The outlines of the skyscrapers blurred and sharpened as her mind fought to cling to consciousness. Sound--traffic several streets over, emergency vehicle sirens, crowd's chatter--went fuzzy. A person--no, the android--stepped into view, peering down at her. She could see the unnatural gleam of its eyes, twitching rapidly this way and that as it took in her condition. Drugged. Beaten. Defeated.
The next thing she knew, her eyes burned against a background of white, white, white, and bright, bright, bright light.
There were... doctors? No. True lucidity evaded her right up until they began their experiments, her torture. The pain was as scalding white as the room and too-radiant light. The scalpels wouldn't pierce her flesh when they first started, so their fourth attempt was far too much pressure--when it cut, it cut deep. She felt the blood and water rushing out and dribbling down her skin. Stunned, assistants nearby took notes. It was in these moments that the world became clear, the fog of the drugs lifted by the sheer pain.
They ignored her screamed pleas, her sobbed begging for them to stop.
The saw was quicker but no less painful. They didn't increase the dosage of the sedative, afraid of killing her and laying waste to their plans. Nor did they give her anything to numb or lessen the pain. They wanted to gauge her pain threshold.
She had her limbs cut open, taken pictures of, samples pulled out... They stitched her up again, but didn't bother to let her heal fully before pushing onward. They just used a different limb, or different section of the same. She tried to reason with them, to lessen the drugs for a few short moments, and she could heal herself. Foolish. They had no reason to know her abilities would not come back in full force so quickly. Of course, they assumed she meant to attack the moment she could use her telekinesis again. Her arguments fell on apathetic ears.
She heard them mutter about plans to see if human sperm would take to her eggs, what her gestation cycle would be like, and whether the offspring could be used for a super-soldier program, auctioned to the highest bidder.
They decided to open her head and poke around her brain, first. To judge where the powers even stemmed from, they said.
One well-aimed prod, along with the help of brain activity imaging, led them to the Balahyan lobe. Her eyes flickered with light for the first time in... weeks? months?... and items in the room jostled seemingly of their own accord. Encouraged, they took one more prod, this time with more voltage, and that was the last auspicious moment of her luck, it seemed. Her power surged, eyes so radiant with light she could feel unfamiliar heat around the rims of her eyelids. The electricity of the entire facility went out. Machines broke. People's limbs haphazardly ripped away from their joints. The room itself turned on its side. A shockwave of force shot out, its epicenter that lobe in her brain, and destroyed the entire facility like an earthquake.
When she came to, she was free of her bonds. She only realized because she was lying on her side on the wall--now the floor, as it were. Her hand weakly came up to her head, bile rising up in her throat as she shakily settled her barely-hinged cranium back over her brain. She reached for that place inside it with her consciousness, seeking to repair the bone and flesh, heal it back to normal. But nothing happened. She didn't feel the telltale tickle of activity in the Balahyan lobe.
Panic rose within her, but she assumed the burst of power must have depleted her reserves of telekinetic energy entirely, and she'd need to rest before she could try again. So instead, she pushed herself up. It took much effort and it was difficult to stand, but she managed to, walking on wobbling legs to the medical staple gun lying upon a pile of rubble. At this point, with everything they'd done to her, stapling her own head back on was nothing.
Her escape was rushed. She didn't look for her clothes or belongings. She looked only for the next room's exit, over and over, until she was finally outside, the wind whipping at the hospital gown around her legs. She didn't dare think to take one of their trucks parked outside; too easy to track down, she thought. No, Vartouhi wandered off into the world, perpendicular to the streets she encountered. Her entire body ached with weariness, but she kept going until she passed out on the outskirts of Seoul, in the greenhouse of a farm.
Sometimes, Vartouhi crosses the threshold of her door and steps out of her shoes, a practiced flick of her wrist enough to swing the door shut behind her, and when she looks up, she freezes. Any thoughts she had been mulling over scatter like spooked birds and leave behind only empty stillness.
A strange series of emotions wash over her, like aggressive ocean waves, knocking her under every time she tries to surface from them.
Awe. It feels surreal to think that she comes back to the same place every day, wakes up in the same bed every morning. She remembers breaking into empty homes and hotel rooms. She remembers sleeping in the subway stations. She remembers the meals that came from the charity of her friends, and the free cups of water in cafes.
Affection. Thinking of all of those people that helped her makes her heart swell.
Loneliness. She remembers the people she cherished that have come and gone.
Guilt. She could have kept in better touch with them.
More guilt. How can she be worried about that, when she should be focused on returning home?
Self-loathing. She knows she’s been dragging her feet. It’s been so long since she felt that urgency that used to carry her out into the world, beating blisters onto her feet from how far she wandered, cramming information into her head until it was so full she had headaches. She knows she could be doing more. She knows nothing she’s doing now is remotely productive to getting off this planet and getting home. It’s not even going to help her find out what’s happening back home.
So why is she here? Why has she fallen into this routine?
And why is she so reluctant to break out of it?
Vartouhi stands there for several minutes as these thoughts circle in her head, like a merry-go-round that never slows down. Finally she gets a grip on it, and blinks away the images in her mind’s eye to focus on the reality in front of her. She takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales sharply. The foot halfway in its slipper slides fully in, and its twin follows suit in the matching slipper. She puts her keys and purse down on the little table by the door and walks further in. She doesn’t go too far; just to the living room, to flop back onto her little couch and stare up at the ceiling.
In some ways, she’s glad she’s learned to force that merry-go-round to stop before her emotions get out of control.
But has she gotten too good at it? Is this why she isn’t doing more to go home? Because it’s too stressful, and she’s gotten too in the habit of stopping stressful trains of thought and blocking them out?
With a groan, she throws an arm over her face and sighs again.
