Prisoner 374215

In a rectangular light, the thin cracks in the wall spread like spider webs.Observing the pattern of cracks is also a way of pastime at night, effective and lasting.They disappeared when the day-cycle light was on, but their sharp silhouettes reappeared when the single night-cycle light shone through the small window high on his wall.

The gap...is the black hole through which the universe opens.Once upon a time they opened their black maws and unleashed a beast that devoured all that was light.

The electronic lock rattled.Scar walked through the door, made sure it was locked, and sat down by the farthest wall.Well, it's bedtime.It can also be said that when the scar came, he should be able to go to sleep with peace of mind.It wasn't that he believed in scars more than any other prison guard, but this man's memory had become a nightly hypnotic.The daily cycle means confusion and fear, often followed by a new round of extreme pain.In his new cell, however, the night cycle had become a regular and perfectly predictable time, a time for sorting out and analyzing old and new wounds.

The jingle and clang of prison guards checking the locks, interspersed with the thump of boots in the empty hallway, was a final round of harassment.After that, everything would be quiet, save for the sound of his own breathing, and the occasional sob or moan from the back of the corridor.

The figure wobbled a moment, indicating that Scar had adjusted his sidearm to a comfortable position, and rested one booted ankle on the other knee.He does this every night, constantly adjusting, until he is in a state of complete stillness and alertness.

374215 does not know the man's name.Prison guards would not reveal their names, so he gave them nicknames.The one who has the coordinates of the Milky Way tattooed on his knuckles is called an astronaut.Scar's nickname stems from the plasma burn on the left side of his cheek, and in the right lighting he looks like an ancient Earth tiger.

He wouldn't share those little nicknames with the guards.Prisoners will only speak to them if they are cornered.The result of the conversation is usually a beating, and the severity depends on how much time and energy the prison guards have left. 374215 has not been hit for weeks.

He wants to talk to Scar, the idea is impulsive and crazy.He wouldn't say anything provocative or insulting, he just wanted to say, hello, how's your day?Yes, I think I can sleep now.It wasn't as painful as yesterday.Good night.If the face with the raised chin hadn't been so cold, maybe he would have talked to him.If only he knew why the scars came every night... But curiosity only belonged to those who deserved to live.

He huddled tightly into a ball for warmth, and turned his attention back to the wall. The twisted cracks on the water-painted wall ① made him gradually relax and fall asleep.

Note ①: Plasticrete: a water-based acrylic resin material with good fire resistance, mostly used in the fields of architecture and sculpture.

***

The day cycle light was quickly pressed on.The supply pack fell on a tray across the room with a loud clang, a sign that another day of fear was about to begin.He lay still and wondered if he could walk the short distance this morning.Most mornings, even with a crawler, he would force himself across.If he couldn't get the package back in five minutes, they'd send a doctor over.The thought made him shiver, and he stretched his hands under his body, pushing himself up from the bare mattress.

Great to be able to sit up.He hasn't fainted yet.He put his foot on the edge of the bed, and a knife-like pain climbed up his left buttock, but it was just an old wound.He's worried about the newer ones on his chest.He slowed himself down for a few seconds, breathing carefully.As soon as he stood up, he bent his left leg.He tried to grab hold of the bed frame as best he could, but failed and fell to the ground.

He glanced up at Scar.The scar was like the wall behind him, solid and indifferent, without even lifting his eyelids.Any other prison guard would definitely laugh.The Astros would probably kick him and throw him a bunch of nasty insults.Scar never responded, neither contempt nor pity. 374215 is grateful for his poised demeanor.It took the third attempt before he managed to stand up, dragging his left leg, and staggered towards the tray.He retrieved the package, the tray hummed and swayed, retreated into the wall and disappeared, the transmission port was immediately closed without leaving a single crack.For the first few days in the cell, this had puzzled him.Now, he no longer feels it.

The journey back to the bed seemed too long.He slipped along the wall and sat on the edge of his scar—he would never do that with anyone else.Then he tore open a corner of the package.This morning's supplement is green.Was it green from the day before?He can't remember.He began to squeeze the nutrients out little by little, a small dollop at a time, and licked them off the torn corner.Sometimes, if he eats too fast, he throws it up.There will be no replacement packages.If he wastes this bag, it will be gone today and he will have to wait until the next morning to get another bag.Once upon a time, he also found this kind of thing difficult to swallow.Nutrients should not taste good, but now, he can no longer seem to judge the taste.Since you have to eat such a pitiful amount of food every day, it is better to let your hands and brain wander and ignore the specific feelings.

