Chapter Text
Three Mile Island, August 1978
There was just the hum of the electric lights, the shuffling of boots on the cement floor and the occasional clink of keys on a keychain as the guards walked the length of the room. Nobody spoke.
Remy sat on the floor of his cell with his back against the bed, eyes closed. Soon there would be a shift change, and the next shift’s guards were assholes in a more active way than the current ones. It wasn’t a question of better or worse, really. He resented the way he didn’t register as a person to some of the guards, true. But a lot of the time he preferred being ignored to being noticed, because sometimes being noticed was much worse. He used to enjoy being the center of attention, but not so much anymore. Being noticed here meant pain.
Not that he could do much about it either way.
He opened his eyes again at the sound of laughter. He watched the shift take place, disinterested, watching just because there wasn’t much else to look at. There were other prisoners held in the facility, Remy had seen them, but in this part of the building, it was just him. Once he’d figured out they were on six hour shifts, he mostly used the shift changes as a way of keeping track of time. He’d given up looking for weaknesses in it because there weren’t any. The shift changes were always boring, a regimented and dull routine.
This day was different.
One moment his regular guards had been their asshole selves as usual, joking and bullshitting, and a second later, fuckhead #1 had stunned and possibly killed the other three before opening Remy's cage, grabbing Remy’s arm and pulling him to his feet, dragging him along down the corridor, holding tightly to his wrist, while Remy did his best to not to trip over his own feet.
"Who are you?" He managed to ask when they paused for a moment. He kept his voice low, just in case this was genuine, and not just yet another way of fucking with his head. “What are you doing?”
"Just the messenger," the guy said absently, shoving him up against the wall and keeping a hand on his shoulder while he waited for people to pass. He was tall, big nosed and skinny, with dirty blond hair in a buzz cut, like nearly all the guards had. "Now, shut up until we're out of here." There was something wrong with his voice, but Remy wasn’t sure what it was. It was just. Off somehow.
Before Remy would have yelled, protested, kicked up a fuss and demanded to know what was going on, but after two years stuck in this fucking hellhole, he didn't have the energy. He stumbled along after the guard, wondering what kind of trick this was. Stryker didn't usually play mind games like this, but Remy wouldn't be surprised if he started. It seemed in character for the sadistic bastard.
They walked through miles of corridors Remy had never seen before, the guard occasionally manhandling Remy whenever he felt the need. Remy got shoved up against a lot of walls and doors in the process. He didn’t protest. He nearly fell down an obviously disused staircase at one point, but he managed to grab hold of the railing, arm sliding over the jagged metal before he could get a proper hold. The entire railing looked like someone had taken a hacksaw to it in places.
Sometimes out of the corner of his eye, he saw other prisoners shuffling along, escorted by guards of their own. This could still be a trick, but Remy felt a tiny pinprick of hope that maybe it wasn’t. That maybe he’d get out of this place. Up until now he’d expected a body bag to be the only way he’d get out.
It had been a while since he’d had the energy to fight what was happening to him. He remembered yelling and throwing punches and struggling, but it was oddly far away. He remembered it happening, but he couldn’t bring up how it felt. He knew he’d been angry, he knew he’d been afraid. He could still think, now, but he knew his ability to draw conclusions and put things together had been dulled by the imprisonment, just as much as his capability to feel had.
He didn’t feel much of anything anymore. Everything was muted. There was a wall between him and what he remembered feeling, and he wasn’t sure if it was the drugs’ fault, or if it was just him. Lately, he’d mostly been sleeping. It was a good way to avoid thinking about things he couldn’t change.
The guard pulled him roughly into an open area where he was hustled into a waiting helicopter, and then, after landing in a clearing, into a car where the guard threw a shopping bag into his lap and ordered him to change. It was just a thin gray sweater, a pair of jeans, underwear and black socks, but it was all clean and it was not white, so Remy didn’t protest.
The guard ignored him completely during the drive.
He understood the reason for the clothes change when the car stopped in the parking lot of one of the airport hotels. The guard’s uniform might raise some eyebrows, but he’d be able to pass relatively unnoticed. The white, hospital-like clothes Remy had been wearing would definitely have caused some alarm however. As it was, he faded into the background. He waited quietly while the guard got them a room, and then shrank away when they got into the elevator.
The guard made faces to himself in the mirrored walls of the elevator.
Remy had no idea what to think about that, so he ignored it. He knew, he knew that he should be looking for weaknesses, for ways to escape, and he was trying, but he was so tired, and focusing on anything at all was difficult.
Patient, he told himself. You have to be patient.