Charles Xavier (
butwedonot) wrote in
theirlithium2012-03-31 02:00 pm
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Charles always tried to prepare himself for the pain, for what he knew was coming, but each time it still served to shock him. Each time the burning was that much more intense. Like claws scraping along his skull, infecting his brain and leaving puffy infected flesh in their wake. The only actual painful physical actions was the insertion of the probes. Pressed down into his skull, digging through flesh in order to make that connection. To read the pulses in his mind and produce their own. Charles had always been a pacifist, even under Kurt's heavy hand and his mothers constant drinking but as things stood he found himself having moments where he would give anything, anything, to be free of the torture they inflicted upon him.
He would be a great asset to the government. A great asset to war.
But for all he could do for them, they could do nothing for him, he wasn't human-- he had no rights or hope of safety. They could test for as long as painfully as they liked, he was less than an animal, creatures who at least had laws to protect them.
The pain shoots like fire from his skull and down his spine, digging in and refusing to let go. The harsh pulse enough to cause convulsions, his body straining against the black straps that kept him form leaving the chair. Time and time again they pushed him, harder, further, testing the limits of his ability and their own to control his brain. Between the tests and the sedation Charles didn't stand much of a chance. After every session he was an exhausted mess, too weak to even walk once it got to this level. They'd hose him down and toss him back into bed-- a place he had hated so much when he first arrived that he longed for every evening he was dragged here.
"Please..." He always uttered, almost pathetically, as they pushed the small tufts of hair to the side to insert the needles. He'd been shaved in patches, and then fully, only bits growing back now, uneven and no longer the full locks he had been so proud of in his youth. Please let him go home, please let him out, please make the pain stop, please don't do this.
But after that, the pain always came.
He would be a great asset to the government. A great asset to war.
But for all he could do for them, they could do nothing for him, he wasn't human-- he had no rights or hope of safety. They could test for as long as painfully as they liked, he was less than an animal, creatures who at least had laws to protect them.
The pain shoots like fire from his skull and down his spine, digging in and refusing to let go. The harsh pulse enough to cause convulsions, his body straining against the black straps that kept him form leaving the chair. Time and time again they pushed him, harder, further, testing the limits of his ability and their own to control his brain. Between the tests and the sedation Charles didn't stand much of a chance. After every session he was an exhausted mess, too weak to even walk once it got to this level. They'd hose him down and toss him back into bed-- a place he had hated so much when he first arrived that he longed for every evening he was dragged here.
"Please..." He always uttered, almost pathetically, as they pushed the small tufts of hair to the side to insert the needles. He'd been shaved in patches, and then fully, only bits growing back now, uneven and no longer the full locks he had been so proud of in his youth. Please let him go home, please let him out, please make the pain stop, please don't do this.
But after that, the pain always came.
no subject
Mutants being hunted down and shipped off for the safety and benefit of humanity didn't bother him particularly for any other reason than that it could become something to directly concern him, that he could be the one rendered defenseless, helpless and locked in a cage when he's sworn to never end up in such a position again. But Charles, perhaps too naïve and willing to see the good in people, yes, but someone who'd been intrigued by gifts Sylar possessed that were not quite his but ones he had acquired nonetheless, shown interest in what he was capable of without an ulterior motive - he mattered, and that was more than could be said for many.
Sylar can, so he will -- it's as simple as that. Whether he leaves whatever plan insignificant scientists might have for the telepath in ruins, he cares as little for, because what he intends to do holds more weight; he's going to break through the door to the facility, twist the metal into something unrecognizeable, and he's going to kill anything he finds on the other side. Charles would likely disapprove, of course, even after the acts these people have committed against him, so Sylar completely disregards his possible opinion on the matter and claims the revenge the other man never would take for himself for him, in a way.
The wall melts along with the door and he leaves the survivors to burn in the rubble, but the corridor isn't empty for long -- the alarm screams overhead and people are rushing both away from and towards him, all dressed in white uniforms and shouting in a panic. There are needles in their hands, but Sylar raises a hand and pushes, and the woman closest to him flies back ten feet to hit the wall. She takes a couple of her colleagues with her and the impact is hard enough to crack the tile and leave blood behind, though more personnel is already approaching so he makes sure he's too hot for them to touch and whoever dares to try, despite that, gets a face full of electricity and ends up on the floor in a shrieking heap.
He snaps his way through locks on doors and throws them off their hinges, searching, wrecking and leaving a trail of bodies behind if attempts are made to stop him. The room he finally finds at the end of the sterile hallway is a science lab of sorts, men and women in the same white coats as the ones dead outside standing by and watching, all emotionless expressions and straight postures, the torture as though it was a particularly eye-catching slideshow at a lecture and nothing more.
You can't be in here, he's told, but Sylar pushes again, and a metal table screeches across the floor to be thrown, along with a few of the scientists, crashing into a wall made of glass on the opposite side. ]
no subject
It's a few moments later when Charles actually can work up the will to use proper words he isn't even sure what to say. The words didn't come to him the right way, words don't even seem to process properly. ] Gabriel... [ He hesitates, what is there to say to him? Charles is a mess, humiliated and dizzy and he doesn't even know why the man's here for him. Didn't know why he expected anything else. Glad but terrified. He's been here so long... ]