After squeezing out whatever residue he could, he inverts the package, opening the tip on the underside of the water balloon.This water has never been enough to drink.He is always thirsty.Sometimes another water balloon is delivered at night, but only on days when he returns from the tile house.

He tore up the empty packing bag and stuffed it into the tiny garbage hole in the wall.The biofibres are all sucked from there, most likely recycled.The food wrapper can do what he can't, can leave this prison by itself, shed the old existence and be reborn into something new.Several faces emerged from memory, several of them dead when he last saw them.Do they have names after death?He couldn't look directly at the faces.The tears would start to coalesce and his chest would hurt so badly.He still had to use up all his remaining strength to get back to bed, and he couldn't waste it now.

Fear pierced through him as Scar bent to grab his elbow.What did I do?Please, don't!He jerked his head up, and for the first time, his eyes met Scar's indifferent blue eyes.There was neither anger in those eyes, nor the ugly longing that ordinary people have before they strike. 374215 blinked at the unchanging face, unable to think or respond.Then Scar stands up, lifts him up as easily as if he weighs less than a sock, and grabs him firmly, but not brutally. 374215 just stared at him stupidly and in astonishment, and the scar pushed him gently towards the bed.His expression didn't change at all.Not even a sign of opening his mouth.

This is probably going to be a new experiment invented by the jailer for him. 374215's heart pounded at the thought.New gadgets bring more pain, new types of pain.He would think... and remember in this hunch.He didn't want either of them.He took a staggering step towards the bed, out of Scar's grip.

The poor-quality bed frame wobbled as he climbed onto the mattress, and even though he was shivering and curled up in a corner, the bed frame continued to make muffled noises.

***

A sharp command told him to take a deep breath, and he gasped brokenly, trembling.He just kept screaming.Maybe screaming for hours, maybe just for a while.He was strapped to the cold table, but the brutal whipping was the real safeguard compared to restraint.The mask over his nose and mouth probably only delivered oxygen, but if he told himself there was painkiller in it, his body might relax a bit.

In the bright light, the tiles shimmer in indigo, the official blue of the Andalusian company.Perhaps he had once liked the color.Now this is the color of pain, the color of shame.There were no forced tasks, no reflex tests to judge his obedience.They stopped asking him questions a long time ago.Today was a purely chemical test, with some hot goo injected into his veins, his every squirm, every scream recorded and measured.

It all seems to be over now.They stopped after he started vomiting blood.New drugs poured into his system, and cold replaced the fire that had ravaged every cell.His empty bladder, which hadn't handled so much fluid in a long time, filled up quickly, and soon his blood-stained gray prison uniform was stained with urine.After the doctors had drained all the useless bodily fluids, the straps came loose.

"We're done here. Go and clean up the test subject."

Two guards pulled him away from the table.One was probably an astronaut, and the other was probably low-sighted, but his vision was still blurred with tears, so he wasn't sure.They didn't try to force him to walk.They knew he couldn't walk.So they each grabbed him by the upper arm and dragged him all the way, his bare feet dragging across the ground.

In the back shower of the tiled house, they tore off his filthy prison uniform and threw him under the scalding spray.Someone else might have screamed.The heated disinfectant hit his cold skin, like the pain that was tightly concentrated on him, but today's horror is over, he knows this pain, he can quantify the degree of pain.He was familiar with the pain and knew that it would all end.

He was shaking so badly after cleaning that he could hardly breathe, and it took him several tries to put on the clean shorts that the guards had thrown him.Then there is no clean prison uniform.Maybe not anymore.

The guy he guessed was an astronaut kicked him a few times, tried to get him to stand up and walk on his own, but getting on all fours was his limit.If necessary, he could crawl back into the cell, but the guards got impatient and dragged him across again.

They put him on the bed and left him there, wet from the shower, shivering from whatever the doctor had pumped inside him.The day cycle lights still blinded his cell.He had wild expectations, that it was night now and the scars were waiting for him.Expectations, of any kind, are dangerous.

The little lamp in his heart went out, burned to splintered paper by the flaming grenade.

***

"Shh, shh, you have to stop. Breathe slowly, I have to take a reading."

