The Human Machine
//tw: torture, electric shock, nonconsensual touch, suffocation, possibly (probably) slightly inaccurate science, hehe
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Marcus still doesn’t understand--can’t wrap his mind around reality as it’s presented to him now. He is a captive. He’s shackled to a concrete wall, sitting on a bare mattress, deep pain still throbbing from the very center of his skull. There is a man somewhere right outside this small cement room, who knows a terrifying amount of information about Marcus and wants to hurt him.
Why, again? Marcus doesn’t understand the reasoning, still. He didn’t do anything to cause this to happen, he just...simply existed as he is. And the Man saw something in him that made him decide he wanted to take Marcus away from his friends, and his life (granted, it wasn't much of a one), and hurt him because of it.
And Jake. The Man talked about Jake. Marcus decides he’ll need to find out more about the Man’s intentions toward his friend.
But perhaps later. There are more pressing concerns for now. For now, Marcus is startled from his thoughts by the sudden opening of the door. For now, Marcus watches the Man reenter the room carrying a large wooden armchair with a tall back and metal restraints attached to it. For now, he swallows drily, painfully, as he notes that not only are there restraints on the arms and legs of the chair, clearly meant for the wrists and ankles, but also one on the back of the chair at just about the right height to enclose around a person’s neck.
As he takes it in, Marcus presses himself against the concrete wall behind him as far as he can. He knows immediately that the chair is meant to hold him for the duration of whatever sick designs the man has upon him.
After setting the chair in about the center of the room, the Man approaches Marcus, who pointlessly shifts himself even further back against the wall.
He dreads that chair.
At first, he struggles against the Man’s hold, even though he knows he has no hope of defending himself against the strong hands, against the arms that visibly roll with sturdy muscle. The Man’s muscle is the sort that you can tell at a glance is for utility and not just for show. The room is now lit by stark grey light, coming from an exposed bulb, and by it, Marcus can see that the Man is clearly middle aged--however, no weaker for it. There will be no defending himself physically against this man. But the comment he made about Marcus being “sweet,” and “calming down” after he’d hit him, doesn’t sit well with the boy. He wants to prove that he is not as passive as he seems.
The man smiles at him for a moment the way one might smile at a precocious child, or perhaps an intelligent dog, and then, grabbing a fistful of Marcus’s hair, slams his head so hard into the concrete wall that his vision goes black and he loses use of his limbs.
Great.
That should help his headache.
Mostly unconscious, he can feel the Man unlocking the shackles from his wrists, but the relief that it brings to his sore skin is short-lived. Next, he’s aware of is his cotton shirt being lifted over his head and removed completely. The cold air of the room pierces his skin like thousands of needles. The Man now lifts Marcus quite easily, letting his head and arms hang loose as he carries him to the chair. The restraints clamp into place with one cold, metallic clack each, which echo dully off of the concrete walls and floor.
As Marcus is struggling to full awareness after the knock against the wall (the evidence of which he can feel in the warm tickling sensation of a small stream of blood dripping down his temple), he feels that the restraints are lined with some sort of fabric. This does nothing to make them any more comfortable, other than the fact that at least they aren’t too cold on his bare skin. The neck restraint is definitely the worst part. It allows for almost no movement of his head. He can’t breathe right. Every time he swallows, his Adam’s apple rubs uncomfortably against the rough fabric-lined metal. There’s no way to move himself up into a more comfortable position either, due to the wrist restraints. He’s trapped. That thought unfortunately sends spikes of panic through him, into his feet and hands, into his stomach, his heart, and his lungs—which makes it even more difficult to breathe. His limbs begin to shake.
Immediately after regaining full consciousness, he wishes he could pass out again. The man is in the act of bringing in a cart with what looks like some sort of machine on top of it. It’s a large black box with switches and a dial, and several wires seem to come out from somewhere on the back. It’s these wires that are Marcus’s first clue as to what sort of thing is about to be done to him. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he’s about to be forced through something altogether unpleasant.
And for what?
How had the Man said it before? First, he had called Marcus a “project.” The memory of the word turns Marcus’s stomach again. Then he had said, “I’m going to see just how long it takes for you to be totally destroyed,” and what was the specific word? …right, “malleable.”
