#Electrical Rewire | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

razzle-zazzle · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 04: I see the danger, it's written there in your eyes

Shock + "You in there?"

3220 Words; Rewired AU

TW for isolation, memory loss, experimentation, electrical torture

AO3 ver

This sucks.

Dion glared at the locked door, arms crossed. All of his attempts to force it open had proven futile, leaving him nothing to do but lean against the wall and glare at it.

The room he was in—if it could even be called a room, when there was just barely enough space to lie down—was small, four plain stone walls with a single metal door. There was a single… cot was too generous a word, honestly. It was a slab of metal just barely big enough to lie on, held up by two diagonal metal struts braced against the wall underneath it. There was a drain in the center of the floor; Dion refused to touch it if he could help it. By bracing himself against the walls of the corner, he could climb up high enough to get at the ceiling. But the panel over the single small light refused to budge, no matter how hard Dion tried to pry it off. Spots still danced across his eyes from his efforts.

The only ventilation came in the form of four small slits in the door. There was a slot at the bottom of the door, as well, but the panel covering it wouldn’t budge. If Dion were more resourceful, if he had a better idea of what was going on—

But he wasn’t, and he had no idea. He’d been handling groceries out in town, on his way back to camp—

And then he was in here, in this barren room, with no way out. The jacket he’d gotten for his seventeenth birthday was missing, as was his wallet, pocket knife, and compact. Whoever had taken him and put him here had gone through his pockets, and the knowledge left Dion feeling violated.

But there was nothing he could do about it, and that, more than anything, crawled under his skin like so many wriggly spiders. The inaction grated against him, his leg bouncing in agitation. He needed to move, to get up and do something—

But he couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not until the door opened, or he found out what the hell was going on, or—something, he didn’t know.

This sucked. Dion glared at the door from where he was sitting on the slab.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes, and his vision swam worse than it already was.. He didn’t recognize the voice speaking to him, the words spinning through his head uselessly. He swallowed, but the nausea remained.

Still, he spoke. “Dion Aquato.” Son of Donatella and Augustus Aquato. Eldest of five siblings. Dion Aquato. I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Meals came in through the slot at the bottom of the door—gross. Even if it was on a tray, it was still being slid along a floor that had been exposed to god knew what. Dion didn’t eat, the first few times, fear of poison and disdain for invisible concrete floor grime holding him back.

But the hunger pricked at his stomach. It was impossible to sleep well on the slab or the floor. He needed to keep his strength up however he could, if he ever wanted out of here.

The meals were simple. A plastic spork came on the equally plastic tray. Neither the utensil nor the tray could be used to escape, as far as Dion could tell, so he left them by the slot when he finished. The food was…

He didn’t know how long he’d been in here, but he was already homesick. Truth be told, he’d been homesick the moment he’d finished inspecting the room, but the feeling had only built over time. He missed his mother’s cooking. He missed cooking. He missed food that wasn’t bland unseasoned drivel. He’d had his fill of dry chicken and plain mashed potatoes and sad greens. He wanted to eat food, real food with actual flavor that he wasn’t shoving down his throat just for the nutritional value.

How many days had it been? Three? Four? Dion wondered if his birthday had passed already, if he had turned 18 in this cell, away from his friends and family. It had only been a week off, when he’d found himself in this tiny stone hell.

Ugh. This sucked. The food was awful. He had no idea what he was even here for, or where here even was. He wanted to go home. He wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to figure a way out of this cell.

Dion was clean, at least, his hair hanging loose around his face and on his shoulders. He couldn’t remember when the grease had been rinsed out—but he really didn’t want to think about that. So he didn’t.

“An explanation would be nice.” He grumbled. “Wouldn’t mind some fucking answers.”

The door had no answer for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up to a bright light right in his eyes. Where—

He was lying back on a hard surface, at an angle. There was pressure across his legs and chest. Attempts to move were thwarted—oh. He was strapped down.

Dion turned his head to the side to avoid the light shining down on him, cool metal pressing against his cheek. He scrunched his eyes shut, spots dancing across his vision. His head was pounding—probably because of the light.

He heard footsteps to his left. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

There was a woman standing there with a clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Dion blinked.

Nope, she was still there, still regarding the clipboard in her hand through cat eye glasses. A pen floated over the clipboard.

Dion turned his head to look to the right. The room he was in had… six walls? No, wait, it was eight, wasn’t it? Yeah. Eight. Eight plain white walls that went up to… he couldn’t tell, with the bright light looming above him. He scrunched his eyes shut and turned his head back to his left, opening them as the woman walked over to a shelf taking up three of the walls.

The room gave him an uneasy feeling. The bright light reminded him of dentists; the lady’s labcoat and the sanitized room reminded him of hospitals. There was even a counter back to his right that took up three of the walls, with a sink and cabinets.

A binder floated off the shelf and opened in front of the woman. She flipped through the pages inside for a moment before the binder returned to the shelf.

