Chapter 31 - Time for your meds

I'm leaning against the bars, trying my best to resist the temptation to reach out and map out the place. It's like I have all this power, but I'm not allowed to use it. Actually, it's not like that at all, it is that. On the floor next to me there's a glass of water, a slice of bread and a bowl of some kind of stew. I'm hungry, and it smells kind of good, but I have no idea what might be in it other than food. I don't dare test it; if they manage to get a feel of my strength my chances of getting out of here are that much smaller.

The girl across the hall hasn't spoken to me since she found out I'm a Langdale and that Langdales want to ‘get rid of the impure’. The other cages around me are all empty, no chance of information sharing or escape routes. I can see occupants a few cages over, a girl leaned against the bars, her hand reached out towards her neighbor, but unable to get through the forcefield between their cages.

I don't know what's going to happen to me here, if I can get my ally back, or how I'm going to keeping from doing something stupid. I just know I have to keep my courage up.

I force my thoughts to gather on one subject, one memory and block everything else out.

I'm back home, and it's my birthday. The table is set, and in the middle is the giant cake mother had spent most of the day baking. It’s a beautiful, natural and deep blue, with white icing spirals and curves, and five pretty little lights trying to outshine each other. The entire family is there, except Nico of course, he wouldn’t be born till eight years later. Marie was just a baby, cradled in mother’s arms, reaching her little chubby hands out to grab the cake, giggling as the others sang ‘Happy Birthday’. I remember it as the perfect birthday – at least until three-year-old Andy sneezed and set fire to the entire table. I was devastated, on the brink of tears; until Marie let out a squeal of joy and clapped her little hands together, mother barely able to keep her from tumbling down on the burning table. Mother and the sergeant simply looked at each other, and then they both laughed. Everyone quickly joined in, what else was there to do? And then Andy sent a flame across the table and up to the ceiling. That resulted in a talking to from the sergeant and Andy insisting the entire time that it wasn’t him, that he didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t till the third time he intentionally spewed fire on the table, Marie still clapping happily, that it occurred to anyone that maybe she was the culprit. I don’t remember exactly they convinced the 7 months old rebel to stop controlling her brother, but the sergeant always had a way of getting order in the ranks.

"Get over yourself," my neighbor tells me. My hand flies up to my cheek, and sure enough, decorating the nostalgic smile is a single tear running down my cheek.

“Mind your own business,” I order her.

“Whatever you say, your mighty Pureness,” she scowls.

“Quiet.” The lab coat from yesterday orders us. The girl spits at him, but the force field catches it, and I watch it slide down apparent nothingness. “Away, away.” He ushers, taking a needle out of his pocket and holding it out towards her. “Don’t want any trouble.” His hand grips around the bars, needle ready if she decides she wants the trouble. She doesn’t. She retrieves to the other corner of her cage and curls up there.

“What about you?” he turns to me. “Are you going to give me trouble?” He switches the syringe to his other hand and picks up a key from his pocket instead. I want to claw his eyes out like the savage purist he thinks I am. I think he recognizes some of that in my eyes because he calls for backup before unlocking the cage. He has two catchers half drag me, half carry me, and four nurses with needles flank me. Every time I try to stand up, to walk on my own and not drag my feet painfully across the floor, they all stiffen up and get the syringes ready. I decide to let them play out their little power stunt, let the lab coat keeping a good, safe distance feel like he’s in control.

They take me to one of the small rooms at the end of the rows of cages. Inside there’s a table ready with leather cuffs and belts to keep me down, a whole lot of wires and needles and monitors, and a small desk with a chair. Cozy.

