Discoveries | TMR | Three

2:4

He had never thought that his life could flip so drastically in such a short time.

Had never imagined that he would be kidnapped by Wicked, have to fight for his life, be captured and torn from everyone he holds dearest. Knocked out. Whisked away on an aircraft, have his body and mind forced through so many tests and trials that he no longer has the capacity to count the days he has been here.

Locked up in a prison cell with a bed frame far too small to fit the length of his body and a mattress far too lumpy to rest his now weak and frail bones. With the only source of privacy being a dingy room at the far end of his cell with nothing put a rusty old toilet and sink, his only source of light being a barred window only an inch below the ceiling, and his only source of company being a boy who appears to have no idea just how callous and cruel Wicked are.

Beaten.

Electrocuted.

Nearly broken down to compliance by a corporation that he barely even knew existed until recently.

But life, as this young boy had quickly come to realise, has a funny way of kicking you in the nuts, and now here he is. Sat on the ground with his spine leant on the wall. Toes curled in and wedged by the legs of a bunk bed, listening to the sound of his cell mate whistling a tune he does not recognise, and counting down the minutes until the next batch of guards arrive with their food.

He supposes that there is a reason for it all. Was he far crueller than he had to be? Did he not scavenge as many supplies as he could have? Is it because he was possibly too greedy in the Warehouse? Had he unknowingly starved someone else of food for his own gain and sustenance?

Perhaps he killed one Crank too many out in the Scorch? Or, perhaps it was one person too many?

Travis does not know.

All he knows is that he is here, and all he knows is that Brenda is not.

Not in this wing, anyway. No, in this wing, are all the boys. The 'male subjects', as Wicked prefer to regard them as. Just a number. X27, is his, though he does not know what that means. His bunk mate, Frankie, is C4, and the boys across the hall are E7 and G2.

He does not know their names, for the only source of vision he has to their bunk is a metal hatch that slides open long enough for their meals to be passed through. All he has is Frankie; a short and slender boy with tanned skin and jet black hair whom seems to have nothing better to do than hum stupid melody's and talk about his 'girl', Heather, who he apparently met after arriving here.

"That's 'em comin' now."

A second or two after Frankie's whistled tunes halt and that sentence leaves his lips, Travis' mind is catapulted back into reality. Aggressive footsteps pounding on the ceramic tiles outside his cell is what swiftly follows, and the gruff sound of two men chortling and chanting at the expense of every other 'subject' in the cells. Travis can hear the slamming of metal hatches as they slowly make their way to each cell on the block.

If it were back when he first arrived, the boy would be beside himself with fury. Launched to his feet in a matter of mere seconds and hammering his fists against the door with such brute force the side of his fists would bruise. Screeching about all the trouble these guards where in for when he was found, how they would all be sorry they ever messed with his family, and describe in sharp detail every single way he would end their sad little lives.

If it were when he first arrived, Travis would step back when he heard their boots nearing his door and heard the clinking of metal jangling together as the men fought to figure out which key fit the lock. He would shuffle his feet to the furthest point of the room, and assume a stance to fight when they opened the door to brutally coerce him back into silent compliance. Feet parted on the dirty ground, balled fists raised in front of his face; prepared to endure whatever came his way.