Chapter Text
He spends more time at the lab than any of the others in the early days, before Spider, before everything. The doctors are all so fascinated with the Sully recombinant, poking and prodding, taking samples of everything and scanning Jake until lights flash before his eyes in dizzyingly swirls, making him answer question after question as they fill their datapads with notes
They tie him down for some of the tests, so he doesn't panic when they buckle leather straps around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the bed. And they use a lot of machines he's never seen in his life, so he doesn't freak out when they wheel one closer.
Jake starts to freak out a little when they fit the gag into his mouth. When they say deep breaths, corporal, with something like amusement in their eyes. When they adjust the straps to tug his legs apart, reaching between his thighs with slick, cold fingers.
His instinct is to scream, fight, kill and tear like he's been learning to do, bathe the crisp white room in shimmering blood. He could do it, he knows he can, he's ripped through stronger restraints than this and he wants to, fuck, wants with the kind of blood-hunger that he usually only feels when he thinks about Sully.
But then he remembers the Colonel. Quaritch had walked him to the labs like he always does, clapped him on the back, pecked him on the lips right in front of everyone. Quaritch had said see you soon, soldier, and he'd been so certain that Jake would stay, that Jake would be good.
So Jake stays. Jake is good. He's good as they push the machine inside him, twin rubber prongs scraping his cunt and asshole raw. He's good when it starts to move, excruciatingly slow and then faster and faster, impact rocking through his body like steel punches, kicks to the ribs, hands holding him down, daddy daddy don't--
He doesn't know when he starts crying. He doesn't know when he starts shaking. He does know that he doesn't scream, doesn't curse, that he lets them stand around and take their fucking notes, lets them talking about how its responses and its heart rate like he can't fucking hear them, like he isn't even there.
He knows he holds on, because he's loyal, because he's good, because he's better at serving than Toruk fucking Makto ever was, he will be, he has to be. He holds on, lets the salt burn his mouth and his body shudder over and over until he's pretty sure he's cumming blood, because Marines hold the line and he's a fucking Marine no matter how they make him prove it.
Jake's only partially conscious when he hears screaming, yelling, sir please you can't be in here. A big blue frame shivering into view, holding a scientist by the collar with one hand while the other waves a pistol, barking orders, threats, fury like the end of the world:
"Shut it down and get him out of there or I swear to fuck--"
When he's carried out of there in Quaritch's arms, Quaritch's voice in his ear, Quaritch's breath warm on his skin, Jake knows he's passed the test, knows that he's a good soldier, a good boy. He's sticky and aching and he's got red smeared over the inside of his mind that will never really go away, but he can still cling to his colonel with everything he's got and know, without a doubt, he's going home.