Talking- " "
Thinking- ' '
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Chapter 2 – Containment
Darkness.
Not the peaceful kind that comes after a long day — no. This was the heavy, suffocating kind that presses against your chest until you're not even sure if you're breathing. It felt like I'd been shoved underwater and left there, my body sinking into an endless, cold black.
Then… sound.
"Vitals stable. For now."
The voice was cold and clinical. Not Stryker's — no, this one was different — but it carried the same lack of humanity, the same void where compassion should have been.
A sudden jolt ran through me, sharp and biting, like electricity flooding just beneath my skin. My muscles spasmed on instinct, twitching in protest, and a metallic tang filled my mouth — copper, blood… and something chemical, sterile.
I pried my eyes open with effort.
Dim light stung my vision, and steel walls surrounded me — seamless, cold, and without a single scratch, like the place had been built yesterday. Machines hummed with perfect, steady precision, every sound too exact, too controlled.
I wasn't on the table anymore. I was strapped to a stretcher, thick leather bindings holding my wrists and ankles in place. The stretcher glided along a narrow hallway, guided by two soldiers who moved in perfect step. Their rifles were slung across their chests, their faces hidden behind black visors that reflected the harsh white light above us.
My throat burned when I forced out the words. "Where… am I?"
No answer. Just the rhythmic squeak of the wheels on the polished floor and the faint hiss of recycled air from vents overhead.
Then — click, click — the sharp, deliberate sound of polished shoes on metal.
Stryker stepped into view. His pace matched the stretcher's exactly, his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight like we were simply out for an afternoon walk. His gaze swept over me, cold and calculating.
"You survived," he said, his voice almost carrying the weight of a compliment. "Good. I was concerned you'd break too early."
I wanted to snap back — Sorry to disappoint you, you silver-haired psycho — but my mouth was too dry, my voice too weak.
We passed a wall of reinforced glass. I turned my head just enough to see inside… and immediately wished I hadn't.
Tanks. Dozens of them, each one taller than a man, filled with strange, luminescent liquid that gave off a faint glow. Inside… bodies. Pale, limp, and unmoving. Mutants. Their eyes were closed, their limbs suspended like broken marionettes.
One of them twitched. Just barely.
Stryker noticed my stare and smirked. "Subjects ahead of you in the program. Some lasted hours, some days. You'll last longer."
I dragged my gaze away before the sickness climbing my throat could win.
The hallway ended at a massive steel door. It split down the middle with a hiss, revealing a small cell — a narrow metal bed bolted to the floor, a table, and a single camera in the corner, its red light blinking steadily like a heartbeat.
The soldiers shoved me inside. My knees nearly buckled, and I stumbled toward the bed, collapsing onto the thin mattress. The cold metal frame creaked under my weight.
Stryker lingered at the doorway. He leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that it was meant only for me. "Rest. Tomorrow, we test what your body can really do."
The door slid shut with a deep clang that reverberated through the room.
For a long while, I didn't move. I lay there, forcing air into my lungs, each breath chasing away the ache in my limbs. But as the pain dulled, the questions clawed their way in.
How did I even end up here?
The last thing I remembered — clearly remembered — was being in my room, lying on my bed with my phone in hand. I'd been reading a fanfic, the glow of the screen making my eyes heavy. I'd closed them for what I thought would be a short nap… and then I woke up here, in Stryker's nightmare factory.
I rubbed my temples, but the effort only made the dizziness worse. My memories felt wrong. Not just hazy — wrong.
I knew I was seventeen. Black hair. Brown eyes. Average height. Decent build — above-average looks, if I was being generous. My name was Rayan. In a few weeks, I was supposed to be starting my first year of college.
But when I tried to picture my own face… it was like static in my brain. My parents? Just vague silhouettes in the distance. My sister — I knew I had one — but her face slipped away every time I tried to hold onto it. My friends? Only faint echoes of voices, without bodies to match.
It didn't feel like forgetting. It was like someone reached into my head, tore the memories out, and left nothing in their place.
Then the pain hit. A sharp, sudden stab in my skull.
And with it came memories — memories that weren't mine.
A cramped, dim apartment. A boy standing in the corner while his father's shadow loomed over him. "You're a mistake. A curse." His mother stood nearby, silent, eyes downcast. She didn't speak. She didn't defend him.
The boy was maybe eight when his mutation awakened. Older kids cornered him in a narrow alley, their voices spitting venom — "freak," "half-breed." Fear rose in him, thick and suffocating, and then something inside him… snapped. The next thing he knew, the bullies were sprawled on the ground, groaning, eyes wide with terror.
His parents' disgust curdled into fear and hatred. The shouting became daily, the hits routine. By the time he was ten, they threw him out.
He wandered the streets. Hungry. Cold. Forgotten.
At twelve, a black van pulled up beside him. Men in clean uniforms stepped out, speaking in calm, reassuring tones, promising food and shelter. Lies.
He woke in chains.
That was the first time he saw Stryker.
Months of injections, tests, and "training" followed. His body endured more than most, but in the end, it still broke. His final memory was of Stryker's face looking down at him as everything went dark.
The vision snapped away like a rubber band, leaving me gripping the bedframe, chest tight, breath shaky.
So that was the body's original owner. He'd died here. And now I was stuck in his place. This nightmare.
I leaned back against the cold wall, letting the chill seep into my skin. Stryker had called me a mutant. If this was Marvel… which universe was I in?
The X-Men movies? The Logan timeline? Please, not the zombie one. Actually… there were worse. Universes where cosmic gods used Earth like a plaything. Galactus. Thanos. Phoenix. The kind of threats you didn't survive.
I dragged my hands over my face. "Please… don't let it be one of the bad ones."
But in Marvel, "bad ones" was the default.
That's when I noticed it — the faintest tingling in my fingertips.
I lifted my hands. The red marks from the restraints earlier… gone. Not healing. Not scabbed over. Just gone. My skin was smooth, unblemished, as if nothing had touched it at all.
And my heartbeat… louder. Steady. Stronger than before. Like a drum echoing inside my chest.
Whatever Stryker had pumped into me, it was already at work.
Tomorrow, he'd find out what I could do.
And maybe… so would I.
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💎 "Powerstone donations will be used to buy better handcuffs for our MC—uh, I mean, fund further 'scientific research' into his new abilities. Totally safe. Probably." ( •̀ ω •́ )✧