They strap me in – tightly – and before I have time to fully understand what’s going on, I have about ten needles penetrating my skin. I hate needles, I can’t stand the sight of them, I feel queasy just thinking about them. It’s odd really, I’ve accidentally stuck myself plenty of times when sowing, it’s the idea of what’s in them, of something being shot into me, something unnatural in my body, I can’t take it. I suppose I should feel lucky that they’re all in place so fast – with four nurses poking and restraining and all that I barely have time to realize what’s going on until they’re secured. I look down at my arms and try to breathe steadily. Four needles stick out from my right arm, how exactly they managed that I don’t know, don’t want to know, I just…

I just manage to yank my head free of hands trying to attach wires to it and lean over the side of the table before what little food was in my stomach forces it way back up my throat and end up on a Catcher’s shoes. I spit a few times before lying back again.

“Are we sure this is a Langdale?” Mr. Lab-coat asks. “She doesn’t seem like she’s all that.” All what? Pure? Strong? Displeased…

“We have no test for that, sir,” a nurse answers.

“No, of course not. I guess we’ll see when we get to work on her.” I do not like the sound of that. From what I can see the wires attached to my head are fairly normal – at least they look pretty much the same as the ones you can see on TV on the occasional medical drama.

“Everyone on their marks?” Mr. Lab-coat asks. “Begin setting one,” he orders. Setting one seems to be a mild pain running from my arm and slowly spreading throughout my body. I had expected worse, especially with how Brody and the girl in the cage both seemed scared of this place. I suspect the worst is yet to come.

Two hours later I regret thinking that. I haven’t seen anyone adjust anything, but still, the pain seems to somehow have intensified drastically. I think if facts are facts there has been no change at all, except time. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, and itch you are not allowed to scratch, not allowed to imagine scratching, or even think about scratching. The annoyance and helplessness intensify the pain, makes it almost unbearable.

It was my fifth birthday, I distract myself. The table was on fire. Marie was clapping. It was my fifth birthday. I repeat the mantra, again and again, keeping my mind focused on that, picturing it all, forcing myself to recall the details.

“We’ve got increased beta waves,” a nurse says. I almost jump at the sound.

“No energy spikes,” someone else says.

“In the frontal and parietal cortexes, and the temporal lobe.”

“She went to the school, she’s strong enough to make things happen, she’s strong enough to show up on the machines. Are you trying to remember something they taught you there?” The table was on fire. Marie was clapping. “Recheck the wires.” Someone fiddles around by my head, rechecking a wire that I guess is not standard protocol in a normal hospital after all.

“Test it,” Mr. Lab-coat orders. The wire is removed from me, and a second later I feel the heat rise and hear an alarm go off.

“Nothing wrong with the censors, sir.”

“So she’s not trying to escape,” he decides. “What is she doing?” But no one can answer him. Marie was clapping. I think. “Setting two,” he orders. I feel the drug spread through me like fire. I’m used to fire, I’ve learned not to panic, but this is different. It’s like fire in my veins. I’ve never felt fire inside of me before. I sit up, curl up to protect my body – or I try to at least, the restraints prove useful to them now. I could get out easily. I could remove the needle as easily as take a breath – easier probably since breathing is becoming harder with every second.

The fire is on the table. The Fire is on the table. Marie is clapping. It’s my fifth birthday. I’m home. I’m safe. The fire is on the table.

“Increased brain activity,” a nurse says. “Same areas as before, just more focused. We’re reading around 30Hz.”

“Well, perhaps we do have a fighter after all.” I feel him move in closer. “You want to make me look like a fool, do you? Unwilling to show your true face? I suppose it must be hell, being a Langdale without control.” The fire is on the table. Marie is laughing. Aunt Vera jumps away and is replaced by the familiar black cat. I don’t know if Aunt Vera was actually there when it happened, but she is now. In my mind, she’s right there, right here, with the rest of them.

“Setting five,” he orders, skipping a few steps I take it. There’s a slight murmur around me, a mention of ‘protocol’, and a firm repetition of ‘setting five’. The fire fades out slowly as they stop pumping the drug through me. With the fire ebbing out I feel myself drifting off. I try to rouse myself, this is dangerous. Unconscious I have no control. I try to force my eyes open, but everything is fading and I’m drifting. Setting five, sleep? To sleep, perchance to dream…