fic: #777 puckeman, noah
title: #777 puckerman, noah
fandom: glee
prompt: blood loss
medium: fic
rating: r
warnings: AU, imprisonment, mentions of child abuse, involuntary medical experiments, draining of blood, torture
summary: every day, participant #777 puckerman, noah grows a little paler. a little more empty with a little less blood.
Noah Puckerman was born free, as he likes to call it. He grew up with his mom in a small house that in reality was inhabitable, but they got by. His father, an alcoholic, child abuser and useless excuse for a human being left when he was five. Noah had cried so hard he passed out in the driveway and there he had lain for six hours before his mom came home from her nightshift, carrying him inside. The following morning his mother went against her principles in desperation and stole a small guitar to cheer up her weeping child. It worked like a charm.
He came to be so thankful for how wonderful a mother he had been given, instead of cursing his unfortunate at having such a fuck-up for a father. It was because of her he tried to be the best he could be, even though it wasn’t easy every time. There had been a few run-ins with the police, a few trips to juvenile detention and even more trips to the principals office for varying reasons mostly centering around some type of aggression. It was understandable, they said, because he carried a lot of aggression inside him. So other people usually expected very little of Noah Puckerman.
But he tried. He tried to keep his grades up. He tried to make lots of friends. He tried to get jobs to help his mom with the bills that came every month that they could never pay without asking help from a neighbor, from a sister, from the church, anyone that would help them. He tried to be happy for himself and for her.
He may have been bound to the unfortunate circumstances he had been born into, he might have been bound to his mother, but Noah Puckerman was free to do what he wished.
When he turns thirteen, he becomes a prisoner instead.
The Clinic takes him.
Noah can barely remember when or where they took him, but he remembers how he had promised his mother to come home early. He wonders how his mother reacted to him disappearing. Maybe she cried. Maybe she thought he abandoned her like her husband. Maybe she killed herself.
He tries not to think of what might have happened to her. It’s a long-shot, but maybe she’s happier now.
Now, Noah Puckerman is no longer free. In the clinic, he is awakened by the alarm echoing through the entire facility at six o’clock, just like everyone else. At six fifteen, he steps into the hallway to be escorted to their daily examinations, just like everyone else.
In cells of three, they are sent off to separate rooms for testing. To his right, there is a boy about his age named Mike Chang. He refuses to talk, or is incapable of it, so Noah knows very little about him. To his left is a blond with a big mouth that rarely speaks either. They are group #475 - males.
The uncomfortable feeling of being examined, stripped bare and scanned in front of each other disappear very quickly.
Testings commence, just like they do every day and will do every day.
Even though they don’t talk much, some not at all, they’re the closest friends Noah has now. That is why this is so hard. Noah is put through comparatively painless experiments. He is cut with the same tiny little knife in different jugulars, and they let him bleed until he falls unconscious, comatose, until his heart stops, whatever relief may come first. Then they feed him different pills, soldier pills they call them, to replenish his blood.
The Clinic has acknowledged the public and their wishes for this type of medication. Polls and interviews with the common people has shown reluctance to blood transfusion, which is understandable. During accidents or organized violence, it’s fairly common to be subjected to faulty blood. After all, who wants dirty blood? Not many, the Clinic has calculated and therefore generated a need for the ultimate soldier pill.
Noah is tested every day.
He is constantly dizzy, can never move too erratically for fear of upsetting the blood flowing gently from surgical wounds, cannot exercise as such would cause his blood pressure to raise far too much. In lack of better words, Noah is bound to his own very vulnerable physical limits in a way he has never been before.
It’s not what’s worst though. He spends eight hours every day in his designated chair in the testing room so the doctors can easily monitor him. What is worst is how it makes him perceive the world. The last two hours or so, he goes into a state of lesser reality where he has trouble discerning what is real and what is delusion. Nightmarish scenes play out before him every hour of the day when he is sleeping and when he is awake while Noah can do nothing but accept that it might be real.
It’s difficult and painful and frightening and torture, but not impossible because just like everyone else, Noah has come to realize that no matter how horrible the things happening around him are, there is nothing he or anybody else can do about it.
The nightmares are happening anyway.
There are few words that he knows of that can describe how weak he feels when they are draining him. One part is how physically weak it leaves him. The second part is how mentally weak he becomes.
Eventually, after many years underground far away from the place he calls home and the mother he loves, the draining process it not about blood anymore. They pull his soul, his personality, his memories and everything that makes him a human being through tiny tubes, gathering and stealing it away.
It is archived somewhere Noah will never see it again and after so many years of struggling for freedom, he becomes an empty shell that is drained and replenished every single day.
