HERO

38 / Game On!

Thomas looked at the tray without picking it up or moving towards it.

What if it was just a joke? He'd go for it and it would be either empty, with just a few crumbs remaining, or would disappear once he'd reached for it? He was going to die anyway, so why bother feeding the condemned?

His stomach told him to stop being pathetic and just eat. He listened to it. It was the only other thing making a sound, so he supposed he should take its advice. He crouched by the tray and lifted the domed covering.

Steak, mashed potato and asparagus. Three things he loved. How did they know that? Thomas guessed his father must have told them when he'd thrown his only son to the wolves.

"Thanks, Dad," he said to the air.

There was no knife to cut up the steak or asparagus, and only a spoon to use for the mash. They wanted to make sure he was unable to make a weapon. Given that the spoon, and so probably the knife and fork, was plastic, he doubted he'd be able to do much damage. He certainly couldn't main the steak in any way. He had to resort to using his hands. There was a small square of tissue to serve as a napkin, so he'd at least not need to wipe them on his clothes.

For a second, he thought about resisting and telling them where they could shove the meal. He even opened his mouth to tell them. He didn't go through with it, though. Instead of speaking, he put the steak into his open moth and took a bite. Delicious! The meat was cooked just the way his mother used to make it. The mash, once he'd tasted that, was smooth and the asparagus was still on the crunchy side, not the soggy way his father overcooked most vegetables.

It didn't take long for Thomas to clear the plate. He'd eaten it more like an animal than a child, being suddenly much hungrier than he'd expected. Licking the empty plate clean, he stopped, realising what he was doing. Slowly, he looked around the room again. He had the uneasy feeling he was being watched.

He didn't know why he didn't notice before, but in the top corner, furthest from the door, was a small lump in the smooth plaster of the ceiling. It was like a pimple on the skin of the plaster. One that needed to be popped, but was ignored because of the pain doing so would cause. He put his plate down and stood on the bed to get a closer look. At first look, the pimple appeared to be smooth. Just a bump. That wasn't actually the case, though. Thomas could see a slightly raised circle in the even colour. It moved as he did, rotating to keep him in its sights.

A camera.

Thomas stepped from the bed and stared at the camera, holding back the blink that was becoming more insistent the longer he looked, hoping his attention on it would make his watchers uncomfortable enough to leave him be. It didn't, and he knew, really, it wouldn't. He was there captive. Their laboratory mouse in its cage. It was their job to watch him. They'd want to make sure, if his powers were to present themselves, that they were prepared.

They'd also be watching to make sure he didn't flip out as his mind leaked out from his ears and become a deranged maniac.

Let them look. Let them have their fun. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a show.

Fuck 'em.

He felt he was channelling his inner Bren when he used, either verbally or mentally, profanity. Well, why not? Being the good boy his parents had raised had got him nowhere. Perhaps it was time for him to become rebellious.

The thing was, that wasn't him. He might get the snippet of a quick thrill from the occasional fuck, but it was always short lived and followed by the guilt of a dirty mouth in a clean head.

He laid on the bed, pulling his knees up. The position wasn't quite foetal, but it wasn't far off. He watched the watchers until he fell asleep once more.