He was in the middle of sobbing, when he was frightened by Scar's voice and hiccupped painfully.He didn't hear his night guard enter the cell or come to his bed.Scar held some sort of testing device by his head, and when he could breathe smoothly, Scar pressed the cold metal against 374215's ear.

He exhaled tremblingly.When did he start crying?The rush of memories overwhelmed his waking consciousness, and he was lost in position and time.He feared that he might disappear into his own nightmares, unable to return to the surface.But that may have already happened.No one could check reality with him, no messages from the outside world.Perhaps on some planet the sun is shining and the wind is rustling the vegetation.At the end of the war, everything was destroyed, and the only thing left were these corridors and cells, and the blue brick room deep in the hall.

Scar said to the comms wire hanging from his ear, "Hypothermia, severe tachycardia, blood pressure below acceptable levels. Sir, any instructions?"

His voice was rasp like a rasp.It's likely that the same battle that disfigured his scarred face also destroyed his vocal cords.He was listening to the voice in his ears, his brows furrowed together sullenly.

One night, he talked and had expressions.The world is tilted a few more degrees.

Before his shift was over, Scar did something he'd never done before.He walked out of the room. 374215 blinked in shock, his weary brain aching with pain, unable to comprehend what this meant.He no longer trembled, and the cold hugged him extremely cruelly.The pain occupied most of his body, and he even lost the ability to distinguish and analyze.One day those doctors will put more pressure on his body than he can handle.Death would be a blessing, a welcome reprieve.So far, however, they have refused to let him die.

There was a clang in his drawer, presumably his extra water balloon.He let out a shaky sigh with difficulty.Tonight, he no longer had the illusion of reaching it before it disappeared.After those worst experiments, he would be too sick to drink the extra water, but he was able to save it and stash it in his mattress to drink later when he needed it.He drank the last one a few days ago.

He must have passed out, for the scar suddenly reappeared beside him.He took a cube and shook it out into a person-long mat, the reflective fabric confirming that it was a warm mat.After he spread the mattress flat on the bed, he reached under 374215 and lifted him onto the mattress effortlessly.

warm.Oh...so warm.He stretched out, allowing more of the surface of his skin to draw energy from the gentle heat, and he buried his face in the rough surface.He poked one eye over the mat and watched Scar do two odd things.He tapped 374215 on the shoulder.Then he went to the drawer and retrieved the water polo, and put it on the bed, next to his caretaker.

He suddenly understood why Scar had to stay in his cell all night and all night.medical observer.He had been deteriorating for the past few months, and there was no way the doctors wouldn't let a subject die suddenly in a dream. .Scar's previous job was probably a field doctor, or a fleet doctor.His instructions must have been to observe and to intervene only as a last resort.

Those interventions just now were unavoidable.Then I am indeed going to die.

Broad hands turned him around, straightening his legs so he could lie flat on his back.Scar felt his chest and abdomen with his fingertips. "Are they using numerical pain scales on you?"

It was a real question, and he should have answered it. "Yes," he whispered.

"How bad is it?"

"Six...nine!" 374215 cried out, and when Scar's fingers pressed against the left side of his abdominal cavity, he curled up warily.

"Okay." Scar's hand changed from poking to soothing, patting on his side long and comfortingly, "Relax, relax."

"Please," the heart beat heavily on the ribs, 374215 mustered up the courage to spit out lies to him, to this person who showed him a moment of kindness, "don't heal the catalyst?"

The extreme excruciating pain their catalysts inflict is even worse than most torture and experimental tests.But please don't use them... He risked a beating, or insurance.

Scar just shook his head: "No. Your heart isn't strong enough right now. You're going to die."

This answer is quite humane, as if I am still a person. 374215 could only nod blankly as an answer.He wished he could speak freely, communicate with this man, ask him questions, but as soon as he spoke to anyone, panic flooded his body.He kind of knew it was a conditioned reflex.But when I think about it, I don't mind anymore.

Carefully, Scar tucked an arm under him, and lifted him into a half-lying position so that he could bring the water polo to 374215's lips.He took a few tentative sips, pretty sure his stomach wouldn't accept the gift, but the night was punctuated with many small miracles.The water stayed, and a gentle tiredness crept over his hands and feet.Drugged.

"Helps with rest. Just go to sleep."

374215 curled up, arms under head.He couldn't speak anymore, but he pointed to Scar's chair by the door.

"I'll be here. Don't worry."