JohnnyZ
patreon
[Life is Good] Chapter 17
🕑 Added 2024-12-07 20:28:25 +0000 UTCI was coming to… slowly and painfully. Nausea churned in my stomach, and it felt like a crew of half-naked miners from a Rammstein music video was jackhammering my brain into rubble. My whole body felt weak, like I’d been lying in one spot for way too long. “Full-body bruise,” as the saying goes. Perfect.
“Ughhh… Drugged me… got me drunk… and didn’t even leave the number,” I croaked, forcing my eyes open with the grace of a rusty gate.
The room was a solitary cell: concrete floor, steel walls, a ceiling with a couple of bare lightbulbs, and not a single window. A narrow bed with a thin mattress, a toilet—more like a hole with running water—and a steel door with two rectangular openings: one at eye level, the other near the floor, both sealed shut. A sad, solitary metal sink built into the wall completed the depressing picture. The cell couldn’t have been bigger than three by two meters. In one corner, a camera lens stuck out like a little black dome. Luxury accommodations, five stars—just kidding. Oh, and my outfit? Jesus Christ. Do they have some kind of fetish for these pants-that-look-like-underwear things?
I lay there for… who knows how long? When your head’s pounding like that, time stretches out painfully, each second an eternity. Kind of like when you’re desperate to use the bathroom, but someone’s already in there.
The dream I had flashed through my mind—what a load of nonsense. Though this kind of nonsense was a first for me. At least dreams with Madara and giant energy cannons were funny; this was just surreal. I’ve never done drugs, but maybe that’s what a trip feels like? I mean, I was definitely drugged—no doubt about it. And this time, it must’ve been either stronger or a higher dose, because when I came to during my last kidnapping, I didn’t feel this terrible bouquet of sensations.
Oh yeah, kidnapping. Pretty sure I wasn’t the only one taken. This feels like one of those “swoop in and grab everyone” situations from a movie. And I’m betting it was Stryker. Or someone like him. Doesn’t matter, honestly. Goddess… I really hope some of the kids got away. If Kristy woke up in time, she could’ve blinked—or, uh, apparated? Teleported, whatever. Kitty might’ve phased straight through the attackers, and Raisa in her metal form would’ve been hard to catch. Windy could’ve just flown out if things got chaotic… But the rest… Damn those mutant-hating bastards! Attacking a school full of kids! Kidnapping them! Filthy scum—may Slaanesh’s demons make their backdoors into gates with blown out hinges.
After an indeterminate amount of time spent stewing in anxiety and head pain, I heard faint noises from outside the door. The soundproofing here was decent, apparently. There was a click, and the top opening in the door slid open. A pair of eyes peered in, scanning the room and sizing me up. Then the bottom slot opened, and someone—I’m guessing the first one’s partner—shoved in a piece of bread and a bowl of something. They tossed it onto the floor so carelessly that some of the slop spilled out.
“When you’re done, leave the bowl here,” came a voice from the other side. The slots clicked shut—bottom first, then top. Wow. Five-star service, huh? No “Enjoy your meal, Tobias”? And where the hell’s the spoon? Did their quartermaster swipe all the utensils to sell on the black market?
I’d calmed down a little by then. Dragging myself over to the “meal” felt like a heroic journey. The bread was… bread. Fresh, surprisingly. But the stuff in the bowl? It looked like gray sludge. Smelled like it too. I took a taste… Yeah, the flavor matched the appearance and smell perfectly. Whoever could stomach this must be some kind of alchemical abomination.
I kicked the door’s bottom slot and hissed, “If you’re going to serve slop like this, at least say, ‘Hey, bro, I brought you some food!’ Gotta know your classics, you jerks.” I left the bowl where it was and chewed on the bread while sitting on my miserable excuse for a bed. Like it or not, I needed to eat. If an escape opportunity came, I’d need strength. The sludge would stay uneaten for now—wasn’t desperate enough to force it down. Yet.
My head finally stopped pounding. The weakness in my body lingered, but it was manageable. So. I’d been kidnapped again. But this time, it wasn’t just me. They’d probably taken most of the students too. If I’m in a cell instead of the school infirmary, it means the kidnapping either went completely or partially as planned. Another possibility, though unlikely, is that our side staged this. But honestly, I can’t think of a single reason why they’d do that.
Most likely? Stryker or someone like him. Maybe HYDRA or SHIELD, which in canon I know is almost the same thing. The identity of the kidnappers isn’t my top concern, though. What matters is figuring out how to escape. And not just me—I’m not leaving the kids behind. This isn’t about heroism; if I escape without even trying to help the others, I… I wouldn’t be able to look anyone in the eye. Not Erika, not Charline… Not Blob or Toad… Not Kristy. Hell, I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror. I may be a selfish jerk, but I’m not a complete scumbag.
