Dream | 08
[Privacy: Quite open]
The examination table is flat and hard and cold, and it makes his shoulders ache. It's hard to resist the urge to fidget, or shift how he lies, but although he thinks the test is finished they haven't told him to leave yet, so he has to stay still. He can hear them talking, rapid mutters that rise and fall in way that never means good things. No one comes to let him go.
"The peak in the-"
"-these regions, unusual levels-"
"-cause of the aberrant behaviour?"
He does shift at that, a cautious, quiet shuffle that allows him to see them just out of the corner of his eye. They're a wall of white coats, the bright gleam of a monitor barely visible through the gaps. Something about the words, as foreign as they are, make his skin prickle. The table is cold beneath his fingertips.
"Quite possibly."
"Brings to light several prospective-"
"-response to certain stimuli-
"-perhaps in a controlled setting-
The lights suddenly flare into a stark whiteness that stabs through to the back of his skull, like a knife, like a bullet, like glass shards propelled with explosive force, and he arches up and off the table. The straps pull tight against him, pinning him, and he can hear the hoarse gasps of his own breathing echoing in the glass chamber. The world fades back in but it is different now, blurred and bloody, and the figures stand dressed not in white coats, but in crisp military attire.
Different, but ten years is apparently not so much, for it's still a cold room and cold table and cold voices that talk as though he cannot understand them.
"-as delicate - no, more delicate than any piece of machinary, and the damage is extensive. Without the original data, there is only so much that can be done."
"It seems God is not without a sense of irony. Your verdict?"
"Twelve percent chance of a full recovery. The most likely scenario will be a severe crippling of the quantum brainwaves, if not a destruction of the ability entirely-"
"That doesn't concern me."
The glass distorts the image of the green-clad soldier leaning over him, twisting and lengthening it, and Allelujah clenches his eyes shut. Shuts them tight against cold eyes and an empty reflection, and his head pounds in time with the sick throb of his heart.
"All I require is his memory."
[He wakes with a wince, one hand sliding up to brush careful fingers over his right eye and above it, and after a moment he pushes himself upright to walk out of sight. There is the faint sound of cupboards being opened and closed, the clink of glass, running water, plastic crinkling. A few seconds later he comes back into sight, taking a seat on the couch that still serves as his bed at times. Sleep has mussed his hair, shaking it loose from its usual fringe, but for once he makes no attempt to sweep it back into position. He simply sits, half-full glass in hand and golden eye bared, staring absently at some point across the room; his expression is not distressed, or unhappy, or even thoughtful - merely tired.]
The examination table is flat and hard and cold, and it makes his shoulders ache. It's hard to resist the urge to fidget, or shift how he lies, but although he thinks the test is finished they haven't told him to leave yet, so he has to stay still. He can hear them talking, rapid mutters that rise and fall in way that never means good things. No one comes to let him go.
"The peak in the-"
"-these regions, unusual levels-"
"-cause of the aberrant behaviour?"
He does shift at that, a cautious, quiet shuffle that allows him to see them just out of the corner of his eye. They're a wall of white coats, the bright gleam of a monitor barely visible through the gaps. Something about the words, as foreign as they are, make his skin prickle. The table is cold beneath his fingertips.
"Quite possibly."
"Brings to light several prospective-"
"-response to certain stimuli-
"-perhaps in a controlled setting-
The lights suddenly flare into a stark whiteness that stabs through to the back of his skull, like a knife, like a bullet, like glass shards propelled with explosive force, and he arches up and off the table. The straps pull tight against him, pinning him, and he can hear the hoarse gasps of his own breathing echoing in the glass chamber. The world fades back in but it is different now, blurred and bloody, and the figures stand dressed not in white coats, but in crisp military attire.
Different, but ten years is apparently not so much, for it's still a cold room and cold table and cold voices that talk as though he cannot understand them.
"-as delicate - no, more delicate than any piece of machinary, and the damage is extensive. Without the original data, there is only so much that can be done."
"It seems God is not without a sense of irony. Your verdict?"
"Twelve percent chance of a full recovery. The most likely scenario will be a severe crippling of the quantum brainwaves, if not a destruction of the ability entirely-"
"That doesn't concern me."
The glass distorts the image of the green-clad soldier leaning over him, twisting and lengthening it, and Allelujah clenches his eyes shut. Shuts them tight against cold eyes and an empty reflection, and his head pounds in time with the sick throb of his heart.
"All I require is his memory."
[He wakes with a wince, one hand sliding up to brush careful fingers over his right eye and above it, and after a moment he pushes himself upright to walk out of sight. There is the faint sound of cupboards being opened and closed, the clink of glass, running water, plastic crinkling. A few seconds later he comes back into sight, taking a seat on the couch that still serves as his bed at times. Sleep has mussed his hair, shaking it loose from its usual fringe, but for once he makes no attempt to sweep it back into position. He simply sits, half-full glass in hand and golden eye bared, staring absently at some point across the room; his expression is not distressed, or unhappy, or even thoughtful - merely tired.]