2.18 Malcolm's Aside -B- Year Three

Trigger Warnings; Forced Imprisonment, Child Endangering, Torture (Etc. Circe Beaker exists)

They're sort of like siblings, only the worst kind. The kind that know they could have everything work out well if only the other person disappeared forever. Enemies, that was the word.

This is a common theme, Malcolm being covered in minor injuries. Atom tells the Director how clumsy he is, and that he falls a lot, but there are times Malcolm gives it back. He makes nothing easy for the overzealous medical specialist with the rotten glare. The Director knows about this putrid dynamic, of course. But if the research she requires is being conducted without fail then it is beneath her notice.

Atom releases the deathgrip he has on Malcolm's arm and shoves him into the cell as he enjoys doing at every opportunity, then turns to Planchette, who happened to be walking through.

“...he'll be fine.” Planchette sighs, as if tired or the answer had been obvious. Atom's interest in the scanner he holds is thinly veiled and the greed in his eyes is somewhat overbearing. He's pretending to care about the subject's vitals and energy levels (ie, exhaustion or fatigue) but he doesn't, of course.

“Could you check if...”
“He is fine. You can continue with the day's schedule as planned.” The impeccably dressed man snaps. “I have other work, so, 'sccuse me', I believe is the expression to use here.”

“Sure, sure. Another time then.” Atom tells him. There is always more time regardless of the evasiveness of their security guard. Whether he can see through him or not.

Malcolm doesn't do well at taking advice from tyrants. So he chooses, 'to his own detriment' to continually provide as much resistance as possible to the invasive testing that seemingly has no end. Although morning and evening have little meaning here, and there are several timekeeping devices that seem not to agree with each other. He fights, he resists, and finds that he is completely overcome on every effort. They deprive him of essentials, so that he quickly becomes very exhausted and is easily subdued. Then they forget or try some new drug, loosen their grip, he regains energy, and pushes the boundaries again.

He can hold out hope that he is expected somewhere, that he is missing, that his family, his wife or brother, are somehow looking for him despite what he was told. But he does not voice this. In fact, he doesn't need his voice for much of anything as there are very few times when it will be heard. Mostly he is instructed, and if he does not follow through with those instructions, there are punishments. Food is used as a primary method of control. He quickly loses weight and becomes easier to overpower despite his best and at times desperate, efforts.

The tests vary from mundane and borderline understandable such as tissue sampling, blood draws, and various forms of grueling exercise, to injections, pills and invasive (albeit somewhat minor) surgical procedures which are nightmares, psychologically. His is assured that most of these are clinical trials to test new drugs, but in observing the director as closely as is tolerable, he finds that she seems to enjoy things the most if they cause him some form of pain.

Some mornings Malcolm is not so sure that he wants to wake up. “Does this have to be the way you greet me in the morning?” He groans. Not that it seems to be morning. Didn't he just get to lay down?

Directer Kirke smiles curtly. “I'm a very busy woman number Nine Hundred and One. If you want to eat today, then you will cooperate starting now.”

That day, his mind swimming in unease, he simply decides to comply. It's hard on the body to be in a constant state of stress. At least the Director doesn't always have the time to see him personally, so maybe tomorrow will be better?

Most days his basic needs are met by Ceres. Ceres has been in the lab as long as her 'brother' Atom has; from the beginning, according to her. She is careful to do the work that is asked of her and is patient in it, but seems uncomfortable with a few of the Director's unethical methods. She says that she was raised with Atom, but he torments her from time to time telling her she is his twin, and that they are just alike. Apparently, the argument is over whether or not they shared an actual test tube at one point, and neither can prove to the other if they were or were not in fact, so close at their earliest cellular divisions. She shares a common vexation with Atom however, in that the both of them triple check every single chart, switch, and lock in the lab before they leave for the night. This further compounds Malcolm's gnawing fear that he may never be able to escape this dark dungeon. Ceres forgets things on a regular basis, but it seems that she is so hard on herself about this that it serves largely, to make her even more diligent.

Today, she hasn't forgotten a single thing.

“Ceres?” The Director's call echoes from just outside his cell as she aspirates the syringe.

“Juuust finishing up.” Ceres singsongs back from her station. She always drinks copious amounts of coffee, which allows Malcolm to tell the time a little. When she is well caffeinated, it's early, when she is irritable, it's the afternoon, when she is gone, it is the late evening, although she's on call a few days a week. If she's irritable and it seems late in the day, it's of course, actually an early morning.

She finishes running the centrifuge. “The interval is forty-five minutes on that dosage.” She informs her.

Circe nods, then turns her needle on Malcolm, who doesn't have the strength to resist in any way. There are definitely still some tranquilizers being administered along with other things. So, he was right that it would be one of their counters to his mild mischief. But it can't last forever, some things they must need his willing participation for... he's waiting to find out if this is all they've got. Not that it's nothing. He grits his teeth when she misses his vein and goes back in without a warning. She smiles sweetly at him.