Alright, focus. Kidnappers. I’m in a cell. What can I do? I could leave the sink faucet running and hike up their water bill. Or plug the toilet with these oh-so-fashionable briefs and flood the place… only to get beaten up by the plumber who’d probably double as a dominatrix in some plumbing-themed BDSM porno. Call it: “The Wrench Wench Seduces the Landlord.”
Or I could try attacking during food delivery. But how? They inspect the cell first, and even if—by some miracle—I managed to take down both of them, the lock’s still on the outside! And I’m not exactly Mr. Fantastic; I’m not squeezing through the food slot. Dig a tunnel in the concrete floor? That’s about as genius as crawling through the sewer, Shawshank-style.*
No, the only remotely plausible option is to fake a seizure. But even that’s got risks. What if only one of them comes in while the other stands guard? Or what if there’s a third person? My odds of taking down two guards with a surprise attack are slim—like “Shinji piloting EVA-01” slim. But three? Unless the Goddess herself shows up to hold the third one down while I heroically struggle against the other two, it’s hopeless. Speaking of which, Goddess? What do you think? Care to stretch your legs a bit and help out? …Yeah, didn’t think so. Silence isn’t consent, after all.
Lying back on the bed, ready to perform my Oscar-worthy “seizure,” my mind wandered, as it often does, to stupid ideas. Like: What if Thor’s a dude here, but Loki’s his sister with a massive brother complex? Heh. Imagine: Thor, powerless and stranded in the desert, when Loki swoops down from the Bifrost, anime-style, throws herself at him, and cries, “Thor-ni-chan! That jerk Odin is such a meanie! Come to Jotunheim with me, and I’ll show you what real sisterly LOVE is! I’ll keep you warm on those cold Jotunheim nights!”
Phew. Once again, I’m reminded that the crap in my head can only be cured by death. Then again… If I became a lich, I’d probably be the most unhinged lich in the entire necropolis. Ku-ku-ku!
Lying there, I committed fully to the role of someone rapidly deteriorating. The corner camera was watching everything, so I made a show of wobbling to the sink a couple of times. The first trip, I stumbled; the second, I dramatically dropped to one knee. Stanislavski, if you’re watching, keep your “I believe/don’t believe” critiques to yourself—I’m young and doing the best I can. For the grand finale, I went all-in: spasms, foaming at the mouth, tongue out, and finally collapsed into a heap. Shame my acting skills aren’t up to par because no one bothered to come check. I eventually dozed off in that ridiculous pose, crafting brilliant tactical battle plans in my head, complete with a drool-soaked grimace.
I woke to the sound of the door unlocking. Groggy and disoriented, I was slow to react. Before I knew it, someone had grabbed me by the hair and yanked me off the cot with all the gentleness of a charging rhino. One of the guards, a sturdy woman with a grip like a vice, forced me to stand. Two more, their faces twisted into expressions only their mothers could love, stood in the doorway. I tried to jerk away but was instantly rewarded with a jab to the kidneys. Painful, sure, but I played it up like it was crippling, sagging dramatically and letting my weight hang from the fist clutching my hair. No idea if they knew about my powers yet, but for now, my best bet was to play the scared, helpless boy on the verge of soiling his stylish prison-issued panties. It wasn’t hard—fear was already coursing through me like a broken fire hydrant.
They shoved me out into the corridor with a curt, “Move it. No funny business.” Doors identical to mine stretched down the hall in both directions. Aside from the three ogres flanking me, the place was eerily empty. And by ogres, I mean these weren’t even your average guards—they were a special kind of hellspawn hybrid, as if a hyena and a jackal had a drunken tryst. Comparing them to working women would be an insult to those who bring joy to men’s lives—these women brought nothing but dread.
They marched me down the hall, one leading, two trailing, and occasionally “encouraging” me with baton prods to the back. We turned left, then right. I tried to memorize the route, just in case. When we reached the elevator bay, I noted three sets of doors—one for a freight elevator, clearly designed for moving bulkier “cargo.” The display indicated we were on the fifth basement level. The elevator took us up to the third, where the scenery improved marginally—more people, fewer empty halls. I spotted women in lab coats and a few squads of soldiers, none of them familiar. Definitely Stryker’s crew.
Other mutants were being escorted down adjacent corridors, though I couldn’t get a good look. One guy, at least, was dressed like me—rocking the “prison chic” ensemble. Passing snippets of conversation caught my ear. One lab coat was complaining: “The colonel’s demands are insane. She has to know we can’t keep this pace without mistakes…” Stryker. Has to be. That bastard. Pardon, that cunt.
They shoved me into a lab, about 10x10 meters with a ceiling just high enough to remind you how small you are. Equipment lined the walls, buzzing ominously. Three scientists were already there, and in the corner, I spotted an aquarium—a freaking aquarium—with what looked like an electric chair inside. Straps and wires completed the lovely decor.
Before I could take in more, I was shoved toward the chair. Resistance earned me several baton strikes, though I managed to land a solid punch to one guard’s throat before being rewarded with a kick to the gut. Nice. They strapped me down and gagged me.