Dion opened his mouth. He was so done with his stupid little cell, with this bright light searing down into his eyes—but most of all, he was so done with not knowing what the hell was going on. He wanted answers, dammit, so he opened his mouth and spoke.

“What do you want from me?”

The woman’s head snapped around so fast that Dion almost thought it might fall off. She was regarding him, now, and Dion snapped his mouth shut. He felt like a bug under her gaze, like a number on her clipboard that wasn’t what she expected.

She walked over to him, lips pursed.

“At least say something!” His mouth moved before his brain could process what he was saying. Her brow furrowed, and Dion tensed.

“You,” she loomed over him, close enough that he could see the gold of her eyes, “should not be up.” She held something small in her hands, and Dion strained to make out what was surely going to be used to hurt him—

One click. Two clicks.

Dion never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

His head swam. His mouth opened, then closed. He tried again. “Dion Aquato.” Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato I’m an acrobat I’m a brother I’m Dion Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

There were holes in his memory.

Dion almost didn’t notice them, at first. Day and night blurred together in his cell, with nothing to mark the passage of time. How long had he been here? How many days? Had he turned 18, here in this cell, away from his friends and family?

All of his street clothes had been missing when he’d woken up here—he was dressed in a simple shirt and pants made of a rough fabric he couldn’t identify, the light gray seeming to melt into the stone around him.

(But hadn’t he searched his pockets when he’d first woken up here? He remembered them being empty of his things—)

That was the first clue. The second was the collection of plastic sporks in the corner of his room—he was sure he’d put them there, but he couldn’t remember eating that many meals. The third clue was that he still didn’t know how he was clean, despite being in his cell long enough to start to smell.

There were holes in his memory. Once he finally realized this, he realized the danger he was in. Panic spiraled in his brain. What if he forgot everything? What if he forgot his family? His home?

But what could he do? He’d never even left this cell.

(Had he?)

Still, he needed to remember. He thought back to his life outside, to home—

He could remember his mother’s face, at least. Could still remember every member of his family, from his parents to his Nona to his siblings. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Raz. Tala. Queepie. Could remember the circus, the blue and green stripes of the Aquatodome.

He glared reproachfully at the door of his cell. His name was Dionysus Aquato. He was the eldest of five. He was 17—no, he was probably 18 already—and he refused to forget his home and family. He’d die before he let that happen.

“You’re not keeping me here forever.” He whispered. “I’ll get out eventually.”

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up strapped to a table.

There was a bright light overhead. His head swam, a pounding headache behind his eyes. His mouth had that awful taste that it always got when he overslept.

This wasn’t his tent or the caravan, though. This was an octagonal room, the ceiling obscured by the light bearing down on him. There was something familiar about the room, but he couldn’t fathom why.

He turned his head to his left. There was a woman standing there, regarding a binder floating in front of her through cat eye glasses, hair pulled back into a bun. There was someone next to her in… a pantsuit? The woman was wearing a lab coat, which some part of Dion felt was far more appropriate for the sterile setting.

Dion didn’t recognize her, though. But hadn’t he seen her before?

And the guy standing next to her—Dion had never seen them before. But he knew their face. Didn’t he? He didn’t know.

“Why is it conscious?” They asked. It took Dion a moment to realize that they were talking about him. That… that didn’t bode well.

Her lips pursed. “Because I’m investigating a problem.” She pressed something—

Pain! Dion yelped, his body jerking against the straps. It arced up his legs and arms, through his chest, into his head—

Just as quick as it came, it was gone. His shoulders heaved.

A problem. She’d called him a problem. That couldn’t be good.

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Something. He tried to remember, searching his mind—

Another scream was ripped from his throat as a fresh wave of electricity burst through him. He spasmed, the straps pinning him down. His wrists and ankles were starting to ache—were they going to bruise?

The pain left again. Dion’s thoughts chased each other in circles. His head spun. He needed to—he needed to—

Remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Aquato!

His name was Dion Aquato. He was the eldest of four—no, five. He came from the Aquato family circus.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona—

He screamed as another wave of pain rushed through him. The electricity didn’t stop, even as his voice cut out, even as he continued to spasm. His head swam, pain pounding his brain to bits—

All at once, the pain stopped. He shook, and turned towards the pair.

The woman’s binder had fallen to the ground. Her nose had bled, a red smear on her upper lip.

“Well.” She said, “That’s… interesting.”

Dion didn’t have the energy to question it. He needed to remember, anyway. Mom Dad Nona Frazie—

Something clicked. Once, twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

It sounded disappointed in him. He couldn’t fathom why.

“Dion Aquato.” He was answering the question, right? He was Dion Aquato. It was his name, his identity—he was Dion Aquato eldest son acrobat 17 years old Dion Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

The pile of sporks in the corner was gone. If it had ever been there at all—he had probably just imagined it.