Thus begins a timeless period, much like in the beginning. He begins to spiral, the days begin to blend although some have acute new memories that cannot be ignored. He didn't talk much before, but he finds himself with ample time, enabling him to retreat within his own psyche and get lost in morbid thoughts. Rather than this introversion aiding him to tune things out, he finds instead that he is becoming overly sensitive to the screams that ring out from other subjects out of sight or the fire in his own veins when an intravenous shot does not agree with his biological temperament. He finds himself becoming more sensitive to nearly everything. Which is... as maddening as it sounds. Soon enough, he begins reacting to everything, and it becomes hard for him to choose how he will behave. He lashes out more and more, and sometimes they have to restrain him for their work to be conducted.

Around this time a new sim comes to the lab, but it seems he is here on a volunteer basis. Taking a 'gap year' before college, he says. This generically friendly young man with the off-putting gaze is apparently the offspring of the Director and her fabled ex-husband whom she talks overmuch to Malcolm about. It seems he is barely an adult.

One day he reaches into the bars, observing Malcolm. “Hey can I have some of that?”

“You're hungry enough to eat one of our test subjects?” Circe asks from the side, confused. “There's perfectly good plasma juice in the fridge.”

“But that's not as fresh!”

“Well, as long as you tell me about your side effects afterwards. That one's on a few things.”

Beaker lets his hands fall limply to his side. “Ugh. Nevermind.”

Why do the things that are bad for you always look so tasty?

Ceres recoils from the conversation, glad that she was born before Beaker was old enough to crave human blood. Her childhood might have looked a lot different. Circe's naturally born children are on another level.

Time marches on much in this same way without being counted well, and Malcolm has no real way of knowing the days are passing anymore as there is no rotating rhythm overall. He lost track somewhere around a thousand. Wasn't he supposed to scratch stupid tick marks in the wall to keep track? But he's not sure he wants to know anymore.

So here he stands, brooding when it is unlike him, chewing on his nails, deep in his own misery. Nothing is working, how can he possibly escape? It's been too long... Would Jyoti be waiting for him, for a third time? He laughs shortly in ridicule at himself. Of course not. This time, it's not a matter of waiting. He's dead, to her. Was their baby... well? The child would probably be walking already, maybe talking. What would their voice sound like? What would it be like, if he could just see his wife, one more time? His thoughts are driving him crazy and he hasn't been tranquilized so much anymore so they run throughout his mind unrestrained. His muscles used to shake from the withdrawals of it not being in his system. Now, instead of tranquilizing him for being 'ornery', they punish him for his many attempts at freeing himself... by keeping him awake. He wonders if he's really so valuable that for all his rebellious efforts, they've not just... purged him. He's tried everything he could think of, after all. Save for straight up attacking someone violently, which he does not want to do although it seems more appealing every moment.. He supposes they want him here still because he's not a clone, like the few others that he's seen. There are a few people, children mostly, with the same face. This creepy place. He shivers. If he goes to lay down now an alarm will sound to wake him, so he leans on the bars and lets their coldness seep into his clothing, which somehow sharpens his fragmenting mind. He tries to remember, the warm things he had known in his life. 

Eventually, he is pacing the cell in slow agitation. The first time he'd held her outside of lunch at school: they'd stood in the rain while she cried. She'd laughed at him once before when he asked for permission to hug her. But she'd let him and it was now also, a sweet memory. That long night before spooky day where they finally shared one anther's affections. The day she said yes. The trip to China.

Does he have a single warm memory, from before he'd met Jyo? Maybe being at the beach with his dad when he was a boy. That man had loved the beach and Malcolm had gotten to play a lot there. He'd surfed once or twice, but nearly drowned and stopped that activity afterwards. It's not as if his father had taken him there to spend time with him though, he had wanted to use his son to meet barely clothed females. Malcolm had hated being used as a tool in that way. It had been so difficult to make meaningful relationships, after that. So, where was there real affection, other than from his mother, and later when his mom had died, from his wife? Here he was, decades after his tumultuous childhood, and he was still being used. It just didn't seem fair. Malcolm wanted out in the worst possible way, and there was no amount of willpower or manpower he could employ as a means to get away. It didn't help that the people here were mostly several magnitudes smarter than he was on their worst day. He tries to stop chewing his fingernails when he tastes blood, but he hardly notices that anymore. He's alive, he's still alive, that's why he can taste it. He stops again, savors the thought and closes his eyes, resting his head against the cold steel frame of his cage. He has to believe that there will still be opportunities to escape. If he gives up now, there will never be anything warm in his life again.

In time, after enough trial and error with the staff, he finally decides just to do this prison break style. He also resolves to tell himself two things, and burn them into his brain. One; it is still possible to get out (when he is in pain), and two; he may be here for a long time (when he is not in pain). This quick mental trick keeps him just out of the deep end of despair and allows him to keep moving forward, no matter how slowly. All he needs is an opportunity.