And then the shell of Noah Puckerman awaits death in captivity.
fandom: glee
prompt: blood loss
medium: fic
rating: r
warnings: AU, imprisonment, mentions of child abuse, involuntary medical experiments, draining of blood, torture
summary: every day, participant #777 puckerman, noah grows a little paler. a little more empty with a little less blood.
Noah Puckerman was born free, as he likes to call it. He grew up with his mom in a small house that in reality was inhabitable, but they got by. His father, an alcoholic, child abuser and useless excuse for a human being left when he was five. Noah had cried so hard he passed out in the driveway and there he had lain for six hours before his mom came home from her nightshift, carrying him inside. The following morning his mother went against her principles in desperation and stole a small guitar to cheer up her weeping child. It worked like a charm.
He came to be so thankful for how wonderful a mother he had been given, instead of cursing his unfortunate at having such a fuck-up for a father. It was because of her he tried to be the best he could be, even though it wasn’t easy every time. There had been a few run-ins with the police, a few trips to juvenile detention and even more trips to the principals office for varying reasons mostly centering around some type of aggression. It was understandable, they said, because he carried a lot of aggression inside him. So other people usually expected very little of Noah Puckerman.
But he tried. He tried to keep his grades up. He tried to make lots of friends. He tried to get jobs to help his mom with the bills that came every month that they could never pay without asking help from a neighbor, from a sister, from the church, anyone that would help them. He tried to be happy for himself and for her.
He may have been bound to the unfortunate circumstances he had been born into, he might have been bound to his mother, but Noah Puckerman was free to do what he wished.
When he turns thirteen, he becomes a prisoner instead.
The Clinic takes him.
Noah can barely remember when or where they took him, but he remembers how he had promised his mother to come home early. He wonders how his mother reacted to him disappearing. Maybe she cried. Maybe she thought he abandoned her like her husband. Maybe she killed herself.
He tries not to think of what might have happened to her. It’s a long-shot, but maybe she’s happier now.
Now, Noah Puckerman is no longer free. In the clinic, he is awakened by the alarm echoing through the entire facility at six o’clock, just like everyone else. At six fifteen, he steps into the hallway to be escorted to their daily examinations, just like everyone else.
In cells of three, they are sent off to separate rooms for testing. To his right, there is a boy about his age named Mike Chang. He refuses to talk, or is incapable of it, so Noah knows very little about him. To his left is a blond with a big mouth that rarely speaks either. They are group #475 - males.
The uncomfortable feeling of being examined, stripped bare and scanned in front of each other disappear very quickly.
Testings commence, just like they do every day and will do every day.
Even though they don’t talk much, some not at all, they’re the closest friends Noah has now. That is why this is so hard. Noah is put through comparatively painless experiments. He is cut with the same tiny little knife in different jugulars, and they let him bleed until he falls unconscious, comatose, until his heart stops, whatever relief may come first. Then they feed him different pills, soldier pills they call them, to replenish his blood.
The Clinic has acknowledged the public and their wishes for this type of medication. Polls and interviews with the common people has shown reluctance to blood transfusion, which is understandable. During accidents or organized violence, it’s fairly common to be subjected to faulty blood. After all, who wants dirty blood? Not many, the Clinic has calculated and therefore generated a need for the ultimate soldier pill.
Noah is tested every day.
He is constantly dizzy, can never move too erratically for fear of upsetting the blood flowing gently from surgical wounds, cannot exercise as such would cause his blood pressure to raise far too much. In lack of better words, Noah is bound to his own very vulnerable physical limits in a way he has never been before.
It’s not what’s worst though. He spends eight hours every day in his designated chair in the testing room so the doctors can easily monitor him. What is worst is how it makes him perceive the world. The last two hours or so, he goes into a state of lesser reality where he has trouble discerning what is real and what is delusion. Nightmarish scenes play out before him every hour of the day when he is sleeping and when he is awake while Noah can do nothing but accept that it might be real.
It’s difficult and painful and frightening and torture, but not impossible because just like everyone else, Noah has come to realize that no matter how horrible the things happening around him are, there is nothing he or anybody else can do about it.
The nightmares are happening anyway.
There are few words that he knows of that can describe how weak he feels when they are draining him. One part is how physically weak it leaves him. The second part is how mentally weak he becomes.
Eventually, after many years underground far away from the place he calls home and the mother he loves, the draining process it not about blood anymore. They pull his soul, his personality, his memories and everything that makes him a human being through tiny tubes, gathering and stealing it away.
It is archived somewhere Noah will never see it again and after so many years of struggling for freedom, he becomes an empty shell that is drained and replenished every single day.
And then the shell of Noah Puckerman awaits death in captivity.