach, your eyes are still sensitive from last week — ❱
I take that as an insult! ❰ enzo's voice is loud in the quiet of the room. he rattles the bars of his cell and looks directly at whitmore, and that stops whitmore in his tracks, draws his attention from you to enzo. you can't help the relief that washes over you like a flood when whitmore's focus is off you, but the dread that follows it is just as visceral. ❱ I'm far more energetic than my neighbor here. Can't believe you didn't notice.
❰ enzo can't take your place. he shouldn't, it's not fair, whitmore chose you. but your stomach hasn't healed, and you're afraid of more pain, and even knowing it's wrong to let enzo do this, you can't bring yourself to speak up. ❱
Your turn, then. ❰ whitmore opens enzo's cell and leads him to the bloody room, and there's nothing for you to do but wait.
you hear everything in the cells. that room isn't far, and whitmore doesn't bother to try to dampen the sounds that come from it. you can hear every scream, have convinced yourself you can hear the quiet hiss of a blade slicing through flesh, the slick wet slide of gloved fingers through guts. it's just as bad as being under the knife yourself, knowing that enzo is in there so you don't have to be. there's no escaping the sound, no way to avoid it, and your insides twist as you pace around your cell, full of fury and fight and the sickening clarity of thought that comes with abject impotence.
every time enzo stops screaming, you stop in your tracks, panicked. what if he's dead? what if whitmore's killed him, by accident or design, and now you're alone? how will you get through this without him, how will you stay sane, how will you keep hold of your self without him?
when the screams start up again, the relief hits you like a truck, but revulsion follows soon after. you're glad your friend is in pain, because at least it means he's alive. that is what you've been reduced to.
you hate whitmore so much it feels like you could choke on it.
it's dark when whitmore brings enzo back. he throws enzo into his cell and enzo doesn't even try to pick himself back up, just lays where he's fallen, breathing laboured and eyes unfocused. without all the screaming, it's so quiet in the basement. the soft music on the radio doesn't fill up the space the way enzo's agony had. ❱
Why are you doing this to us? ❰ you don't talk to whitmore anymore. you did, when he first captured you, but that only ever made things worse, the experiments more painful, more drawn out. you learned that he hates distractions generally, and maybe your voice specifically, so you started keeping quiet out of a simple sense of self-preservation — aside from the screams. he never seems to mind those.
none of that matters right now. enzo is on the ground, you've listened to him scream himself hoarse for endless hours, you haven't seen sunlight for weeks, and you don't even know why.
whitmore turns around slowly, eyeing you for a moment, and your reflex is to shrink away from his attention, make yourself small and unnoticeable, because having his attention never means anything good — but you hold your ground. when whitmore speaks, he sounds as detached as ever. ❱
Because, two one zero five one, I am seeking out the smallest indivisible unit of your biological makeup. And once I can understand you on a cellular level, I can put you to use.
❰ to use. as though you're an animal, or a tool. the answer is almost scarier than not knowing, and you don't have anything to say in response. whitmore walks away, and you just try to breathe, clutching at the bars of your cell like they're all that can keep you standing. maybe they are.
stefan will find you. stefan will get you out of here. you and enzo both. ❱
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You need a more positive outlook, mate, ❰ enzo says, and for the first time in what feels like years, you smile. katherine's locked in a tomb, stefan still hasn't rescued you, you're some crazy doctor's test subject... but you have a friend, at least. you're not alone. this would be so much more unbearable if you were alone.
your happiness is short-lived.
the door to the cells opens, and you push yourself up to standing — slowly, because your stomach is still stitching itself up, but something about being on the ground when whitmore's around makes it twist even worse than it does when he's got his hands inside it. you're helpless right now, weak and starving, but you don't want to look it. vulnerability isn't something that comes easily to you.
even so, you can't look whitmore in the eye. ❱
Who's next? ❰ he says, spinning the key ring around his finger. neither you nor enzo say anything — neither of you want to draw attention to yourselves, neither of you want back under his scalpel — and eventually whitmore makes the choice himself. he steps toward your cell, reaching for the door. ❱ Two one zero five one, you seem to have more energy.
❰ you take a step back. you can't help it, you don't want to go back in that room — you were there yesterday, there's still an angry red line slowly closing up on your stomach, your eyes are still sensitive from last week — ❱
I take that as an insult! ❰ enzo's voice is loud in the quiet of the room. he rattles the bars of his cell and looks directly at whitmore, and that stops whitmore in his tracks, draws his attention from you to enzo. you can't help the relief that washes over you like a flood when whitmore's focus is off you, but the dread that follows it is just as visceral. ❱ I'm far more energetic than my neighbor here. Can't believe you didn't notice.
❰ enzo can't take your place. he shouldn't, it's not fair, whitmore chose you. but your stomach hasn't healed, and you're afraid of more pain, and even knowing it's wrong to let enzo do this, you can't bring yourself to speak up. ❱
Your turn, then. ❰ whitmore opens enzo's cell and leads him to the bloody room, and there's nothing for you to do but wait.
you hear everything in the cells. that room isn't far, and whitmore doesn't bother to try to dampen the sounds that come from it. you can hear every scream, have convinced yourself you can hear the quiet hiss of a blade slicing through flesh, the slick wet slide of gloved fingers through guts. it's just as bad as being under the knife yourself, knowing that enzo is in there so you don't have to be. there's no escaping the sound, no way to avoid it, and your insides twist as you pace around your cell, full of fury and fight and the sickening clarity of thought that comes with abject impotence.
every time enzo stops screaming, you stop in your tracks, panicked. what if he's dead? what if whitmore's killed him, by accident or design, and now you're alone? how will you get through this without him, how will you stay sane, how will you keep hold of your self without him?
when the screams start up again, the relief hits you like a truck, but revulsion follows soon after. you're glad your friend is in pain, because at least it means he's alive. that is what you've been reduced to.
you hate whitmore so much it feels like you could choke on it.
it's dark when whitmore brings enzo back. he throws enzo into his cell and enzo doesn't even try to pick himself back up, just lays where he's fallen, breathing laboured and eyes unfocused. without all the screaming, it's so quiet in the basement. the soft music on the radio doesn't fill up the space the way enzo's agony had. ❱
Why are you doing this to us? ❰ you don't talk to whitmore anymore. you did, when he first captured you, but that only ever made things worse, the experiments more painful, more drawn out. you learned that he hates distractions generally, and maybe your voice specifically, so you started keeping quiet out of a simple sense of self-preservation — aside from the screams. he never seems to mind those.
none of that matters right now. enzo is on the ground, you've listened to him scream himself hoarse for endless hours, you haven't seen sunlight for weeks, and you don't even know why.
whitmore turns around slowly, eyeing you for a moment, and your reflex is to shrink away from his attention, make yourself small and unnoticeable, because having his attention never means anything good — but you hold your ground. when whitmore speaks, he sounds as detached as ever. ❱
Because, two one zero five one, I am seeking out the smallest indivisible unit of your biological makeup. And once I can understand you on a cellular level, I can put you to use.
❰ to use. as though you're an animal, or a tool. the answer is almost scarier than not knowing, and you don't have anything to say in response. whitmore walks away, and you just try to breathe, clutching at the bars of your cell like they're all that can keep you standing. maybe they are.
stefan will find you. stefan will get you out of here. you and enzo both. ❱