Most of his searching is done when nobody is looking at him, now. So they feed him a bit more, and he rests a bit more because he complies outwardly, and afterwards he gives up some rest in order to keep looking for the way out.. These bars are not as old as they look, but they sure creak and rattle like they've been underground and half underwater since the middle ages. It's impossible to force them apart, or leverage them with a chair, or cause any rivets to loosen, as everything is fit too tightly together, like an oversize puzzle. The assembly of his cell must have been the kind of careful effort his great-grandfather would have put into building his own house, which of course legend has it, lasted forever. “Where are you when I need you?” He asks the old man under his breath. But, that old man has been gone since Malcolm was a small child. How he could use an older, wiser man's advice right now. Maybe then he would already be back home with his wife and their son or daughter.

He hears the elevator and stops rattling the cage, as that's basically all he's been able to do with it, and lets his breathing slow down. His muscles are warm from the effort.

He'll probably have to save his energy for some new horrid experiment.

He had prepared to look like he wasn't trying to ferret a way out that would get him punished again, but the person who arrives on the floor is not what was expected.

Malcolm watches through the bars of his cell as the person they call Beaker (who has free run of the place) comes in holding a small child, presumably one of the other test subjects. The child coos contentedly, or even laughs at the faces that Beaker is making.

“You have no idea that I can't stand you at all.” He tells the child in sweet voice. “You are so icky.” But the boy, having no idea what he's saying, knows the tone of it is pretty funny. His giggles fill up the room in cute little echoes for a few moments. “I'm gonna tell my mother to let someone else do allll your dirty work, okay? I'm too busy to play with your yucky, nasty self.” The boy grins, his little eyes dancing with mirth and fixed on the adolescent's. There is some serious big brother energy coming from them.

Malcolm smiles despite his situation. Beaker is one of the people here that he finds he doesn't mind so much. Obviously he's old enough to know that the things which go on here are wrong, but that doesn't mean he is mature enough to stand up to the terrifying woman he calls mother. The young man also seems familiar in a way that Malcolm is having trouble understanding. He watches them silently. It's rare to see anything sweet in this dirty place bathed in artificial lights and cold calculations.

The elevator sounds again.

Circe walks brusquely out of it and through the room, and ruins the pleasant atmosphere with her unique tension. “Alright, let's get this over with.” She growls.

She turns to Malcolm and fixes him with a cold stare. “Subject Nine hundred and One. This child has been in our care since the day he was born. He was born prematurely to a young mother in stressful circumstance, and was declared stillborn at the hospital. I was able to resuscitate him because of my level of skill, but as you can imagine, I was more keen on keeping him than sending him back home to the care of his neglectful mother, though she survived the ordeal of a difficult birth. As you have been informed, we are in severe need of subjects with new genes.”

Malcolm remains silent, sure that she will get to the point on her own as she loves to talk so much. She's confessing a serious crime in front of him, though. There is a look in her eyes is that is harder than usual, as if this is not something she wants to tell him at all. He begins to dig into his fingers with his nails in agitation.

“I am willing...” she pauses, clearly the idea of moving on a single position she has for one of her mere subjects is disgusting... “to compromise with you. Because this child is your son.”

“What... did you say?” It comes out in a near whisper, but she hears it.

“Yes, Emir Sparrow-Meir.” She holds a silent beat on his own last name. “Born to Malcolm and Jyoti Sparrow-Meir. That's quite the face you're making. I like it. This negotiation will go well, then. Here, we do not use names. So this child is subject Sixteen Hundred and One.”

“H-how ...did you-”

“Did you think you were here by some mistake? No, Malcolm, I had been setting fires in my humble home for a few months until you were finally the first responder. Did you think the hospital, and even your own wife, would be out of my reach if I was able to get you?”

He shakes his head, teeth bared but nothing comes out as his mind races, certain this woman is crazy and a liar. He's never met her before he woke up down here, so there would be no reason-

“You seem ...curious.” Her voice cuts into his thoughts. “So I will share a detail more. Loki Beaker, a man I've told you about before, it is because of him that you find yourself here. My pathetic ex-husband. He always had an... affinity, for the Sparrow family. I was quite jealous at one point, but now I focus on them as more of a hobby, and to check his power. I believe you and I have something in common, that we didn't want him to get his claws into your... wife. Although what's done is done. However, you and your son are quite enough so I am leaving her well enough alone, though I can imagine you'd want her to pay for betraying you as she has.” She pauses for a moment, summarizing. “Not that you'd know anything about that. You are both here to satisfy my professional pride, to fuel my life's great works, and to fulfill in me a sense of pure and petty revenge. Isn't that... kind of a thrill?”

Silence hangs over the room once more. She waits for his response. He has no idea how long she waits.

“You mentioned... a deal.” Malcolm chokes on the words. He wants to grab her outstretched arm and- He forces back the evil thoughts.

Circe nods towards the door and Beaker walks into it unceremoniously, holding the child the Director's story is pinned on. Malcolm backs up quickly, feeling dizzy and high from the adrenaline in his system. Beaker's eyes shine in the darkness and Malcolm finds it impossible to look away, his instinct says the young man is a threat right now, by the piercing gaze alone. He is in too high of a state of stress to focus on the child.

“Get on with it.” Circe tells her son, impatient. Beaker shifts the child in his arms and slowly detaches him from where the boy's arms play around his neck. Children love Beaker, and Beaker is repulsed by them. So of course his mother has him help with the children much more often than she actually needs him to. He shoves the boy in Malcolm's direction, happy to offload a charge.

