Belleview Chapter Two (Part B): Felix
Notes: mostly low-level med whump
Belleview: Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (Part A)
TW: Institutionalized slavery, Med Whump, Med Exam, References to Noncon, Noncon touch, Dubcon Medical Care, References to Human Experimentation
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They expected him to die soon. Lincoln knows this, without prejudice, as well as he knows anything else about this place. Even if the handler had not introduced Felix with the caveat that they had recently ceased all medical intervention, Lincoln could put the pieces together by looking for twenty seconds at the handlers’ notes from the last few days.
According to the available records, during Felix’s first several months at Belleview, he went no longer than three days between ‘projects,' often with multiple projects stacked on top of each other. Lincoln has not yet researched every experimental tool or drug or procedure that Felix was a part of, partly because some of them were classified and the DOH had yet to access the details, and partly because, in the cases where Lincoln was able to identify the critical components of the trials, his stomach had bottomed out early and he had wound up six hours deep in case files trying to sort out exactly how this had happened.
After Felix's first nine months, they had slowed down with him. There was a three week break wherein Felix was not assigned to any long-term trial before he was pulled again, for what would have been the final time. It was a medical test for a hallucinogenic training drug that lasted nearly two months before abruptly terminating two weeks prior, when, to Lincoln’s best guess, the site had received guidance to stop any majorly illegal activities.
Felix appeared to have been neglected since then. According to the handlers’ notes, he had accessed only two meals a day, a few glasses of water, and, if someone took pity on him, was afforded some assistance in showering and using the toilet. If he didn’t, or couldn’t, eat what was given to him, he would go without eating. “That was part of the gag,” the handler said. “We couldn’t… well, we couldn't actively aid in their... uh, it was technically not allowed. But there came a time when we were asked to let them ride out the end. If they didn't eat, they didn't eat.”
There will come a time, Lincoln thinks now, that Felix will be asked to testify to what happened at this site. There will come a time where some semblance of justice will be served, at least to those who partook in the darkest corners of the system. He will see to it that Felix is afforded that chance.
He takes a breath and enters the small cell, which will need to be repurposed into a bedroom over the next day or so. Felix lays on the floor on his side, curled up as tightly as his frail body will allow. He doesn’t open his eyes at their approach.
“We call him Felix because he’s always smiling,” the handler said. He doesn’t smile now. Even in sleep, he looks scared. He’s covered in bruises, with dried blood smeared across his legs and torso. Lincoln had not caught that earlier, but it couldn’t be new. He’s pale. He swallows, and his body tenses for a moment before he settles back into sleep.
“He’s not actually happy, though,” the handler continued. “He flirts with everyone he sees, just trying to find someone to take him home, we think. He’ll do anything you ask him to, as long as he can understand it. The last couple weeks he’s been up and down, though.”
He’s shaking, and it’s not the light tremble of a scared boy who’s seen too much, but a deep, uncontrollable movement that possibly points to deeper issues.
Lincoln thinks through the side effects of the drug trials. The head of that project, Dr. Michael Gletzer, Ph.D, was a leading researcher in the country, highly sought after by pharmaceutical companies and the former Dean of Medicine at the University of Florida. He is available to speak at length regarding his research. He is not currently under arrest, and, to Lincoln’s understanding, has been cooperative with questioning. He will have to speak to the doctor, and he dreads it.
Lincoln watches Felix sleep for a moment, and the reality of what these men have gone through crashes over him. It’s a crushing weight, and he lets himself feel it for only a moment before he shuts it down and takes a breath, then makes a cautious approach.
“Grab him a blanket?” Lincoln asks quietly. From behind him, Philip moves to the cabinet and begins rummaging through its drawers. Lincoln kneels down next to Felix, his hand hovering over his body. He hesitates to make contact.
“Felix,” Lincoln says. He’s gentle when he finally allows his fingers to graze Felix’s shoulder. Felix’s eyes flutter open, although they are slow to seek out Lincoln. His features are uniformly lined with exhaustion, and Lincoln, for a moment, regrets waking him. “Hi,” Lincoln whispers.
Felix blinks slowly and tries to sit, but even in that movement, it is clear that his body is failing. He struggles to get his hands under himself, and when offered support, he accepts it without any clear indication that he is aware he’s been touched at all. Still, he looks down at himself and takes an almost unnoticeable inventory of his condition. Philip approaches and drapes a blanket over his lap, and Felix offers a tiny smile in return.
“My name is Lincoln Prescott,” Lincoln says. “Do you remember me? From earlier?”
Felix watches his mouth, his expression tight.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” Lincoln continues. “I’m a doctor, I’ve been assigned to Belleview by the Department of Health.” There is little evidence that Felix hears him at all, but he continues the well-rehearsed speech. “As of 9:00 this morning, the contracted worker system is no longer active in the United States,” he continues.
“I don’t think he’s following,” Philip says from next to him. Lincoln nods.
He’s right, of course. “We are working on finding all of the residents of Belleview stable homes to stay in while the infrastructure is built for you to live independently,” he says anyway. “In the meantime, we’re going to stay here as a group and get you all some help, alright?”
Felix nods.
“Can you tell me your name?”
There is no response, although Felix’s eyes search Lincoln’s, studying him intently.
