I take my usual position in our pre-practical training linear configuration, careful not to stumble into the 12 shaped hole to my left or the 14 shaped hole to my right. One stands on the far left corner of the front row, her slightly outstretched legs take up two spots, Dagger's and her own. Her inky eyes burn with a newfound vengeance as they bore into the back wall; in her mind's eye I can tell she is glaring at me. I can't help but feel spited, cheated by the world. Out of no personal gain or satisfaction I risked everything to try and save Dagger. This is the thanks I get.
Doomsday's voice slices through my thoughts. "Today we will be continuing with the eleventh electric current rotation. " What? "As you know the purpose of this exercise is to test willpower, more specifically of the ability to resist motive for affiliation, and illogical personal bias. Today's first pairing will be Titles 50 and 20." 20? How has Tight Rope lasted this long? Doomsday steps to the side to reveal a black chair hooked up to a small black machine shaped like a box. On the top of the machine is a knob with a pointed tip to indicate degree, the left of the knob is blue and the right is red. A wire goes from the machine around to the back of the chair, which is adorned only by two sharp metal shackles sitting atop the arm rests.
I almost don't recognize Tight Rope as she scurries up to sit in the chair, all mouse face and fidgety hands. Her cheekbones have started to poke out a bit too much, as with her chin. Yet her eyes are the most dramatic, they are sunken and huge like they belong on an insect. 50 saunters up to the black box all fake confidence and long limbs. He makes me think of those spiders from my old biology textbook, the ones with the never ending legs that can walk on water. I shudder as his tiny brown eyes begin to scrutinize the terrified pile of bones that is Tight Rope. Doomsday begins to speak in a bored voice. "Remember voltage levels 1-4 are considered too mild and indicate heightened motive for affiliation. Voltages 7-10 will result in death, indicating inability to follow directions. Over the course of the 10 minute trial you must be able to objectively raise the voltage, maintaining optimum pain without risking harm. Remain within values 5-6."
Tight Rope's eyes are about to pop out of their sockets, 50 now stares at her with apprehension avoiding eye contact. In an instant he begins to turn the knob and a faint buzzing fills the room. I can see the pain in Tight Rope's eyes, but her jaw remains clenched, her lips in a thin line. Then without warning 50′s wrist rotates to 6. Instantly a scream breaks from Tight Rope's lips, an ugly gut reaching sound that consumes the entire room. Yet the Titles stare at her with straight faced boredom. There is no pity, or even annoyance. The screeching makes no more impression on the people around me than the sound of falling raindrops would. It is white noise, the kind to sleep to.
Ten minutes fly by, the screaming stops as the knob is spun back the other way around, turning the machine off. 50 walks over to the chair and unclips the shackles. Tight Rope's wrists are adorned by long tendrils of blood from bracing herself against her restraints. 50 carefully wipes a tiny drop of her blood off on his right pant leg, stepping out of the way as she falls to the ground soaked in sweat and excrement. Doomsday barks at Tight Rope to stand up, in an instant she does, lifted by some unknown force. She walks off to the medical table, posture militant and erect.
"Seven and 12 will be next." Doomsday casually examines her nails as she speaks looking unamused, apparently they are a bit too long. 12 is directed to the chair as Doomsday gestures for me to pick up the box. 12′s eyes are empty, she leans back with her legs hanging limp and her palms laid flat on the metal arm rests. Her essence is hollow as if little by little someone carved her out. I walk up to the box and without a second thought I begin to turn the cold metal knob, 4, 5, 6. My ears brace for the screams yet nothing seems to happen. Against my better judgement I look over at the chair. 12′s fists are clenched in defiance, blood drains from the lip she is biting. She refuses to make a sound. Tears well in her eyes, but she freezes them in time.
Her pain tolerance has never been strong, yet here she is refusing to utter a single sound. A certain feeling of forlorn pride rises inside me as I stare into her sad brown eyes which are fixed on mine for the first time since my return. Her glare is unwavering and unbreakable. It makes me mad. My life makes me mad. It makes me mad that I have to stand here and torture 12 for no apparent reason. My wrists are beginning to itch where the shackles of soft flesh reside. I refuse to scratch them. It occurs to me that they are starting to shake, as with my arms and legs until I realize my entire body is twitching. My brain starts to twitch too. Anger. A blinding foamy anger. Then blackness.
I open my eyes. I am standing in the same position facing the same wall but the room has turned to utter mayhem. People run about like decapitated chickens. I look to the right and see that the box has been utterly destroyed and the shackles have been ripped from 12′s chair, which is now on fire. 12 is nowhere to be seen. I look down at my hands. They are sliced and bleeding and clenched around the shackles that had been on the chair. Drops of foam fall from my mouth onto the shiny metal surface. I did this, somehow in a fragment of a moment. I blinked and I did this.
I turn around to search for 12. Doomsday is in the corner with Apocalypse and appears to be holding him down and screaming at him as he desperately struggles toward, me? I scarcely comprehend, 12? 12? I begin to scream, but my words are inaudible, or at least it seems as though no one hears them. I look at the burning chair, the fire is big, big enough to engulf the form off... My heart stops. I am running forward. The microscopic part of my brain that actually retains some intelligence is crying and screaming and begging me to stop. I ignore it. I jump into the flames feeling, searching for anything, but all I feel is fire and I fall to the ground clutching my blackened arms.
My eyes begin to close when all of a sudden I see a blurry shape above me. I feel a twinge of hope. 12? No One, and she is dragging me back into the flames. I scratch with useless blackened nails before in a last ditch effort biting at her calf. It is useless, with one swift blow to my ear I am being dragged away again. My right ear has exploded, a flat palm, enough force, she blew my eardrum didn't she? One lifts me like a rag doll, I see her black eyes staring down at me. Then...