Beaker cringes as the child squirms and starts screaming. “He's always like that.” The Director scoffs, as if a small child should know how to behave without anyone coaxing them into it.

Malcolm reaches out, doubtful of the story he has been told. The boy's red hair looks a bit more like the madwoman in the labcoat behind him than anyone he knows, although it could resemble his mother in law, if he had known her well enough to remember. It's hard to be sure.

When the boy is firmly in his hands and stops hiccupping for a few moments and opens his eyes- he sees it. “You have her eyes.” He says, wondering. “And your grandpa's nose, don't you?” Before he realizes, he is already thinking of the child as his. He blinks. This is another moment that is not real. It cannot be.

“Depending on your behavior-” The Director was saying- but Malcolm heard none of it. How did this child really come to be here? He remembers what the madwoman told him, his first week in this hellish place. Most of the subjects here are clones from cadaver tissue. He looks up at her, sharply. “He's not-”

“I told you, this one was brought here alive.” She says with a sly smile.

“Right.” He says, thinking too quickly to know what he's saying out loud. “Right. You wouldn't have to lie about that.” They couldn't make a convincing clone resemble the Sparrow family if they lacked that information, right? And wouldn't it be younger than this, if the boy was created here? Is it really his child...?

“Are you going to care for him or not?” The Director (the madwoman) is getting impatient.

“Of course I will.”

“No more escape attempts or lashing out at my staff... I will have your full cooperation on every trial at every time you are required. It will be all or nothing on this.”

He straightens up, takes a deep breath. He can't afford to hesitate here, something tells him that this situation is more serious than he understands. He nods carefully. Even if this child is not his, he can help him, right? Somehow though he knows it's his son. But, that would be dreadful. It is dreadful.

She takes the child back from him, abruptly, wrenching him out of his father's arms and observes Malcolm with her sharp eyes. “On second thought. Do you want to know what sort of things will happen to the child when you misbehave?”

She pinches the boy hard on his side several times until he starts to cry, startled. He frowns at the unnecessary cruelty. But she's watching Malcolm, not the child. He doesn't say anything, he's sure whatever he says will make her do something much worse. “Maybe you need a clear demonstration. Hmm? Atom, hand me a surgical knife.” She calls over her shoulder.

Atom is over from his workstation promptly and hands her a small blade through the bars of Malcolm's cell. “Here you are, Director.”

“I know you know how to speak.” She goads him now, sliding the tiny blade over the the boy's back and pressing the cold side of it to his skin through one of the holes in his shirt. The child squirms to get away from her, but somehow knows to be as quiet as possible.

“I- I think you're better than this.” Malcolm stutters. Something both furious and cold writhes in his stomach.

She grins. “Not really.”

“Then I will be better.” He tells her quickly.

She holds his eyes for a lot longer than he wants (because he wants none of it), but he cannot back down from her gaze right now. The child can't afford it, if he shows fear.

“That will do ...for now.” She responds eventually, pressing her lips together in a thin line. Wordlessly she hands the blade back through to Atom, who retreats but watches with glittering eyes from a distance as she places the child down on the cold floor by Malcolm's feet.

“You have him for an hour.” She tells him as she leaves without looking back.

The doors echo loudly as they are slid shut and the locks deadfall down into their place. Malcolm shudders out a groan and sinks down onto the floor next to the boy, his mind swimming in hapless thoughts. When he is done dry heaving from the stress, he talks to himself. “I shouldn't have gone to work that day... no, I still would have gone.” He mutters. If even one or two of the things the Director has said are true, they are devastating. What if it's... all true? He can't weaken his own resolve by entertaining these thoughts, but the boy looks like him, and like her. How would he come here in a way that doesn't fit the story he was told? Jyo is safe, she's at home. The Director must actually be afraid of her ex... but why? She had mentioned... because of Jyo? The woman said that he had been betrayed, but if Jyoti had thought that in these last several years, that he had died, shouldn't she be allowed to start a new life together with someone else? That thought had occurred to him, of course it had. The only problem is, he can't remember anyone by the name she brings up... but Beaker, the madwoman's son, and his shining eyes... that just seems too absurd to be true. It can't be related to the same person he's thinking of. Yet in a way, that would fit, too. He feels sick. For himself, for her, for the child.

This is no place for a child.

As soon as they are alone he reaches out to cradle the boy and whispers gently, any kind thing he can think of to say. The child pushes back against him at first, crying, but falls asleep soon thereafter and Malcolm sits there on the floor until his butt is numb, not daring to move or disturb him. The entire hour passes by this way, until Ceres (who mercifully is the one tasked with receiving the child) comes in and the Director is nowhere in sight. Emir is placed in a crib just outside of his holding pen, barely in sight but where Malcolm can hear every tiny noise from it. He doesn't sleep that night at all.

