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"You are mistaken to think I am weak."
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December, 1939 Bavaria, Germany
CLICK.
A scuttling noise; a clink of a chain.
Click.
A soft breath; a gun cocking.
Click.
Inhale; exhale.
"Are you done?"
A voice lilting with irritation, vexed by the prospect of being here in this mellow room for the next few hours, all because of a subject's refusal to use the abilities it surely had. But they were all possibilities; thoughts burrowed into the minds of hopeful men. All of this—assumptions, hypotheses, postulations—they were all burdens on his shoulders.
Click.
The lighter in his hand snapped shut.
Before him the subject didn't blink nor flinch. It gazed at him with a contemplative look; a calculative intrigue flicking back and forth between its hazel eyes. It could not move from where it had been tethered, shackled to sit by its wrists and ankles, caged between facets of glass.
It.
That was their first mistake.
Referring to the subject as an 'it' dehumanized it; removed any prospect of the subject retaining a single ounce of intelligence or comprehension. Dehumanization was necessary for the subject to know its place, but perhaps they should've factored the possibility of the subject having far more patience and knowledge than they thought it to have.
"No?" His tone was mocking.
The subject's lips remained sealed.
It didn't move a single muscle; it didn't beg or plead to be released. It continued its incessant staring, frustratingly so. It only moved when they moved it– it only reprieved itself when it was given a space to do so.
Perhaps it was throwing a silent tantrum.
Click.
The lighter flicked open, silver gleaming as he tapped it against the glass.
Click.
The lighter shut as it collided with the surface.
His eyes remained on it; it's eyes remained on him. He didn't feel unnerved by the stare like his colleagues– he was intrigued, curious, the same as the subject before him. That didn't rid himself of the vexation riddling his spine and rubbing at his skull. It was an unpleasant sensation, like an itch on his back.