That’s a word that Marcus has heard thousands of times when working with clay. The clay is hard and formless, a lump of dead matter until the creator’s hands get on it. It softens in the heat of the hands as it’s worked until it can be shaped into something completely unrecognizable compared to what it once was. The clay has no purpose until or beyond that which is given to it by the sculptor.
Marcus can see that the Man thinks of himself as a sculptor, and from the way he talks, it’s clear his “projects” are his clay. How many people has this man crushed, squashed beneath his fists? How many has he pulled and stretched beyond what is natural, twisting them to fit his own sick design? Marcus decides right now that he will not be one of them.
That’s the only thing he’s ever had—his will. And his will is strong. Hasn’t he survived his life up to this point when so many thought he wouldn’t? He isn’t hardened, or physically strong, but he’s never let his will crumble. Not completely.
Right now he’s cold, and confused, and he trembles where he sits clamped into the chair. But he’s got his will, even now, and he’ll hold on to it with the same determination he always has, regardless of what happens. He’ll just have to.
The Man will bend his body, but how can you bend a spirit? Not without consent. Marcus is not going to give it.
The man wheels the cart so that it sits about a foot away from Marcus. As he takes a minute to arrange the wires coming out of the box, Marcus is able to see that each one ends in a small square pad. The Man finishes untangling each one (there are eight in all), setting them neatly side-by-side, before reaching onto the bottom shelf of the cart and pulling out a couple of little square packets. One, he sets down next to the machine, and the other he rips open, pulling out what appears to be an alcohol wipe.
“You’re already mostly hairless,” the Man remarks as he unfolds the wipe, “That makes this easier. I won’t have to shave you, which saves time and effort for me. Besides, that may have gotten a bit messier than I’d like things to get so soon.” He winks, causing Marcus to grimace.
The Man stoops down, wipe in hand, and Marcus unintentionally shifts in discomfort at the approach. Of course, he can’t move away even the slightest fraction, and the Man’s ever-present smirk grows a little at the attempt.
He uses the wipe to clean four small areas on Marcus’s abdomen, two right under his navel, and two further up, just a couple of inches below his ribs. Marcus sucks in a shocked breath when the cold wipe first makes contact with the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. The Man makes no comment, but again, his smirk grows.
Finishing on his abdomen, the Man stuffs the used wipe back in what remains of its package and opens the second one. This wipe he uses to clean spots on Marcus’s chest and on the front sides of his biceps. Marcus observes that each site is over a large muscle.
The sterilized patches of skin are pink and overly sensitive to the air, which makes his trembling worse. He really wishes he weren’t shivering so much--mostly because he knows that the Man will take it for fear, and although Marcus would like to tell himself it’s only the cold, deep down even he knows that’s not entirely the case. He focuses hard to still his body, but only succeeds in reminding himself how desperate he is to be able to move at all, and his muscles clench in protest of having to remain so still.
“How much do you know about electricity, Marcus?” The Man asks suddenly, looking directly into Marcus’s eyes with the same sort of look that Marcus remembers very distinctly from every science teacher he’s ever had.
Marcus gives no answer. This will be part of his resistance, he thinks. He won’t speak. He will give this man no more information about himself than he already has--no word, no insight--not even a single sound. Nothing that might give the Man an advantage against him.
The corners of the Man’s eyes crinkle as he realizes that his wait for a response will be in vain. Reaching onto the bottom shelf again, he retrieves a pair of black latex gloves and pulls them onto his hands, stretching and clenching his long fingers to make them fit snugly.
“This,” he says, holding one of the square pads delicately between his gloved fingers, “Is called an electrode. It adheres directly to the skin.” Saying this, he places the pad over the pink patch of sterile skin on Marcus’s left pectoral. “It is connected by the wire to this big, lovely box here.” He runs his forefinger and thumb along the wire, to the machine and then gives it an almost affectionate pat with his hand. “These,” he says, fingering the dial and switches and tapping a couple of them rhythmically, “control how much electricity runs from the box, through the wire, and into your body.” The statement is punctuated with a sharp poke to the pad attached to Marcus’s chest.
The restrained young man’s eyes roll slightly, and his brow creases in dismay. Seeming delighted by this, the man chuckles and begins attaching the second electrode, this one on the other side of Marcus’s chest.