Most evenings (assuming that's what they are) he's allowed to spend a little bit of time with the child before lights out. At first the child resists any type of being held, especially by someone new and is fussing, squirming, making unhappy facial expressions, but he doesn't cry much. That alone is hard for Malcolm. Children should be allowed to cry as much as they need to when they are young. He's not sure what he can do as the boy is already so distrustful.

Eventually, Malcolm remembers. One of the things that is often done with a newborn, that was likely never done for this child. A new baby will not be able to see clearly, will not have words, will not be able to know it's parents, until it is held closely over the heart of it's mother or father, skin contacting to skin. Only then can a bond be formed. So one day he tries it, takes his shirt off and braces for the boy to push and wail or scratch him because he hates being held. But once the boy is in his arms and pressed onto his chest where he can feel his own father's heartbeat, the boy just blinks, wide-eyed, until he falls peacefully asleep. In that moment, all the pain is worth it. The sweetness of holding his own son, the way he should have been able to years before his life was stolen away from him, banishes every worry from his mind. Until they come to take him away again, that is.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Follow @Subject901 on Simstagram for more handy mental tricks!

Pensive Malcolm wears blue, for some reason. Also please allow me to apologize for all of the internal monologue and lack of action in this one. Malcolm is shy, and he's not particularly dumb, so he's not going to just start wanting to talk to everyone so his feelings can come in other ways that are quicker. Things will improve, in a post or two.

Ceres is also a premade from Into The Future. The only new sim here that you all have not really seen before is Beaker from post 1.45(who we saw once in Starlight when he was a child). He grew up well, so he may be useful after all.

I didn't have a use for this picture, I just thought it was cute.

It's nearly impossible to make him look unhappy with normal gameplay. I'll touch on that more next post, but it's funny how happy he looks down here.

I also made Malcolm thin for about one picture and it just doesn't work with my many disjointed pictures I'd taken from all different play times. So he's going be huge and 'starved' at the same time. Let's just pretend. Whatever he's been doing on his own time while we watch the Sparrows has put him at the high end of the muscle spectrum. So here's the what if.

2.17 Malcolm's Aside -A- Year One

Trigger warnings: forced imprisonment

Malcolm wakes up slowly at first, but the moment his eyes blink open and try adjusting to the light he finds that things are not coming completely into focus. He feels... drowsy. As if he has been asleep for a long time, but never had a single dream. He wants to ask where he is, or what happened to him, but there is a woman, a ...doctor? Who is helpfully explaining some things. If only he could hear it better. He is in and out of focus, and eventually falls back out of consciousness. The woman's voice becomes clear for one instance as he is once again covered in darkness. “We'll have to wait until a little bit later... the muscle relaxants take longer to wear off.” She sounds... impatient about it, he thinks, as his consciousness fades away.

The next time he wakes up, he fights to get up quickly, to hear what is being said, but he doesn't know how long it has been? Probably a few moments, only. He gets out of the bed he is lying on and reaches a cold and rusty metal table, and hauls himself up with some difficulty. Then he stands there, swaying slightly, for a little while.

He hears a jarring metal screech as something is opened to the side.

The doctor is there quickly this time, too. “Lay back down.” He hears her this time.

“I'm getting up,” He protests, regretting opening his eyes more than absolutely needed.

“You're a fall risk right now.” She tells him.

“I'm going to throw up.”

He takes a step, retreats and bumps into the table roughly.

The next several moments are a blur. His must be having an internal ear problem after falling like he did during the fire. These people are saying something, but he can barely hear it. His ears are ringing now, the lights are still too bright for him. He has to lay back down again. “I got up... too quickly I think.” He mumbles, not wanting to talk too much in front of this doctor and nurse. They may be here to help him, but they are strangers. Desperation makes him open up his mouth again. “Have you called... my wife? She- ”

He feels a sharp pinch and blacks out in mid-sentence. “We'll try again tomorrow.”

“Understood, Director.” The man replies, catching him roughly under the arms as he falls.

The next time he wakes, he moves much more slowly. Something is wrong, he's been here too long. He doesn't know how he knows, but things are not right. His feet dangle delicately off of the side of the bed as he tries to get up. He wants to stand, there is no strength in his core.

The woman doesn't move to help him as he finally leans gingerly back against his pillow, giving up on even sitting up. “What ...happened?” He asks, finding his voice to be scratchy.

“You died in my hallway a few days ago. You were pronounced dead, but I was able to resuscitate you, actually. I am a very good doctor, you see.”

He takes a moment to process what she said. “Where is this...?” In the line of work he does, Malcolm is familiar with the local hospitals and some clinics. He cannot recall a place that resembles this in the slightest. He doesn't doubt for a second that the people here gave aid to him, but it is strange. It doesn't seem real.

That, she does help him with. The director...? She assures him that this is the place he will spend the foreseeable future, and though it is reality, he's not going to enjoy himself very much. “This is a lab. Despite how it looks, we conduct cutting edge research in this place, so we cannot divulge the exact location to you. We're in desperate need of new specimens, you see. Most of the subjects we house are cloned from cadaver tissues, and not legally human in their own right. We can push them, we can learn from and study them, and they can help the world by the work that we do on them, but it won't be a pure sampling of the population. We need to do our due diligence and gather as many different kinds of genetic samples as possible for the drugs that we make here.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap. “That's where you come in.”