As they worked, I heard one of the lab coats muttering into a recorder: “Subject M-204. Displays energy absorption and storage capabilities, allowing partial dissipation of kinetic forces. Capable of masking its presence in non-visual spectrums. Potential absorption of ambient radiations. Beginning Experiment One: Saturation Limits and Detection Spectrum Analysis.”
Well, shit. This was going to suck. The absence of an anal probe was a small mercy, but otherwise? They clearly had my file. Someone had raided the X-School database, no doubt. Beast probably kept meticulous records. Damn it, Hank.
For the first ten minutes, it was dull—just a casual electrocution session. They increased the voltage gradually. At first, it wasn’t so bad; I could feel my energy reserves filling up. Then came the discomfort, followed by outright pain. I tried signaling them to stop, but apparently, that just made them more excited. Two were furiously jotting notes, and the third was babbling into her recorder.
Things escalated quickly. Nausea hit me like a freight train, followed by black spots in my vision, a ringing in my ears, and the delightful sensation of my insides trying to crawl out. Eventually, I vomited, the bread I’d eaten earlier sizzling as it hit the electrically charged floor. The stench was unbearable. Blood leaked from my nose and ears, and my vision swam.
Somewhere in the chaos, I heard someone shouting about consequences if I died before providing useful data. Part of me wanted to give up right there—die just to spite them.
When it was over, they unstrapped me, my body a throbbing mess. I was too weak to walk, so they dragged me. At one point, I puked bile onto a guard’s boots. Small victories.
We passed another group: a pudgy woman in a colonel’s uniform and an emotionless Asian lady. Stryker? Summoning the last bit of defiance in me, I spat bile at the colonel’s face. She responded with kicks, but honestly, I barely felt them. Pathetic. Even the kids back at the school hit harder than her.
Finally, medics cleaned me up a bit. They forced pills down my throat, made me drink something vile, and injected me with God-knows-what. The guards, one of whom now stank like me, dragged me off again.
The fun never stops in hell.
Another kaleidoscope of images. Someone swearing. A familiar voice shouting my name—but who? No idea. It felt like my escort group ran into another, maybe with someone I knew. Next thing I knew, they dumped me on a couch and slammed the door shut. Thank the Goddess for small mercies. Finally, some peace... if only my body agreed. I wanted to pass out so badly, but the world kept spinning like a broken carousel, and my pulse hammered in my ears like a war drum.
I like to think of myself as a pretty chill person. But right now? I’d gleefully beat the ever-living hell out of every one of those moral degenerates. I’d break their bones one by one and not give a damn about the whole “but they’re women!” argument. These jackal-spawn freaks don’t have genders—they’re just monsters. They all belong in cages, chained to the walls, eating scraps. Bastards. May Galactus crush them all beneath his cosmic-sized dick.
No idea how much time passed, but eventually, the spinning stopped. The pulse in my ears quieted, replaced by an encroaching sense of horror—not even for myself, or at least not entirely. The girls. Goddess, please, don’t let these abominations lay a hand on them! I don’t ask for much, but I’m begging you—help them!
I can’t even describe my current state. For the first time in either of my lives, I’m in a pit so deep it feels bottomless. Somewhere on the edges of my self-loathing, there’s a tiny ember of shame. First real disaster, and here I am, trembling like a hamster staring down a python. And if anyone thinks they could do better? Be my guest. I’ll happily swap places. Hell, bring a group, we can trade! I’ve got some friends to throw in for extra credit. Just remember: travel expenses are on you. All I’ve got to my name right now are vomit-stained boxers.
Alright, if I’ve got the mental capacity to spiral into existential nonsense, then the panic attack’s easing up. That’s something, at least. Let’s pull it together. I can cry into a pillow later... when I actually have one. Time for a damage report.
Okay, first off: this is definitely Stryker. He’s got some pet mutant working for him—probably the one with regeneration and those magic blade-claws. There’s a chance my friends could save me. Slim, but it’s there. I’ll cling to that hope like a drowning man, but I can’t sit on my ass waiting to be rescued. Cry, snivel, choke on snot if I have to, but keep going. Never stop. Next point: oversaturating on energy is hell, but it didn’t kill me. Didn’t even make me explode, though it sure felt like it might. That’s valuable intel. Though, thinking about it, they might’ve cut the power just as I was about to croak. Either way, I’m still here.
Now for the weird part. Something feels... off. Not bad, necessarily, just strange. Like I grew a third arm or something. Not literally—but it’s like the sensation of an arm that fell asleep and now feels all pins and needles. Except I’ve never had this “arm” before. It’s there, flopping around inside me, familiar yet foreign. It’s like trying to explain relationship statuses on social media—it’s complicated.
I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels like something new’s awakened in me. And no, it’s not worms or Deadpool’s favorite dildo who she called Roger.
_________________________________________
*The original uses works of Strugatsky brothers as an example.