Lincoln asks Felix how he feels, if he’s hungry, when he ate, how old he is. Felix doesn’t respond. The question hovers just out of reach, whether Felix can and doesn’t speak, or whether he cannot at all. According to the handler, he hasn’t spoken since returning from the most recent drug trial. Prior to that, though, there were no notable concerns with his speech, hearing, or comprehension. Best case scenario, it’s a trauma response and can be worked through down the line. Worst case is that there is irreversible damage to either his brain (most likely), or individual elements of communication (highly unlikely). Both are worth exploring.
Layered upon this, there are the issues of his physical responses. He startles easily but does not pull away. He blinks slowly. His hands are slow to find the blanket and hold onto it. His eyes are red, his skin has a kind of translucent hue. He expected Felix to require more substantial diagnostic testing than they’re able to offer, and it is clear to him that a trip to the hospital for scans is unavoidable.
As Philip sets up the admission forms on the tablet, Lincoln pulls a pair of blue latex gloves on. Felix almost instantly responds, which is ultimately a good sign, as hard as it is to address in the moment. The tremors that run through his body have taken a sort of panicked edge.
“It’s alright,” Lincoln says. “I’m just gonna look at you, okay? We’re here to help.”
Felix is cooperative as Lincoln takes one of his hands. He squeezes it once then turns it over, examining the bruising and scarring from months of drug use. He runs his thumb across one of the most prominent, likely the site of a long-term IV port.
“Let’s get this off you,” Lincoln says. He is cautious as he presses his fingers under the front of the collar, his touch light as he seeks the release mechanism. When he finds it, and the collar clicks free and falls into his hands, he is both relieved that it was simple enough, and horrified by what he sees. Dark bruises form where the clip sat, with deeper gashes toward the back of his neck where the plasticky-metal dug in during, what had to be, violent altercations. Lincoln runs his fingers along the lines there, but Felix does not react.
He takes his vitals, he does as thorough an exam as he can. There’s a very tender spot on the side of his head, and with the other potential signs of concussion, it shouldn’t be ruled out. Felix is especially jumpy when Lincoln runs his hand down his spine and over his ribs. Some are broken. Felix holds his left arm more gingerly, so Lincoln is careful as he looks checks it. Still, as Lincoln turns it over, Felix cries out, his whole body tense for only a second before he forcibly relaxes.
“I’m sorry,” Lincoln whispers. Somewhere along the line, tears have formed in Felix’s eyes, and they now threaten to spill. Lincoln isn’t sure exactly how much willpower it takes him to keep them in, only that he does. As soon as his arm is released, Felix cradles it to his chest.
“Can I look at your back?” Lincoln asks, gentle but assertive in repositioning him.
He’s extremely underweight, with too many vertebrae and too much rib instantly visible. A thick scar runs across one side of his abdomen and circles around his side. There are other scars, less visible ones that almost would be missed by the naked eye, but they’re there.
Felix doesn’t make a sound when Lincoln examines lower. He watches the wall with a sort of sad detachment as Lincoln runs his fingers gingerly over some swelling in his lower back, then guides him onto his side.
“Almost done,” Lincoln says. “Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?”
There is no answer, which Lincoln does not mistake for permission, but accepts at face value. He monitors Felix’s breathing, the cadence of the tremors that roll through him, his posture. Philip kneels in front of him, holding his hand and watching his face for signs of extreme duress. It’s the best they can do.
Here, the damage is obvious. Lincoln notes both bruising and tearing, with a slew of fluids, presumably belonging to both Felix and the handlers, dried onto his skin. Lincoln’s stomach turns over as he cleans him up, muttering whatever words of encouragement he can come up with.
The further into this they go, the more Lincoln questions the plan. The likelihood that even in a full service hospital, he would be equipped to manage this, is slim. He pulls off the gloves and helps Felix to sit, then drapes the blanket around his shoulders.
“You okay?” Lincoln asks. Felix looks very, very far from okay, but the worst is over.
Felix brings his hand up to rest on Lincoln’s arm and squeezes it. It isn’t exactly confirmation of understanding, nor is it a show of okayness. Lincoln would be doing him a disservice by writing the action off as either. But it’s something close to it, he thinks. Lincoln smiles and covers his hand with his own and squeezes it again.
“We’ll get you better, okay?” he says. “Philip’s going to help you get cleaned up, get some food and water in you, set you up with an IV and some medicine to make you feel better.” There’s no recognition in his eyes, but Lincoln continues. “While you get showered, we’ll get you a bed and a TV, or some books, or anything you need.”
Extricating himself from Felix’s grip is a little harder than it was getting into it, but once he’s free, he stands, and Felix’s eyes track his movements.
“N… n…” Felix reaches after him as he steps toward the door, and Lincoln pauses, turning. There is true panic, for the first time, in his expression. He wants to show you he can still be of use, the handler said. He wants you to pull him.
“Felix,” Lincoln whispers. “I’ll be back for you, alright? I promise you, I will come back." He takes a step toward the door, and the tears that threatened to spill earlier come back in full force. “I need to go check on your friend,” Lincoln says, although there is almost no chance at this point that Felix understands. He kneels down and tries to smile, but he thinks it probably doesn't land. “Philip will stay with you and get you cleaned up.”
He mutters instructions to Philip, and seconds later, he is in the hallway, his forehead pressed into the wall while he takes that whole interaction and locks it into a very, very tight box in the back of his mind.
He is in good hands. He will be okay. He is not alone, and he is not going to be left to die, and Lincoln will spend the next four weeks making sure that he knows it.
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