“E...excuse me?” Malcolm stutters weakly, certain he has misheard the woman. She said it all with such a cheerful attitude. But if this was a real hospital, someone would have changed him out of his work uniform, or something. Strange, unsettling place. As he has this thought the kick of a loud, industrial air conditioner turns on somewhere above and makes him flinch.

She prattles on. “We'll start today with a few samples of tissue, we've already analyzed your blood and found some very promising things.”

“When did that happen?”

“Oh.” She smiles brightly. “You've been here for most of the week. We keep our few new arrivals ...calm and restful so we can find out if they are useful before deciding to allow them to see this place. You can be grateful that we find you useful and you were permitted to wake up.”

Malcolm clams up after the chill that runs up his spine silences him in shock. He does not have any more questions. At least, nothing he is sure he wants to hear the answer to. He wants to ask about his family, what are they going through right now? But this whole conversation seems dicey to begin with.

“Then, we'll get ready for those samples and you'll be having a stress test. To establish your baseline.” The director finishes. “Atom will be over in a moment. I suggest you cooperate with him.”

Malcolm is sure at first that this place is a fever dream, that his body is in a real hospital bed somewhere in a coma. He collapsed from the fumes and the heat, and someone out there is trying desperately to save him. This idea fades from his mind like smoke when the tranquilizers wear off and he starts to have normal rhythms with such needs as for rest, food, or the toilet. The pain and discomfort that seeps in as his body tries to regain it's strength cements it. He's actually here, and he can't pretend otherwise.

He begins to learn a little bit about the people who run the place. He eventually gathers the courage to ask about when he can leave, but mostly they ignore him or occasionally, smile patronizingly in response.

Atom. He's the one who smiles mostly instead of answering. He seems to be passionate about his work, whatever it really is, and happy to do things exactly according to the Director's methods and moods (of which fluctuate between seriousness and irritation mostly). He assists with subjects and their medications, cleaning, and keeping the machines in good working order. Occasionally, he cackles to himself as he works, sending shiver-inducing waves of disconcerting sound throughout the lab.

Planchette has security clearance for every part of the lab. His is referred to when not in the room as being 'unstable', and seems unaffected by most of what goes on around here. He will not speak to the subjects, does not say more than a few words to the lab specialists and technicians. He apparently follows the Director, and merely tolerates other people. He is in control of some unique technologies that nobody else seems to have access to, and can answer questions regarding a subject's vital signs and state of ease with a handheld device that is only in his possession. His wheelhouse seems to be security, transportation and ...disposal. When subjects are deemed failures, he will be told to 'clean up'. Malcolm does not know what all this entails, as it is not done on the floor he is on, though he can guess. As to how many levels this cold place is below ground, he has no knowledge.

Often referred to by the staff members as the Director, this woman is the one he sees the most in the first few days after he wakes up. She makes most of the executive decisions and refers to herself as a doctor, but her mannerisms and caustic approach make her seem like anything but. She is either jaded away from what was once a righteous cause of healing other people (which Malcolm would prefer to believe but it can't be terribly likely) or she is enjoying every moment of treating those in her power forcefully and with disdain. She values sim life, if it proves to her it is worthy of that life. People are a means to an end, and everyone here is either a subject with a number for a name, or staff, all of whom are firmly below her in position.

At about four weeks or so in her 'care' she finally tells Malcolm the answer to something that he's been agonizing over the most. What happened to him, according to his family? He hadn't wanted to ask, but he had needed to know. She is often happy to oblige in sharing any form of bad news, and this query offered no exception to her taste in this respect.

“They have 'your' ashes and a certificate of death, of course.” She replied with a warm smile as a cold stone of dread settled deeply into his gut. “You will be with us for a very long time, so do your best to make our investments into you worthwhile, subject 901. Because if or when you are not here, you're actually already dead.” Though he resolves again not to ask her anything else for a long while, no matter how many more questions he has (and there are a lot of them), he begins to become very aggravated. Could it be that he had gone along with the stringent testing thus far, because he believed they would merely let him leave, one day? But this place is like a grave, after all, meant for him.

Atom gestures for him to get out of the cell. It's meant to be intimidating, and it is, the leering. However, Malcolm is angry, which he finds greatly helps him in overcoming most of his natural hesitation. Today, as he gets up to be examined and swallow foul liquids and perform obnoxious physical and mental exercises, he leers right back.

Atom and the other research specialists, lab techs or whatever they call themselves here, don't need to like him. They're not the kind of people that will respect him mutually regardless of whether he grovels or tries to placate them. He knows this instinctively. Growing up with a bully of an older brother has taught him enough about the mind of someone who craves power.

They may be in charge of every aspect of his life, but he is not worried about them. The one Malcolm worries for, is always his pregnant wife Jyoti, who, back at home knowing nothing of his sufferings, is having to carry on, once again, without him. And after he had promised, and meant it, that work and his dream would not overshadow their time together. He would return to her every day without fail, that was what their vows had meant and what they had agreed to. Even though he had loved his work, even though volunteering at the Fire House required long hours, late nights, and the place had full accommodations for rest and all of that, he would return home faithfully. He had promised. And people like this man in front of him, had decided that he wasn't allowed to do that.