He didn’t know when he’d gotten here. Didn’t know how long he’d been here. Had a week passed? Was he 18, now, had he missed his birthday in this stupid little cell?

His old clothes were gone, replaced with a dull blue shirt and pants the same gray as the stone around him. It was weird, to look down at his legs and see nothing but gray, gray like the walls, gray like he was just another fixture in the room, just another setpiece—

(Hadn’t his shirt been gray? Hadn’t he been wearing his street clothes when he first woke up in this cell?)

His head swam. Lights danced behind his vision.

His name was Dion Aquato. He had a family and a home. His name was Dion Aquato.

(Was it?)

He looked at the door. Metal, like the—well, cot was too generous. More like a slab, really—slab sticking out from the wall, held up by diagonal metal struts. Metal, like the ring around his neck.

(He couldn’t remember when it was put on. He couldn’t get it off. Maybe it had always been there.)

“How much longer?” He asked. How much longer would he be stuck in here? He wanted to go home. He wasn’t even sure where home was.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

He came to strapped to a chair. The room he was in was familiar, octagonal-shape tickling some corner of his brain. But every attempt to recall if he had been here before resulted in fog filling his head. But he needed to remember, right?

There was a woman standing at a control panel-like structure to his left, her mouth moving. He couldn’t hear what she was saying through the panel of glass between him and her.

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion Aquato. He was 17 (18? 16?). He didn’t know where he was. Home was Mom Dad Nona Frazie Pooter Tala Queepie, it was blue and green tents and a towering caravan. He needed to remember.

He muttered their names under his breath, pushing at the straps wrapped around his arms and chest. As usual, they refused to yield.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie

Dion Dion Dion my name is Dion my name is Dion

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie—

Pain shot through him, electricity coursing through his body until his head spun. Even when it stopped, the room continued to spin, the bright light above him leaving spots in his vision.

He needed—he needed—

Remember!

His name was Dion Aquato. Home was green and blue and Mom and Dad and Nona and Raz and Queepie—

He was missing something. He needed to remember it.

“Shut up.”

Another bolt of electricity. Another scream that left his throat raw.

He didn’t even realize he’d been muttering. But he needed to remember, he couldn’t shut up, he needed to hold onto everything that he had for as long as he could, needed to hold himself together no matter what. He mumbled their names, his brain struggling through the haze of pain and light dancing behind his eyes. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Tala. Queepie. Mom. Dad. Raz. Tala. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Mom. Dad. Nona—

“I said shut up.” Something clicked—

Dion’s body convulsed against the straps again. His throat hurt too much to scream, the electricity seizing through him.

The electricity stopped. He twitched. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Remember. He needed to remember. Mom. Dad. Frazie. Queepie. Mom. Nona. Raz. Queepie. Dad. Nona. Tala. Mom. Dad. Mom—

“Fine, then. If you can’t shut up, then you won’t speak at all.”

Something clicked. Once. Twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure. “Dion.” That… sounded right.

“Who are you?”

They sounded frustrated. He wasn’t sure why.

“Dion.” He was Dion, wasn’t he?

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Gray walls stared back at him. He tried to remember any place other than this, tried to remember being anywhere but these walls—

Nothing. Just gray.

He knew he had come from somewhere, though. He had a mother and a father out there, somewhere—somewhere that wasn’t here.

But what did his mother’s face even look like? How did her voice sound? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, and she seemed all the less real because of it.

How many siblings did he have? Did he even have siblings at all?

His head hurt. Lights danced behind his eyes. He clutched his face in his hands, massaging his temples. Nausea threatened to spill out of his mouth and onto the floor below. He choked it down.

His name was Dion. He had a mother and a father. He couldn’t remember their faces. He needed to remember.

Did he? He couldn’t remember. His head swam.

He pitched forward, his hands hitting the concrete floor as he fell off the slab. His name was—he was—

He retched.

Shoulders shaking, he leaned back. He rubbed his mouth, not caring about the bile and spit on his arm. He looked at the door.

“I’m—” He needed to remember. His head was swimming. “Where am I?” Who am I?

The door had no answers for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Bright light loomed above him, searing his eyes.

Exhaustion weighed him down more than the straps holding him still. A bitter taste lingered in the back of his throat.

A woman’s voice floated over to him. “Shutdown, Test 24-2.” The light was blinding, he couldn’t see where the voice was coming from—

Pain arced through his limbs. Something in him clicked. His head pounded, pressure like a vice—

Something clattered on the floor.

“Stop now.” The pressure receded at the woman’s voice. He couldn’t fathom why. He was too exhausted to care, his eyes slipping closed. Light danced behind them.

Click.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He had no answer.

“Who are you?”

Why were they asking? He wasn’t anybody.

“Who are you?”

The voice was starting to grate against his head. Nausea danced in his throat.

“Who are you?”

“I—” Who was he? Was he anything?

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes. At once, the answer came to him.