Chapter Text
The lights are head-splittingly bright when you finally wake up. You can’t tell how long you’ve been asleep in your cell, but when your eyes finally adjust to the fluorescent glare, the digital clock mounted on your wall reads 08:37 in bright red numbers. You assume that you must have done something right for a change during yesterday’s trials, Chrys is nowhere to be seen. The corners of your lips curl up ever so slightly at the thought that you might have done something even remotely worth her approval.
You swing your legs off of the bed, feeling woozy and nauseous from hunger, and spot a bright yellow sticky note pasted on your side of the plexiglass barrier. Behind it, your hallmate’s cell stands empty, a void in this already-lonely limbo. Thinking about it, he probably isn’t going to be held in your block for much longer; you don’t know if he’ll be useful for Chrys’ project going forward. You’ll probably miss him.
Pushing the thought aside, you peel the note away from the glass.
‘Brilliant work yesterday, Elin! I’ve given you temporary access to your full cell block, and there are some snacks and books on the table in the hallway if you get peckish or bored.’
There’s no way he could have been that pleased with your results, but lo and behold, you do see the edge of a table right where the hallway bends out of sight. An arrow at the bottom indicates that Randall’s message continues on the other side, but you already know what it’ll say. You tear the paper to shreds.
Even when scattered across the floor like confetti, the unread words are too nauseating to endure. The note leaves your skin feeling unclean and crawling. You don’t know how Jack can listen to him talk, or bear to look his way when he smiles . It’s as if Randall’s the light of his pathetic life.
They’re both irredeemably vile. You’d kill them if you had the chance.
Stepping past the scraps of paper, you slide the plexiglass door open and step out into the hallway. The concrete is shockingly cold against your bare feet, but you push through the discomfort and all but run for the little folding table that you had spotted earlier. As promised, it is heaped with so many juice bottles, fruit, vending machine snacks, and books— so many books— that it’s barely supporting the weight of its cargo. You hesitate, remembering the sinister saccharine that had oozed from Randall’s note, but hunger quickly overrides worry as you grab a green apple and sink your teeth into the verdant skin.
Just as you would have expected, the apple was oh so wonderfully tart and juicy. It takes you a frighteningly short time to finish the apple off, core and all, and the lingering hunger makes you wish this was a proper meal. Not that you weren’t grateful for the bounty before you, because this was the best food you’d been given in ages, but junk food was far from filling.
In slight resignation, you snatch a few Nature Valley granola bars, a sad-looking packet of trail mix, and a bag of SunChips before perusing the limited selection of books that had been left for you to read. Deciding that a neurosurgery textbook would have to do – because they were all medical textbooks – you flip to the first chapter of the textbook and skim through the first few pages. The textbook is, you must admit, more interesting than you had anticipated. It’s not as entertaining as a good novel or a book on gardening, but it’s definitely better than the cartoony graphic novel that had been left at the top of the stack.
You sigh and lean back against the wall.
— — —
You're a quarter of the way through the textbook when a door at the end of the hallway slams open, startling you to your feet as a guard drags Grayson Schmitz into the corridor. They march past where you stand, ignoring you as they escort Schmitz to his cell and shove the scrawny teen inside, locking him behind the plexiglass.
The guard leaves just as quickly as they entered, but not before they slap a keycard in your hand and pull you to the side.
“I was told to leave him to you,” they explain, “because, quote, ‘I don’t feel like expending resources to fix the little bastard’.”
You nod once and glance over your shoulder at Schmitz. He looks pathetic– haunted, even. He might even be crying, but you can’t tell from here.
“Dr. Silvergale was very clear that she would ‘deal with you herself’ if you don’t patch him up.”
The guard turns to leave when you finally nod again. Their boots click down the hall, and a moment later, the door slams shut.
You hear Schmitz’ sniffles, muffled as they are by his hands and sleeves, in the quiet that follows. In a flash of selfishness, you want to hate him for interrupting your time alone. Whatever had happened, it probably wasn’t the guy’s fault. It usually isn’t, though, and you do feel bad for him. It still takes a moment for you to convince yourself to check on him, though.
Walking over, your footsteps are almost deafening, and Schmitz goes quiet as soon as he realizes that you’ve stopped in front of his cell.
“Hey, Schmitz.” You greet him and he looks up, his wariness apparent in his glare. It’s hard to blame him for distrusting you. In the months since his transfer, you haven’t spoken more than a few sentences to him, and you assume it’s clear that Chrys favors you a little. “I’m supposed to take care of your injury. Do you mind if I come in?”
He holds the glare for a few uncomfortable seconds, then slams the door in your face and turns away.
“Don’t give me the silent treatment!” Your voice is harsher than intended, but it works because his head snaps up the moment the words leave your mouth. “I’m not the one who fucked with you, okay? And I didn’t ask for Randall’s little party favors, but food is food and help is help!”
“Well maybe I don’t need your help, asshole. Take a hint,” Schmitz shoots back. Blood is still dripping from his hand, puddling on the floor by his feet. Idiotic, but not your problem. You shrug.
“There’s food and drinks on the table. Take what you want, and don’t come crying when your hand gets infected.”
The lock beeps and clicks open as you hold your new keycard to the sensor, and you return to your textbook without another word. He can suffer in silence as long as he wants. He’s not your responsibility. He can bleed himself dizzy in his cell for all you care. He can – the corner of a page tears in your fingers as you turn it violently. You freeze. It isn’t torn too badly, but your blood runs colder than liquid nitrogen.
Suddenly, the air feels heavy in your lungs. It hurts to breathe. The ghosts of fingers brush against your arm, the underside of your chin, through the hair wound around your own hands. You can almost feel Randall’s sour breath in your face. You need to be back in the lab, back with Chrys, where everything is controlled and sterile.
Your wish doesn’t come true, but a loud thud snaps you back to the real world before the memory continues. Looking up, you see Grayson emerging from his cell. His eyes are bloodshot, the skin around them puffy and raw, like he just spent several minutes scrubbing his face. He glares at you again, but doesn’t say a word. You’re sure you look just as shitty as he does right now, anyway. He starts towards you and you tense up, ready for a fight, but he begins to sift through the snacks instead.
You grit your teeth and all but run to the cell block door. Maybe you wish he had hit you, but then they’d lock you up with the problem kids. Chrys hated them, and by extension, she would hate you as well.
You have to help Grayson, regardless of how you feel about him. With bitter anger and disgust buzzing under your skin, you begin to wander the halls of the lower floor, drifting aimlessly. You need to get a fucking grip before you can face him again.