So, Malcolm comes to a decision, then and there. He would lean into his own natural terror of other people, he would pretend to be afraid when it would help him, he would lull them into a false sense of security, and then, at the first opportunity he would strike out, with any force that was required for it, and escape. This dirty and cold place was not going to be his grave.

Late that evening, when he is returned exhausted, his body blacking out from his efforts to conceal the pain from the day's experimentation; the needles, the running, the falling and the bruising, he will not feel nearly as strong at he did when he left. He will awaken the next day to some horror or another, and resolve to try again, to find an opportunity regardless.

The next months are a blur of activity and agonizing sensations. Malcolm complies when he can because it's quickly too painful otherwise, and pretends to be afraid, although at times he very much feels a thrill of panic that wakes him in the middle of the night when things are more quiet. His heart beats out of his chest, he tells himself he can make it, even if he's here forever. He has... someone to get home to. At times he feels like he could forget even her face, though. It's all a mess. He's been trying. Trying, but nothing has been successful, or even all that useful, really.

They're all just pointless rebellions. He tries more things with the quiet security guard than he should, swiping for his keys or his flashlight when he walks too close to the bars, testing him. The man has fair reaction times, but he doesn't seem to hold any animosity about it, nor report it.

Most times, he doesn't even address it, other than giving an annoyed look. Malcolm gets the feeling that there are worse people here than him, so it's just not worth him getting upset over.

The man is fairly calm and collected, but there are times when an unknown terror takes over his features and he retreats from the room. Which happens now. Something on the device provoked the change.

Malcolm gives the most trouble to Atom, who is overly hostile to him. Atom deserves it, when Malcolm resists. But he is not without ire of his own. In fact, Atom is made of nearly 38% ire alone on a nice day, when's he had a good meal and a nice long time on the toilet reading something fiendishly. Today, after Malcolm spit some foul smelling liquid into his eyes that was intended for him, Atom is made up of approximately 78% ire. He'd attacked back, and Malcolm had taken a few hits to the face and there would definitely be some more bruising, but at the moment it was all sweet to Malcolm, and so worthwhile.

Atom was the kind of sim who would have been picking on Malcolm anyways. He hates the quiet ones, who don't grovel enough. And Malcolm tried at first, to fulfill the role that was expected of him here. But as they tell him consistently, he is dead outside anyways. He has nothing to lose but his hesitation. He grows bolder and less timid every day. The more he can keep the techs off balance, the better it will be when he needs to make an exit. Assuming he will be able to see the opening he needs and be able to take appropriate advantage of it.

So it's no surprise later that week, when Atom comes over to the lab to taunt him. He drops a key through the bars while Malcolm is resting. It's supposed to be the lunch hour, but of course, Malcolm isn't being given anything as his 'behavior has been atrocious'. The lab specialists normally eat now, though. How nice of him to come and visit during his time off. The key clinks and bounces metallicly against the ground with a ringing sound.

It lays there, impotently, in silence for a beat.

“Pick up the key.” Atom encourages him in a low voice, leaning onto the bars. “I'll let you out for a few moments. Find out what happens when you don't have the element of surprise on your side. See if you can get past me today.” He clears his throat when Malcolm doesn't even glance at him. “You can't escape from here even if you have one of these, you know!” Without realizing it, he's forgotten to call Malcolm by his number.

I must have struck a nerve just because the egomaniac had to use a little eyewash, Malcolm thinks to himself.

Malcolm ignores him. Everything hurts today. It's tempting in a way because the tone of that man's voice is like someone took a cheese grater to Malcolm's eardrums and it would be very satisfying to shut him up for a while, but it's not as if he'd throw a key in here that really opened anything.

He attempts not to listen to the stream of taunts that come from outside the cell. Atom is kept on a tight leash by the Director, so she's been having Ceres take Malcolm around for tests the last few days with the security guard. It's going to be a shitshow when he finally is allowed in the same room with him again. Mildly, Malcolm wonders if they'll just tranquilize him for another week instead of leading him around the lab with a human leash on his arm like a puppy.

“Pathetic.” He mutters under his breath. Malcolm may be afraid at times that he's going to say the wrong thing to other people or disappoint them, but he'd never go out of his way to make someone so miserable in the way that they are doing to him. It's like they've lost their humanity in a bid for power.

…

He remembers the first time the Director sat down with him for an 'interview'. This is her way of checking in. She did it much more in the beginning, every week or so, then every month, now one in several.

These generally start off with detailed yet curt questions on a checklist, inquiring about symptoms and experiences with medications, and here at least, Malcolm has the keen sense to give his better effort. She then will follow up with what he needs to improve upon (mainly his attitude and behavior), and fill the rest of his silence with whatever subjects she feels like oversharing about. He is not required to say much, nor does he want to, but it's always uncomfortable to have to listen.

