Feathers [Midnightverse]


                                            >This still feels utterly humiliating.

                                            >And it has been miserable to get used to.

                                            >The weight.

                                            >The sensations.

                                            >The movements.

                                            >Maybe the eyes were the worst experiment in terms of... well, potentially being left permanently blind.

                                            >But these wings.

                                            >These stupid fucking wings that were decided would be the next exciting experiment...

                                            >You fucking hate them.

                                            >As usual, you were never asked.

                                            >You weren't told about what was to come.

                                            >You just fell asleep one night...

                                            >...and apparently one day later, you woke up with a new set of limbs.

                                            >These damn people couldn't even be bothered to create a new set of wings – oh no, that would have been too good for you.

                                            >No, you got some pulled from the garbage, dyed to a 'good enough' color...

                                            >Slapped em on you.

                                            >These last... possibly several weeks – that's what it feels like anyway – have been awful trying to figure them out.

                                            >Up until the last few days, it just felt like they had a mind of their own.

                                            >Twitching.

                                            >Flaring out at random.

                                            >Waking you up in the middle of sleep.

                                            >And while they don't feel hefty by any means, you've still had to adjust to their presence now forever tied to your back.

                                            >Your back has been aching, both from the surgery and getting used to them.

                                            >It's finally starting to feel better.

                                            >You've gotten an understanding of how to control the limbs – muscles tied to electronics, wires, actuators...

                                            >It's disgusting to think about.

                                            >You're disgusting.

                                            >A bona-fide fucking freak.

                                            >But it wasn't your choice...

                                            >You don't ever get one.

                                            >The point of all of this?

                                            >Probably flight.

                                            >You want to say torture, but...

                                            >Maybe that's part of it.

                                            >The project manager wants to be rid of you.

                                            >You've overheard him multiple times – and he's said it to your face.

                                            >Apparently the higher-ups think he's doing amazing work – and don't want him to move up from the project.

                                            >After all, who could match his work, his successful experiments?

                                            >By the sounds of it, you were his meal ticket to move up in the company.

                                            >Maybe he still will – but not while you're still breathing and offering a canvas to create a perverted painting.

                                            >At this point, why doesn't he just kill you?

                                            >Wouldn't that be easier?

                                            >You don't know.

                                            >It would be easier for you.

                                            >Probably better off...

                                            >This is your life.

                                            >That's all there is.

                                            >Waking up in a glass room, tests, procedures, pain, recovery, tests, training.

                                            >Is this worth it?

                                            >You don't...

                                            >You don't want this.

                                            >You want...

                                            >Something.

                                            >Something else.

                                            >Death isn't it.

                                            >Footsteps approach down the hall – you hear them well before seeing the culprits behind them.

                                            >You sure it's head jackass.

                                            >You forgot his name.

                                            >You've forced it from your mind at this point.

                                            >He doesn't deserve to be remembered by you.

                                            >You remember his assistant though...

                                            >Johnson.

                                            >He's participating in all of this...

                                            >But he doesn't seem to enjoy it.

                                            >Yet, on it goes.

                                            >Yep, there's bald 'n stocky.

                                            >And his mop-headed assistant.

                                            >"And how are we getting around today?" dickhead asks as he steps up to the door of my room.

                                            "Fucking lovely as always. What do you want?"

                                            >"How's the wing movement coming along?"

                                            "I got em folded away neatly, what do you think?"

                                            >"I'm not looking for attitude, I'm looking for results," he replies, putting his hands on his hips.

                                            >Johnson is scrawling down a few things on a clipboard, occasionally glancing at you.

                                            >He looks uneasy as usual.

                                            >You don't know if it's the callous tones of the discussion today or what.

                                            >Really doesn't matter.

                                            >"Open your wings."

                                            >Ugh.

                                            >Whatever, the sooner you do what he asks, the quicker he will fuck off.

                                            >You give it a brief thought, sort of having to remind yourself how they folded closed...

                                            >They snap open wide, just barely fitting within the confines of your room width-wise.

                                            >"Any pain moving them like that?" Johnson speaks up.

                                            >"Worry about that after we see what she can do, Johnson," Baldy grumbles before turning his attention back to you. "Closed."

                                            "You've already seen them closed."

                                            >"Why do you want to argue?"

                                            "My personal entertainment. And giving you a taste of what I go through."

                                            >"Right, poor you. Living in your own home, given the best medicine and treatment—"

                                            "Which I wouldn't need if you left me the fuck alone."

