Compensation of Spotlight by luckynamegame, Chapter 4, Fantasy

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Compensation of Spotlight by luckynamegame, Chapter 4, Fantasy

Post  luckynamegame on Mon Apr 02, 2012 3:48 pm

Well, I wasn’t going to take it.
I mean, I was—because I had to get out of this crazy place—but gosh darn it, I’m so tired of those stupid scientists trying to create new ways to kill me legally!
I mean, doesn’t that sound a little bad to you?
Yes, by this time, I was pretty ticked off.
I shook off the stinging by rubbing my hand on my gray shirt, biting my lip to stop from yelping. The sting traveled up into my wrist dully, residing there. Great—it wasn’t going to go away. So how was I supposed to get up a Cometed ladder with a slightly limp hand?
These are the kind of risks the scientists are willing to take; as long as they get the desired effect, in this case, harvesting my power (I sound like corn or something) for the U.S. Army. I had to withstand pain and still be able to use my ability, so they would be able to as well.
But little did those jerks know was that it didn’t affect me at all, besides making me ten times more annoyed than I already was.
And yet, I had to keep going—had to get out of here.
I took another deep breath and gripped the Cometed ladder.

Pain is something that any human can withstand, to a certain limit.
It makes enough sense, doesn’t it? I mean, after thousands of years of being on Earth, from the first caveman sticking his hand in the fire, pain’s been one thing that reminds us that we’re only human.
And being shocked every day can lead to a slight immunity to lower level pain, say, being Cometed.
So in my case, being Cometed so many times makes my little pain nerve thingies in my brain say to each other, “Hey, I think we should ease up so she doesn’t die! What a great plan!”
While this is a good thing because it only stings a little, the scientists (sneaky jerks) figured out my immunity growing, and threw the Comet rod into overdrive.
And I’m not talking about your puny little wimpy electric fences. No, these things are like, five times as strong as lying down on an electric fence. Like I said, I’ve been Cometed a lot.
But let me tell you—climbing up that ladder was hell breaking loose inside of me, popping all my nerve sensors like popcorn. Well, it didn’t feel like it, but it hurt as much as I imagine popcorn feels.
Despite my initial plan not to yell out loud to funnel some of the pain I was feeling right now, I lost control and let out a wordless shriek of pain. It wasn’t high pitched like a scream, but it was a shout, more of a ‘manly scream’, I guess.
I guess my mind was thinking ‘what the heck, being Cometed by snipers couldn’t hurt any worse than this right now’, and that was that.
I pulled myself up slowly; with jerky movements that my fingers couldn’t really register other than I had to keep going. I had to keep going, I ordered myself. No matter how much pain I was in, no matter how many black spots I saw in my dying night vision, I was going to keep going.
For my sake.
For Sam’s sake.
I paused for about half a millisecond as I wrapped that thought around my head. Wait, what?
No, not for Sam’s sake—I barely saw him! Knew him, sure, but I couldn’t think of it like that, no way!
Or could I, I argued with myself in a small voice.
I ignored it, shutting my eyes as I climbed another rung.

“Congratulations, Operation Spotlight,” The scientist’s voice, warped by static and the intercom, told me.
I was hunched over slightly, trying to catch my breath. From the Cometed ladder, my arms had rendered into nothing but tingly weights at my sides.
I felt like falling to the ground and crying in pain, but I wouldn’t—couldn’t—in front of these sadistic people. I was currently standing in a box-like room exactly like the room I had awoken in to start the maze, but this time, I was slightly less Cometed and a whole lot angrier.
I listened as they rattled off my stats to me, my heart rate and my reaction timing, and then noted dully the time I had gotten through the entire maze.
Three minutes and forty seconds.
Good for them—crappy for me.
So, for my reward, I got something that I had never had before.
Our rewards, much like lab rats (which is a correct but very rude analogy), we got human food. Yes, human food.
We ate some mushy grayish white paste crap that they called oatmeal super enriched with every vitamin under the sun. So to get real human food was something that was more or less of a delicacy.
How pitiful is that?
So far, the only real human food I’ve ever had was a few pieces of bread, a small sliver of cheese, and an apple. Don’t get me wrong, I love human food. But in my ignorant times, that’s all I thought humans ate.
“What, am I going to get your crumbs again?” I shot angrily at the blank walls, though I didn’t know which one the jerks were behind. “How about you get me the heck out of here? How’s that for a reward?”
I was yelling at that time, too fed up with all of their crap to really care that I was getting more human food.
A small tray appeared out of nowhere on the bottom of one of the blank walls, and I stared at it for a moment.
On the tray sat the strangest thing I swear I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
“This is a pineapple,” The scientist behind the intercom told me slowly, as if I were three or something.
I tell you, I thought the thing was a weapon at first. I mean, the sharp looking points sticking out of it looked sturdy enough to stab someone. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you by now who I wanted to stab.
But I didn’t understand how someone was supposed to eat it, and I couldn’t pick it up because my arms were still Cometed stiff.
“You need to peel the skin off to eat it,” The scientist instructed me in a forced monotonous voice, though I swore I could’ve heard a hint of laughter in it. “The fruit is rich in vitamins that are sustainable to human life.”
And blah blah blah.
“Yeah, that’s great,” I told him bluntly. “Can I just get out of here? I’m half paralyzed, thank you, jerks.”
One thing I like about this whole big mess is that I can threaten them and make fun of them and call them names and they can’t say anything back. That’s like, the only good thing about this entire situation.
“I hope you grow a tail and it chokes you to death,” I went on at the blank wall, slightly enjoying myself. Anything to keep my mind off the pain was welcome. “And that your stupid office has a poisonous virus outbreak and you break out in boils that pop acid onto your skin and you have a slow, painful death!”

