The White Wolves

Hurting

Shuri
Something was wrong. I kept seeing Maya when she wasn't there. I knew she wasn't there, every second I knew she's not there and every second it broke my heart. I went to the market with T'Challa and I swear I almost tackled a woman to the ground because her long hair had been dyed white and I thought it was Maya and her wings. The only reason I didn't is because Bucky grabbed me before I could and whispered, "it's not her," while my brother looked concerned. If Maya had been there she would have pointed out that the fact that Bucky knew to say its not her meant he had questioned it himself, I missed her so much. Everyday my brother looked upon me with increasing amount of worry in his eyes, and everyday I realised I didn't care, I just wanted her back.

Maya
Before I could open my mouth to attempt to exculpate myself and defend my trembling body with the only resource I had left to me, words, the guard backed towards the door, stubby finger hovering over the remote in his hands. Instinctively and almost self-consciously, I again wished for my wings to be hidden from his eyes, for they seemed to be scanning me with horror. The door slid open as the guard's eyes widened to indicate that the disappearance of my wings set off several tracks of thought in his brain.

The door shut me off from the rest of the world, shaking having subsided into shivering as I scrambled back to the wall and leaned against it, hoping more than anything else for a mercy that would not come, for the guard to not return and fill my mind with fear. This man wasn't the only person that formed my collective enemy and yet he had skilfully made himself the face of them, the representative of my torture.

I closed my eyes, the agony having sapped every ounce of strength from my body as effectively as a marathon.

***

My eyes snapped open to the warm feeling of recognition, a voice, familiar to my ears. Naturally I associated familiarity with reassurance, for I knew very few voices in this cold place; soon my brain began to run through names, like a finger flipping through the pages of a book. First Shuri, and my heart fell as the voice was distinctly male. Then T'Challa, but again the sound waves gave the illusion of an age greater than his. Bucky, no, the voice was..,. It was English... as English as my own.

Something seemed to click in my brain and the feeling shifted instantly from reassurance to terror. I recognised the voice, but not from what I considered, thanks to their artistic use of a coffin, as the days before my figurative death, before my life became nothing but what they wanted it to be. I remember the voice, connected not to a face but to an action. The action of urging me to fight, fight despite my lack of training and the lack of even a chance I could win.

"What are you hiding from me child?" came the voice, causing my eyes to tighten in their effort to block him out, to pretend he isn't there, isn't going to hurt me, or more accurately over all, get someone else to hurt me. All I could think about was what they might make me do, for it was evident instantly why he was there- the guard had told him of my wings- steal weapons? Hurt those who had moved against whoever these people were? Kill?

The thought of those that moved against these people brought my mind straight to T'Challa and Shuri and this caused dread to spread up my spine like a disease. What would I do if they asked me to kill them? Shuri.

I could refuse, I would refuse, but what power did I have over these people? How could I defy them? If I disobeyed they would throw me on the scrap pile, a blunted sword, and do this to another child, something that chilled me to the bone.

I had been told as many stories as Bucky had dared to account and though he had so obviously omitted details to spare me fear, I knew HYDRA had been able to control him, what if they could control me too?

A sharp voice snapped me back into reality, "answer him, little bird, or I show him," came the voice of the guard, I knew that with the reentry of him into the room brought with it a greater menace, the device that controlled my torture. As a resulting this fact I opened my mouth to comply, fear besting any semblance or resistance I could muster.

I was never given the courtesy of time before agony ripped through my bones once more. With this, practice did not make it any easier to take, not by a long shot.

It hurt just as much, the electricity burned it's way through me, my nerves seeming to be ripped from my body at the agony. My body slipped down the wall as the pain paralysed me, my wings rubbing uncomfortably but not even taking an ounce of my attention away. Opening as if to scream, my mouth's response  was  delayed but all that could be heard was silence and pathetic whimpers. I couldn't control the convulsions of my limbs on the unforgiving stone floor, nor the sweating that lubricated   my goose-bumped skin, my body was out of my control, hardly my own.

Every inch of my body was in pain and I now remember the next few minutes as nothing but a blur of agony. However, etched into my mind quite firmly is how much I wished I could muster the strength to move my mouth and beg.

How I would have begged if I was able. I would have thrown myself at their feet on my knees, ripping the skin inevitably in the process, and given myself up to them completely. But they didn't allow me even that courtesy.

The seconds stretched into lifetimes, and looking back as I do now, there is a considerably large gap in my torture, something I can not entirely complain about , in between its commencement and its aristice. It is quite honesty as if my brain refuses to acknowledge these moments, as if the pain has been stored in the subconscious in a futile attempt to defend my character from becoming completely plable to their will.

When the agony finally ceased I didn't move at first, I like to think it was not out of fear but due to the threat of my torture recommencing but I think that may just be pointless optimism on my part. Suddenly it occurred to me that my feathered limbs, for I could not exactly refer to them as wings when they were still incapable of lifting me from the restraints of the ground, would have been visible to the ominous voice from the moment I began to register pain, that they had elongated my pain for no purpose at all.

Of course, I forgot to factor in their own enjoyment.

"Are you hiding any more from me little bird?" the voice came to my ear, impossibly it was just as calm as what could have been moments or hours ago, I didn't dare look up to meet his eye, I don't think I was even capable of movement still. His use of the guards patronising endearment moved me to answer immediately as I now associated it with the commencement of my electrification. "No," I choked out, my voice sounding hoarse and not at all like my own. To my profound relief when I sheepishly sought to meet the eyes of the still faceless voice, all I could observe was the back of a dark haired head, my guard, and a more- I would be polite but all of my English politeness abandons me when I think of this man- fat and light haired head.

They left me, seemingly, in peace.    

As always in this dastardly place... I was proved wrong. The door caused me to jump as it slid aside, revealing not an easy escape as my mind dared to hope for a second but a wall of almost comically plastic looking shields. Obscured by these crude methods of defence were hulking bodies, their faces covered by slitted balaclava like masks, so it was unclear even whether they were human, let alone distinguish any features. Instinctively, my limbs moved to temporise and scurry away across the floor as best I could with my aching, hurting body.

There was a sharp click.

A long batton extended in the hand of one of the nondescript strangers.

They began to advance towards me.