Malcolm sat there passively as the woman growled, and cursed, and hissed about her ex-husband, someone whose name rings no bells whatsoever. She must be crazy, or he must be ignorant. Who the hell is Loki? Does it even matter?

He still doesn't have the answer. What ultimately matters is, at the moment this crazy person is in charge. If she is unhinged however, there may be a pressure point that can eventually be exploited by which he can make an escape. It will have to be when she is nowhere nearby of course, as she is absolutely terrifying. Physically, there is no doubt that Malcolm could overpower her, but in those moments he is quite unable to have any sort of meaningful conversation. Not that she pays him more than a cursory glance. So, convincing her to let him leave is probably off the table.

She certainly seemed unhinged. If she were somewhat levelheaded, he could reason with her. But he's never heard anyone actually cackle like that before, so it's hard to see a way out. She switches to calm and complicated calculations in no time at all, with no tells. He had tried to suppress a shiver, and failed.

When these times come again he lets his mind wander. He thinks of Jyoti at home, of how long it has been. She must've had the baby by now, right? Was it a boy, or a girl? She'd had names picked out for both from nearly the beginning. Was it healthy? He thinks about his wife, and how she always remained cheerful, no matter what. He had known her for as long as he could remember, even when she hadn't remembered him, and he had seen her cry on exactly one occasion. The thought that she believed him to be dead... how was she handling this news? She has her family, still... but it's like a black hole, if he dwells on it, it'll suck him in completely and leave nothing encouraging left. He could sit here cursing his luck, or blaming the people here, but then wouldn't he be closer to the madwoman in front of him, rather than what he is? And whatever this is, he's just going to have to get through it anyways. The Director had left that first meeting after sharing the various ways in which she could hurt her ex, and how she was going to get even, most of which Malcolm didn't hear her say in the first place. Thankfully there will be no test or inquisition. Then, just as now, the door creaks closed and he blinks, alone at last. Back to the black hole.

Currently Malcolm has been increasingly pushing out the scope of his containment, trying subtle things as he complies with the many unreasonable orders he receives in a day. There aren't many weaknesses here. He is on a floor that seems completely locked down save the elevator, which he's not taken into, and there are other rooms for testing that he may be brought to and locked inside for the duration of. Unless there is a rare case that one of the tests require him to be anesthetized, he is not left alone there. Food, such as it is, is brought flavorless and served through the bars of his cell or waiting for him when he returns from the day's ordeal, if he has earned it. He feels different depending on when they serve him more than if they serve him different things (early or late), so he knows it's being tampered with in some way. He has no way of knowing how many different drugs he may be on. Sometimes a bit of light exercise will give him some slim understanding, but he also experiences symptoms tied to lack of rest or nutrition, so it's hard to rule anything out. Most of his symptoms could apply to anything.

The bars are thick steel frames, the doors are rusty and loud. A mere six inches seemingly separate him from freedom on any given day. The lab techs have access to be here whenever they like, and come and go with impunity. Atom, for some reason, came here today in the middle of the night when he should be off work, presumably resting.

The technician stops texting and looks up, feeling the subject's eyes on him, and sneers.

Malcolm passively meets his gaze, and a thrill runs up his spine. He's still not used to making eye contact with them.

I'll get past you, he thinks, despite his reliable anxiety. Should he just steal one of their phones and call emergency services? They could be on an intranet though, and the signal may not reach above ground. Atom spits into the cell and leaves.

He waits for the lab specialist to walk away before allowing himself to feel any worry over it. Then worry he does. He probably shouldn't be goading them like this. But doing nothing is way worse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Atom is clearly a villain here because he has a scar on his face... also, that goatee, I'm mean, c'mon, man.

Close up of bruises, which I am dumbly proud of.

I struggle with using terms like 'sim' and 'human' in the same few sentences because it just doesn't seem to be very cohesive. People might say 'simkind' or something, but that just breaks the immersion in the story I feel, so unless there's a better suggestion I'm going to keep it going this way. Simian, is already taken by another species after all. Simun, Simuman, Simulation breaks it again. I have no idea. Halp.

I try to think of it in context. “A simulation like you outta not be writ'n checks that his pixellated framework cannot cash.” Has a great ring to it. :/

This subject matter can easily get very dark (and it will, soon) so I've made some of the conflict a bit immature as an offset. It's either about actual torture, or it's screenshots from a game. I like to keep the feeling of the game a bit alive even in stories like these.

Hope you all don't mind Malcolm getting some attention in a side story. I had a conclusion to his story from gameplay, but it just fell flat of my expectations of what he was going through while Jyoti and the family cannot see him, so of course I've been staging and downloading CC for weeks and now I'm writing like four posts at a time because the ideas kept flowing so much that I couldn't sleep on them. It's getting them to lineup on a single timeline, that has been difficult. There's also my proclivity for adding a pile of side characters, but oh well. It's unfair how he left, so let's see him again for a while.

Planchette is awesome even though his name is dumb. I'm totally gonna rip more sims out of graveyards as tertiary characters in the future. He's from ITF, like Atom is. Circe I made, she's up on the new Sparrows Download page in a simfile share link.