“Potli,” A relieved voice came from my air duct mere seconds after I was escorted back into my cell.
The scientist who had escorted me—properly handcuffing me and walking behind me with a Comet rod—had been subjected to many taunts and desires for various heavy objects to break his skull. All the while his bald self (you can believe I had a few death wishes including his baldness) looked blankly in front of him, but he was still alert. Especially when I stopped just to make sure he wasn’t a robot. He glared at me and shoved the Comet rod right between my shoulder blades not very carefully.
“Oh god, Potli, are you okay?” Sam pleaded, his voice too close to be standing on the other side of the room. He must’ve been as close to the air duct as possible.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I told him tiredly, flopping down on the cot with both of my arms hanging limply on either side of the stretched canvas.
He was silent for all about two milliseconds after I finished. “You’re lying.”
There’s a strange thing about Sam that I’ve never really been able to understand. I don’t know if it’s an ability or not, but he can always tell when someone’s lying. Maybe it’s just a natural human instinct, I don’t know. But he’s never been wrong, ever.
“Sam, please…” I responded, a hint of whining in my voice.
“Spotlight, don’t even.” Sam shot back. “What happened?”
If there’s one thing I know about Sam, it’s that he’s super over-protective. He completely freaks out if I tell him that something bad happened during one of my tests, like a sniper hitting me in the leg or me falling off a wall drop. He’ll pace his room for about five minutes yelling profanity that I didn’t even know he knew, then finally calm down and keep talking to me.
“They Cometed one of my ladders,” I reported with my eyes shut tight, waiting for him to start freaking out. “…And my arms are out of commission right now. But you don’t have to freak—”
Too late.
“They what?” Sam growled. “Are you serious? They can’t do that—you’re not invincible! Don’t they realize that you’re human too? This is cruel and unusual punishment! Cruel!”
That wasn’t a sound that I wasn’t familiar with—it was Sam throwing his cot across the cell.
I sighed, laying my head on the edge of the uncomfortable cot. I’d be listening to this rant for quite a while now that it had started, and Sam would go off, sometimes forgetting his own voice, so he spoke in different tones, occasionally my own.
It’s a rumor—just a rumor—that Unknowns completely lose what ever kind of control they have over their abilities when they’re angered. And I don’t mean ticked off, I mean full out fuming, bull-seeing-red kind of angry. Sometimes they get killed, sometimes scientists do, but all I know of the rumor is that when an Unknown goes on one of their rampages, it either hurts something, or they manage to get them into an ‘Unknown-proof room’, which is about the single most scary thing Sector Foxtrot has to offer.
I’ve never been in it myself, but the ‘Unknown-proof room’, which is referred to as the Abyss, the Crypt, or the Coffin, is called those creepy names for a reason.
An Unknown goes in there—and they usually don’t come out.
Few have ventured that far into their anger and actually come out of the Abyss, with chilling stories and a changed personality.
I think my worst nightmare is being stuck in the Abyss.
“Sam, calm down, or you’re going to set off the alarm,” I warned him, though I knew my warning was all in vain.
The alarm of which I was referring to was basically the Abyss alarm, where if an Unknown sends off too many—ah, what do I know? I don’t know how it works, other than when an Unknown gets really ticked off, it goes off. And the Abyss alarm going off is basically a death sentence.
But I wasn’t worried about Sam, because even in his most violent rampages, he had never set the Abyss alarm off. I guess you have to be super crazy or lose control completely to set that thing off.
“No, I will not be silent!” Sam replied to me and the rest of the world in a strong voice. “This has gone on long enough! I will not stand for this anymore!”
“Sam, there’s nothing you can do about it—I’m fine, anyway.”
“Spotlight, you’ve been Cometed so many times it would kill a human twenty times over! That is cruel treatment for a test, I don’t care who they think they are!”
Here we go again.
Don’t think that I don’t worry about Sam or him worrying about me—I do. I just learned after a while not to listen to him ranting because it only hurts more than it helps him. Just sitting back and waiting for him to finish is all I can do.
And, in the back of my mind, listen for the blaring shrill of the Abyss alarm.
Just because Sam hasn’t set his off doesn’t mean I haven’t heard one before.
You see, Sector Foxtrot’s layout is pretty simple. There’s a huge rectangle room, of which our cells are all stacked up and down around the walls, with a metal walkway on each level. This means that there are cells to my left and above me, but the walls are so thick that the only way I would know they were there was if they smashed a wrecking ball through it.
But if an Abyss alarm goes off, you can hear it even if you’re sleeping.
It was the single scariest thing I had ever heard in my life, as I was staring at my fluorescent light again. It was a sudden blaring, so loud, so abrupt, I almost mistaken it for someone screaming. But it kept going, a long blaring, for minutes straight. It got to the point that it was nothing more than a sound in the back of my ears, like white noise that I heard occasionally. And then, real screaming, a real Unknown struggling as they were hauled away to the Abyss.
I don’t care about your little bullets and guns and grenades and stuff like that—the Abyss is scary.


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