“Now,” he continues, “The human body is an incredible thing. We are naturally very resistant to small electrical currents. In fact,” he pats at his own chest and abdomen with one hand, “we’re really made up of them. Did you know that, Marcus? Every action from speech, to movement, to the minutest workings of our autonomic nervous system--it’s all made up of thousands of tiny electrical currents firing through our body, telling our brain what to do. Human beings are truly intricate machines. It’s incredible.” The Man seems momentarily lost in the wonder of the things he describes. He stares silently at the machine for a moment before suddenly, his eyes give a cold flash and dart back to Marcus’s. His smirk is gone. “Have you ever seen what happens to a machine that’s given more power than it can take?” Still unsmiling, he returns to the work of attaching the electrodes to Marcus’s skin, and continues. “They become overpowered. Complex systems, literally designed to be run on electricity, are suddenly hit with more of it than they were ever meant to support and they begin to break down. They fry.”
Marcus stares, unblinking. As he listens, he almost forgets the real meaning behind this explanation--the malefic weight it carries for him. He is simply rapt by the Man’s words, so full of intelligent passion.
“Human machines are the same way.” he concludes.
Marcus’s moment of contented forgetfulness is abruptly shattered.
As the Man places the last pad on Marcus’s lower abdomen, he brushes his fingers gently over the skin there. Marcus automatically tries to shift away from the touch, which seems to greatly amuse the Man, who leaves his fingers where they are for several seconds longer, staring into Marcus’s eyes. Testing him. There is something so revolting in the intimacy of the touch that Marcus nearly groans in disgust. But he doesn’t. He simply stares back into the Man’s taunting hazel eyes, which seem so dark with wicked thought and intent, his own full of fury. His jaw hurts with how hard it is clenched.
Smiling once more, the Man pats Marcus patronizingly on the stomach before standing and turning back to the cart, pulling off his gloves in the process. He picks up a small black remote that is attached to the machine by a thin chord.
“Now, human beings have been ‘fried’ by all different voltage levels before,” he says, matter-of-factly. “The voltage is not actually what matters. The current is what determines whether a person will be lethally harmed by a shock or not. What science has discovered, and what many governments, and regimes, and privately interested individuals--” he gestures to himself, “--have exploited, is that if you administer a shock at a high voltage, but on a low current, the pain produced in the victim will be excruciating enough to make him wish he were dead, but not actually kill him.”
Marcus bites his lips to hide their trembling and the man’s eyes crinkle once more.
“It has become one of the most popular methods of torture in the world. And that is because,” he pauses, chuckling darkly, “while it is extremely effective, if you do it right, there are no messy after-effects to deal with. Now, I’m not above getting my hands dirty. In fact, I rather enjoy it. But as I mentioned earlier, I’d prefer to save the messier things for once we’ve gotten to know each other a little better.” His smile becomes a grin as his thumb strokes almost teasingly over one of the buttons on the remote. “This machine is going to help me get to know you rather well, I think. Tell me, Marcus, in your whole life, have you ever begged for anything?”
It might as well have been a jolt from the machine, the way the question causes dread to surge through Marcus’s body.
But no, he tells himself, I am not clay. I’m not reshape-able. I will not lose myself.
“Have you?” the Man pushes, “Have you ever begged mindlessly, senselessly? Unaware even of what you’re doing or saying, only that you will do anything, say anything just to get relief?”
Marcus’s heart slams wildly, painfully in his chest. His breath catches in his throat, and he’s intensely aware of the shaking of his body.
I will not lose myself.
“I think you might today.”
With no further warning, a wall slams into Marcus with such painful force that he can hardly understand it.
As afraid as Marcus was leading up to this moment, it did not prepare him for how much it hurts. He had known it would, of course, but he’d had no basis for knowing just what kind of pain it was going to be. This is nearly indescribable. It’s like the worst muscular cramp Marcus has ever felt, multiplied by about thirty, and everywhere.
Every muscle is in spasm, his body convulsing with violence, causing him to choke repeatedly on the neck restraint. He’s afraid his teeth will break with how hard he’s gritting them to ensure no sound comes out. He’s not even sure if any could, anyway.
He can’t breathe—hasn’t breathed since before the pain started, which already feels like an hour ago.
All concept of time and reason are replaced by pain.
Oh, fuck, oh fuck, it hurts. It hurts!
It’s the loudest thing in his mind—the pain. The burning ache is oppressive upon every part of him in a way he’s never experienced and it won’t stop.
