Time had passed though he couldn't say how much; without any way to tell the time he wasn't sure how long he had been here, and since his moments free of the intermittent torture were spent sleeping he was even more confused. Had it been weeks? Months? Or merely days? His entire body ached with bruises, small wounds, and even three broken fingers, but no matter his amount of pleading or fighting, the sessions continued. The woman was always there, marking things down on her clipboard before either stepping in to do the torture herself or settling back in her chair to watch as the soldiers applied blunt force to him.    Today he sat in his cell, back against the wall, his left arm cradled in his lap as he tried to think. His rare meal of sloppy malt-o-meal had already been served and though it was disgusting he had come to relish those moments when the bowl was pushed inside his small cage. He lived like an animal; filthy with dirt and blood, piles of excrement building in the corner that he tried to keep it to, eating his food with his fingers as his eyes searched wildly for anyone who might be coming to take it from him.   He could feel the weight loss that the starvation and torture had inflicted on him; he had been a fit, athletic sixteen year old with a healthy amount of baby fat still clinging, yet now when his arms wrapped around his waist he could feel his ribs prominently through his once white shirt. His left arm had been drilled into, twisted out of socket only to be pushed back in, covered with papercuts on the inside of his wrist, and finally during yesterday's session, the last three fingers broken. The pain had been unbearable and he had mercifully passed out, waking in his cell moments before they fed him. His right hand grasped his left wrist, holding the injured arm still with a light touch, afraid to worsen any of his injuries. As his cell door slid open to reveal what he had come to expect ( a soldier's boots), he didn't even bother trying to stand. As the back of his shirt was grasped and he was drug through the halls to the torture room, he didn't bother to fight or cry.   There was no point. He had given up.   Today was just like any other day; the woman sat with her clipboard and gave him a complete physical, even offering him a glass of water. He would have loved to be able to refuse the water, or to spit it in her face, but the pragmatic side of him reminded his stubborn side that this would be his only water until his next torture session, and so he drank the entire glass without hesitation. As the woman took it back he noticed there was a slight pity in her eyes, and he wondered if he might be able to play on that.   "I'm..." his voice croaked and cracked; he hadn't spoken in what felt like forever, his vocal cords only being used to scream these days. He coughed and tried again. "I'm not what you think I am." His voice was hoarse and low, barely a whisper, but she turned to listen to him, uncertainty growing in her eyes for the first time. "I don't have abilities; you must be trying to get me to use them on you guys but you can see, I don't have any. I can't defend myself against you. I just..." Tears he thought he had been over shedding slipped from his eyes as he continued. "I just want to go home."   The pity in her eyes deepened and she opened as if to say something, but then the moment passed and her eyes hardened once more. "You may not yet know of your abilities. We'll get them out of you."   "Please just kill me," he begged, shocking himself with his words. He hadn't realized that he was so ready to die, but he could admit the truth of the admission. He couldn't handle this torture any more.   "You're not allowed to die until we know what you can do." She said firmly, back turned to him as she prepared a syringe with a dark brown fluid. The boy couldn't even get up the curiosity to wonder what it was; he only hoped it was something that would make him sleep. "If your ability is useful to The City, you'll be moved to the Block. If not..." She reached over to open the door and admit the soldiers into the room. "If it's not useful, you'll be put out of your misery then. But you do have one, 20716. It's just buried. I'll dig it out one way or another."   As he was strapped down to the table once again, he could only hope that he would die.  

 

Jungkook woke feeling like he had been kicked in the stomach by a rhino. As he slowly tried to blink away the hazy clouds in his eyes, he overheard low voices, urgent and angry.

“… killed him…”

“… too powerful. He needs to be put down…”

“.. shouldn’t have gone so hard on him until we knew what he was capable of.” The woman’s voice cut through the fog and he regained full consciousness with a groan of pain. He was still lying strapped to the table, his left hand twitching in pain and fresh blood flowing from a deep gas