Week 8, Title: She went quietly, she didn't make a sound
Sierra watches their silent gestures- a secret language borne of this place. And she watches as those who do speak are beaten and broken.
She watches as some plan, with half aborted motions and determined facial expressions. And watches as those who escape are dragged back and shot.
She watches people dying of disease, of starvation, of cold. And watches people lose their minds in response.
She watches and says nothing.
And thinks there must be some other way.
*
No one dares speak or comment on the horrors here; the brutality, the deprivation. No one whispers about their anger or pain or bitterness, someone always hears. And when journalists appear they’re met with silence or machinated words.
She sees the type the guards pick to show the reporters: those downtrodden enough to never speak out. But not so broken that their words come out scripted and fearful. She makes herself into a facsimile of this and waits. They pick her soon enough.
She walks through the corridors of the fake containment facility (built for show). It’s dingy but not dirty. It’s oddly lacking in the smell of human faeces, blood and vomit.
She looks at the reporter with his camera and she wants to spill it all- cry aloud a litany of cruelty and wrongness. But he’s just here for a puff piece, she can tell. He’s probably in the pocket of those running this place. Her efforts would be as useless as those who came before.
So she plays her role instead. The model prisoner of the containment facility for powered people.
*
The other prisoners watch her; with stares of hurt and betrayal and wariness and fear. She is other now. She is them.
(She will never be them- she will probably die for her kind).
They give her food and warm clothing and she is hated. She waits and watches and plays her role. Frustration sits heavy in her veins.
It’s another day and another reporter. She looks him in the eye, sees something, suspects something, speaks soft and quiet and with steel,
“If you want the truth, take this collar off.”
The reporter looks surprised but also hungry. Yes, this one is an investigator for sure.
There’s a hand over her mouth. And more hands holding her down, pulling her away.
The reporter crashes into her, angry, “You just had to ruin this, didn’t you?”
And he presses something into her palm, unseen.
*
It’s a recorder and a transmitter. She swallows it.
They put her in a hole and beat her. She doesn’t know how long she’s there. She endures the beatings. She swallows the recorder again and again and again. She sobs at night and dribbles blood.
They take her out to make an example of her. A show to any and all that may have rebellious ideas.
There’s snow now. She’s been gone a long time.
They parade her through the entire camp: past the piles of waste, past the shivering people huddled together, past the bloodied and the terrified, and past the catatonic pyro-kinetic lying despondent on her cot.
She stumbles along. Her right eye is swollen shut and her left leg has a healing break. She likes the fresh air, even as she breathes in short gasps; urgently against poorly functioning lungs. She hacks up blood. Her ribs ache.
The guards are pointing at her but not paying her much attention, focusing on preaching at the masses instead. Her fingers are broken and trembling, but she keeps hold of the recorder. She captures it all.
They take her up to the stage for the grand finale. She kneels, awaiting execution. As the ringing in her ears screeches loud against the silence, she hits send.
She watches as some plan, with half aborted motions and determined facial expressions. And watches as those who escape are dragged back and shot.
She watches people dying of disease, of starvation, of cold. And watches people lose their minds in response.
She watches and says nothing.
And thinks there must be some other way.
*
No one dares speak or comment on the horrors here; the brutality, the deprivation. No one whispers about their anger or pain or bitterness, someone always hears. And when journalists appear they’re met with silence or machinated words.
She sees the type the guards pick to show the reporters: those downtrodden enough to never speak out. But not so broken that their words come out scripted and fearful. She makes herself into a facsimile of this and waits. They pick her soon enough.
She walks through the corridors of the fake containment facility (built for show). It’s dingy but not dirty. It’s oddly lacking in the smell of human faeces, blood and vomit.
She looks at the reporter with his camera and she wants to spill it all- cry aloud a litany of cruelty and wrongness. But he’s just here for a puff piece, she can tell. He’s probably in the pocket of those running this place. Her efforts would be as useless as those who came before.
So she plays her role instead. The model prisoner of the containment facility for powered people.
*
The other prisoners watch her; with stares of hurt and betrayal and wariness and fear. She is other now. She is them.
(She will never be them- she will probably die for her kind).
They give her food and warm clothing and she is hated. She waits and watches and plays her role. Frustration sits heavy in her veins.
It’s another day and another reporter. She looks him in the eye, sees something, suspects something, speaks soft and quiet and with steel,
“If you want the truth, take this collar off.”
The reporter looks surprised but also hungry. Yes, this one is an investigator for sure.
There’s a hand over her mouth. And more hands holding her down, pulling her away.
The reporter crashes into her, angry, “You just had to ruin this, didn’t you?”
And he presses something into her palm, unseen.
*
It’s a recorder and a transmitter. She swallows it.
They put her in a hole and beat her. She doesn’t know how long she’s there. She endures the beatings. She swallows the recorder again and again and again. She sobs at night and dribbles blood.
They take her out to make an example of her. A show to any and all that may have rebellious ideas.
There’s snow now. She’s been gone a long time.
They parade her through the entire camp: past the piles of waste, past the shivering people huddled together, past the bloodied and the terrified, and past the catatonic pyro-kinetic lying despondent on her cot.
She stumbles along. Her right eye is swollen shut and her left leg has a healing break. She likes the fresh air, even as she breathes in short gasps; urgently against poorly functioning lungs. She hacks up blood. Her ribs ache.
The guards are pointing at her but not paying her much attention, focusing on preaching at the masses instead. Her fingers are broken and trembling, but she keeps hold of the recorder. She captures it all.
They take her up to the stage for the grand finale. She kneels, awaiting execution. As the ringing in her ears screeches loud against the silence, she hits send.