Uncontrollable is the violent thrashing of his body as energy wrenches through it. His fingers are frozen, splayed and curled like an odd imitation of the bare branches of a tree, and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.
God, how long is he going to make this go on for? Surely the Man doesn’t mean to kill him now. After all the talk he’s made about breaking Marcus down, letting him suffocate on the first go seems counterintuitive.
Finally, there’s a change. The oppressive force seems to recede. The spasms, however, do not. The burning lingers, filling every inch of his body, squeezing in and pressing out, and out until his skin feels like it will rip free. His muscles continue to convulse. He can breathe again, but it isn’t easy. And it hurts.
Everything hurts.
The neck restraint digs into his skin as he gasps for air through his nose, since his jaw is still shut as tightly as if it has been wired closed. Not only does Marcus doubt whether it would be physically possible to open it at the moment, but he’s afraid that if he did, something embarrassing would come out.
He hopes the blurriness of his vision is not from tears, but he honestly can’t tell. Everything is sliding and smearing and oh god, it’s hot--his skin is on fire.
He can’t regulate his breathing, can’t get enough air into his lungs to put out the fire that is still there.
He is only remotely aware of the Man’s gaze taking him in with sadistic hunger. The man’s eyes are fixed and wide. No reaction goes unnoticed, no involuntary movement unappreciated. He watches the stuttering way Marcus’s chest moves in and out, as he desperately tries to make himself breathe. His eyes follow the lines of the jerking body to the boy’s hands, which have clenched now into tight fists, his fingers paling. Marcus’s muscles won’t stop twisting and jerking, alive still with the burning.
The Man wonders for a moment what Marcus might look like now if he were not confined to the chair. How the body might arch and bow. How he might writhe on the ground with his torment. Picturing it makes the Man smile widely. So much to look forward to.
He thinks the young man might be aware enough to talk to now.
Oh, how he wishes that Marcus would’ve made some sort of noise--would make some now--but oh hell, how delicious it is to watch the effort it takes him not to. The veins of his neck are clearly visible under his tan skin, though partially obstructed by the collar. His jaw looks painfully tight.
“How was that?” he asks, finally. Marcus doesn’t respond--of course--but his already irregular breath shudders out of him in an involuntary hiss of anguish. His body gives a particularly violent twitch as the Man chuckles again. “Know how long that was? Sixteen seconds.” He waits, smiling, loving the despairing crease between Marcus’s brows as that information sinks into his addled mind. “And you know, that was a relatively mild setting, all things considered. I admire your attempt at dignity, but really, precious, you’re going to burst blood vessels trying so hard to keep quiet like that.”
He crouches between Marcus’s knees, eyes taking in even the smallest details of his body’s ongoing response to its first brush with such outrageous torment. Unable to help himself, the Man runs a slow hand up Marcus’s now sweat-slick abdomen. He savours the feeling of the agonized muscles still writhing under the skin. The boy makes no attempt to move away from his touch this time--a little too preoccupied at the moment--but a low groan of disgust and frustration half makes its way out of his throat before he’s able to stop it.
Marcus’s first vocalization since the end of their earlier discussion.
The Man stands, grinning. Oh yes. This is going well.
He returns to the cart, picking up the remote again. He’s unable to resist sparing a moment to take in Marcus’s still-recovering form from this angle once more. Gorgeous, all of it. The dark, sweat-soaked hair curling about the despair-stricken face. The still clenched jaw. The chest moving in and out erratically. The wild look in the unfocused brown eyes that shows that the Man is already on the track he wants to be on.
Marcus is a fighter—as wonderfully strong as the man had perceived.
But he will let down at least one wall before the day is out, the Man thinks. If he won’t beg, I’ll make him scream.
That one noise of disgust was enough to prove that it isn’t a long-shot at all. But what exactly will tip him over the edge? It’s a delicate business, applying just the right amount of pressure to form a line and not a crack. And the Man doesn’t want any cracks—not yet. He must chip carefully at Marcus if he doesn’t want their time together to be cut short.
Still, what’s art, really, without a little risk?
His fingers find the knob as if on their own and click it up two notches. Then one more.
He takes a deep, contented breath, softly smiling as he gazes at the boy who has just barely regained his ability to properly draw a breath.
Shit. There is nothing better than this.
“We’ll go again now.”
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