Prologue
DRIP…
DRIP…
All he could hear was the constant dripping of water. If he had been a normal human, he would have went crazy from this unintended version of Chinese Water Torture. But he wasn't human, he was—he was—a godforsaken freakin' mutant! Did that about cover it?
DRIP…
DRIP…
He had been separated from the flock a week ago. He had been wounded and had been easy prey for the new flying hybrid Erasers. Of course he hadn't let Max and the others know about his injury, he'd even done his best to shield his thoughts of pain from Angel. Max had told them to separate and then regroup, which they did, but for some reason, most of the Erasers went after him—why? They had never really been that interested in him before; it was always Max they went after. Why the change of plan? Suddenly, at that moment, all the anger he had within him seemed to spring out in his attacks. He no longer cared about his wellbeing. He had been like a caged animal, and God knows how much he hated cages.
DRIP…
DRIP…
Sighing, he thought back to the fight in the sky. Attacking them had been his biggest mistake. He should have just done as Max said and lost them in flight. But he stood and fought, and with the wound to his chest, and the stronger muscle and fortitude of the Erasers, he lost in a heartbeat. By the time he fell from the sky under their battering fists and slashing jaws, he had already lost consciousness from blood loss.
DRIP…
DRIP…
When he had awaked, he had found that the hole in his chest had been patched up, and a large white bandage now covered it. He had thought to himself, Well that's nice, I wonder what other things they did to me while I was under the knife? But that wasn't what made him mad. The room he had awoken in was dark, but his mutant eyes could see fine within it. It was very small, the walls made out of concrete, and the handless, windowless, no-doubt locked door was made of some type of metal, probably titanium. That was when he had found—that he was shackled to the wall. His arms and legs were held in chained-to-the-wall irons, he even had one around his neck that prevented his movement. Those whitecoat bastards… And on top of all that, the shackles were too small, they rubbed and cut into his skin giving him infectious sores. No one came a visited him in this hellhole. They didn't even come to fed him. The water had begun to drip on his head about a day after he had been captured. At first it had been irritating, but after having no food or water for a couple days, it began to become more and more desirable. Leaning his head up; he caught the water in his mouth. He noticed something about it. This was not the usual variety of water; this one was packed with nutrients even a non-mutant tongue could pick up on. It was like the fluid that they used in IVs. So this is the way they planned to keep him alive—drip by torturous drip.
DRIP…
DRIP…
By now, his hair, clothes—his entire body, was soaked in the stuff. It sickened him, yet it was what kept him alive…and he had to stay alive. If just to make these guys furious, he would live. Yet, he also had to do it for the flock—and for Max…
He didn't know what the whitecoats and Jeb wanted from him, but he wouldn't give them the pleasure of getting it. He could not lose his cool, it's what kept him together; in the School, with the flock, and now—he never lost his cool.
DRIP…
DRIP…
He knew Max and the others would be looking for him, just as they had looked for Angel a year ago. He didn't have the strength to try an escape. Already sick and injured, the water-food only gave him enough energy to live. His prison was cold and damp, and even his mutant healing abilities could not totally contend with it. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he would have to wait for Max and the flock. The only thing he could do to help them, was search around with his mind, hoping Angel would pick up on his thoughts.
DRIP…
DRIP…
Yes, he HATED cages; it was his one fear. Whoever had said, "stone walls do not a prison make, nor does iron bars a cage" had never seen this place. It took all he could, to keep from freaking out! But he wouldn't give them that satisfaction. He would stand his ground and keep himself together. His name was Fang, he was 15, and he would again be free. And when that happened, he would stick to his namesake and sink his proverbial "fangs" into every Eraser and whitecoat he met…
DRIP…