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The door opens. The captive assumes this to be one of his regularly scheduled meals— or, one of his irregularly scheduled meals. Depending on his behavior. But he’d been good today, so regularly scheduled it must be.
On a good day, the captive keeps his head down as the figure approaches. No need to treat his wardens as deserving of basic human decency, considering their assessment of how to treat him. The figure approaches the cell, but does not interact with the slot in which his meals are given and taken. The captive’s stomach flips. What this time.
The figure stands still for a moment, and time seems to go on endlessly. The captive does not give in, does not look at the man in front of him, whoever he is. His mind races.
“Dylan,” the figure whispers.
The captive freezes, for a variety of reasons: from the figure’s voice, from the name the figure uses, from the uncharacteristic manner of speaking coming from the figure (so quietly, as if he was fighting himself to speak at all), and worst of all, the way it all makes him feel as if he’s eleven years old again, reveling in the attention.
The captive does not speak, and not because he doesn’t want to.
“Dylan,” the figure repeats, slightly louder, with the increased volume sounding as if it takes all his energy to manage.
All that the captive— no, all that Dylan— no. All that P6 can manage is a dry, broken laugh. He still does not look up. He can’t.
The figure waits anyways.
After what feels like an eternity to the both of them, P6 responds to the desperate pleas of his visitor. “What do you want,” he rasps, his voice coming out timid and far too kind. He still can’t manage to look up, despite so desperately wanting to.
“I have a lot I would like to say to you,” the man outside of the glass starts, and Dylan feels a twinge of hope for the first time in forever that he desperately tries to shove to the back of his mind, “but we don’t have time for it. I want to give you a word of advice.”
P6-Dylan lets out a low hum. He’s listening, though slightly preoccupied by his desperate attempts not to look at the man, not to show the desperation in his eyes begging him to please just stay please come back please don’t leave again I missed you so much I hate you get out of here and never show your face again but please god don’t leave.
But the chorus of childish voices in his mind wins, and Dylan can’t take it anymore. He finally gazes upon his captor, face shifting rapidly between the pleading eyes of an eleven year old and the bottomless rageful expression of a twenty-something begging to be put out of his misery.
He instantly regrets it.
Darling looks… unwell. His usual getup is gone, his lab coat and bow tie replaced with a sweat-stained white tank top and boxers, and he looks as if he’s not had a shower or slept in at least a week. Somewhere in the back of Dylan’s mind the bitter thought of he deserves to be this miserable, see how it feels appears, but is quickly replaced with a wave of nausea.
Casper never looks like this.
“You need to let her back in,” the man outside the glass states plainly, “Hedron, Polaris, whatever you want to call her. I know you aren’t on the best of terms, but something is coming, and she is what will keep you safe when it does.” He wrings his hands and shifts his weight between his legs as he speaks, a far cry from the Casper in Dylan’s mind, talking excitedly with his hands: passionately, confidently, with precision.
Polaris sparkles lightly at the edges of Dylan’s vision, clicking the pieces together. Any sort of concern he feels for the man in front of him disappears.
Dylan foolishly thought for a moment that he was maybe, just maybe, going to get some semblance of an apology, some vague I know I wasn’t perfect like some drunken, emotionally absent father that was hardly going to make up for the years of torture and the years of absence. And he, much to his own dismay, likely would have even tried to believe it a bit given the source, given how badly he wants it to be true. But of course, of fucking course, Casper’s just here to beg him to allow her access back into his mind. Parautilitarian before human, utility over humanity. He only wants you because of her. Any inkling of wanting the conversation to continue vanishes instantly, replaced with white-hot rage.
“Get out.”
Casper near-instantly pleads against his demand. “Dylan, please, just listen to me—”
He can’t possibly manage to say more, can’t possibly speak to the anger and disappointment and betrayal and woundedness he feels in this moment. He tries anyway.
“Get out of here, both of you! I don’t want to see either of your miserable fucking existences ever again! You’ve done nothing but use me. Get out of my head, and get away from me! I’ll rip my own throat out if it means you’ll both leave me the fuck alone.” He punches the glass forcefully, then weakly, and quickly proceeds to cover his ears, desperately trying to block out whatever sort of poison Casper’s trying to install into his psyche.
Distantly, he can see the observational staff getting the sedative ready in the back of the room. Over time, the sight of that has shifted from being a source of panic and anger, to a source of relief. A break. A chance to escape. A chance to not be, just for a moment. A welcomed thought to the havoc that runs his consciousness at this moment. He needs them to hurry up with it, too.
But Casper doesn’t get the memo, doesn’t see that this conversation will be over momentarily whether he likes it or not. Says something about Dylan’s talent, that he can’t be sacrificed, that he’s too important for that, that he needs to keep himself safe. All Dylan can provide in response is something in between a manic laugh and a horrified scream. Probably lets out some sort of desperate prayer to the others to get him— Dylan, Casper, whoever— out of here. He doesn’t remember.
The last thing he does remember before drifting off, despite his desperate attempts to forget it, is just how genuine the concern on the man outside the glass’s face was. He couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that. Ordinary, probably. Jesse, probably. He hopes no one ever looks at him like that again. Especially not Casper. Even if the childish chorus in his mind tries to convince him otherwise.