                                            >"Just close your goddamn wings so we can move on."

                                            >You do so, but make sure to sneer at him in disdain."

                                            >"Good. Have you tried flapping them at all?"

                                            "Yeah, been overjoyed to have em so much and looking forward to my first flight," you Sass.

                                            >"Is that a no, or you can't?"

                                            >Bullshit you can't

                                            >You've been able to complete everything he's ever asked.

                                            >You fucking hate him for it, because you know he wants you to fail.

                                            >He wants a terminal failure.

                                            >But you don't fail at all.

                                            >You won't give him that satisfaction.

                                            >Unfurling your wings again, you give a few short pulses of them up and down.

                                            >The motion sends a twinge of pain through your sides on the first occasion.

                                            >But you grit your teeth and bear it.

                                            >Fuck him.

                                            >You want to make him stuck here longer.

                                            >"Hm, actually looks pretty close to how we engineered the bots," Baldy comments.

                                            >"She's a quick learner, huh?" Johnson suggests.

                                            >"I'm sure it has more to do with the programs stuck in her head. Probably has some memory of how they work without realizing it. Just took some time to reconnect the dots."

                                            "Fuck you. Maybe I'm just determined to succeed to piss you off."

                                            >"Piss me off by making me look good? Think you got some wired crossed there, princess."

                                            >He laughs off your suggestion, uses that godawful name...

                                            >But you see it.

                                            >He knows what you meant.

                                            >You can see his hand clench into a fist, the way he narrows his eyes.

                                            >Two can play at this stupid game.

                                            >You are not a failure.

                                            >You're going to keep succeeding, just to extend his misery.

                                            >Misery loves company.

                                            >You fold away your wings again, feeling an ache where they join into your body.

                                            >That's the first time you've ever tried flapping them with any sort of drive or speed – and your body is letting you know it.

                                            >You need to start working with them more – but when no one is here.

                                            >You want to make progress...

                                            >Slow, agonizing progress.

                                            >You want to keep dragging this on for him.

                                            >You don't know if you can fly...

                                            >You don't have a desire to.

                                            >You hate these fucking things.

                                            >But you'll do it.

                                            >You will fly.

                                            >Learn it little by little.

                                            >Just to succeed.

                                            >And keep him here.

                                            >"Do you have any pain at all?"

                                            >Johnson speaking up breaks you out of your simmering anger.

                                            "Nothing I can't deal with. Doesn't matter anyway."

                                            >"Where is the p—"

                                            "Don't worry about it – I'm not a bitch," you sass, turning and heading back to your bed at the far end of your room before flopping down. "It's fine. I can tolerate it."

                                            >"That's why I don't bother with niceties anymore Johnson. It's not gonna get you anywhere with her," dickhead murmurs to his assistant.

                                            >It's still plenty clear for you to hear.

                                            >You doubt he was trying to keep it quiet meaningfully.

                                            "You never tried being nice, you lying cocksucker."

                                            >"Language."

                                            "You mean the language I got from you?"

                                            >"I think you need some time to yourself until you can drop the fucking attitude," he growls, pointing at you before turning on his heels. "Johnson, come on – we'll get back to her in a bit."

                                            >Johnson looks upon you with a look of pity, but nevertheless needs his boss's call and follows.

                                            >You don't need his pity.

                                            >It's pathetic.

                                            >You're fine, you can handle yourself.

                                            >...you're just sick of this shit.

                                            >But what else is there?

                                            >It's not like you're gonna be able to just throw open this door and walk out of here to...

                                            >...

                                            >You don't know what's out beyond this building.

                                            >Trees, mountains, other buildings – the outside.

                                            >It's a vague concept you understand.

                                            >But you don't know anything about it.

                                            >Not really.

                                            >Hell, even if you could get out of here, what would you do?

                                            >Other than – well, not be a guinea pig...?

                                            >That already sounds better than this.

                                            >You're smart enough, you could probably figure it out.

                                            >You have overheard numerous times from past assistants comments about how quickly you learn and adapt to situations.

                                            >Maybe...

                                            >Maybe it's time to start thinking of something beyond this.

                                            >Doing yourself a favor instead of dealing with this endless pit of hopelessness you sit in.

                                            >With no one in sight, you rise back to your hooves, shuffling over to the door.

                                            >Hm...

                                            >What's inside of this thing that makes it lock...?