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Dylan stood in the center of the room, his feet planted, arms raised in a defensive guard.
Three agents circled him. They wore helmets, black goggles that turned their eyes into blank voids, and tight balaclavas that covered everything left of their faces.
No names.
No expressions.
Just the soft click of boots on tile.
"Again," Darling's voice crackled over the intercom, and when Dylan glanced up, he could see him looking down through the viewing window. "P6, you will engage. Do not make me repeat myself."
Dylan shook his head once. "I don't want to."
Before the words even fully left his lips, the first agent came in low and fast. A baton slammed into Dylan's ribs hard enough to drive the air out of him. He staggered, arms wrapping around his middle, but he didn't strike back. The second agent caught him across the shoulder with an open-palm strike that sent him spinning into the third. A boot hooked his ankle and he hit the floor hard, the impact jarring up through knees that still ached from yesterday's training and from the simple fact that he was still growing into them.
"Fight back," Darling barked. "You are a prime candidate, not a punching bag. Fight, P6!"
Dylan pushed up onto one elbow, breathing shallow. "Stop, please. I don't want to hurt anyone!"
They didn't stop.
The first agent hauled him upright by the collar of his shirt and drove a knee into his stomach. Dylan folded with a choked sound, but his hands stayed open, empty - no burst of force that they all knew he was capable of. Instead, he focused on the stubborn refusal that had already cost him so many privileges.
The third agent swept his legs out from under him again. This time Dylan landed on his side, his head slamming against the ground hard enough to send stars spiraling across his vision. He curled inward, hands flying up to protect his head the way he used to in Ordinary when the older kids got rough.
"Enough of this soft nonsense!" Darling's voice rose, the intercom distorting. "You are dangerous when you refuse to practice your control, P6. Use it!"
The second agent dragged him back to his feet. Dylan's legs trembled. Blood from a split lip smeared across his chin.
He looked at the blank goggles, at the anonymous shapes of other human beings, and still only raised his arms to shield himself.
Another strike. Another. A gloved fist glancing off his cheekbone when he turned too slow. He hit the floor again, curling tight, arms over his head, whispering the same words over and over between gasps.
"Stop... please stop... I don't want to..."
Above them, Darling's voice was sharp with frustration.
"P6. Fight back. Now."
Dylan only pressed his forehead to the floor and stayed small. The intercom clicked, and for a moment it stayed open, hissing, as Darling turned away from it, saying nothing.
His disappointment was audible all the same.