Chapter Text
“Are you… are you following the TV screens?” On and on, he never really stopped talking.
Begging you to stop, begging Easterman for release. Rationalizing with you, doubling back into the psychosis Murkoff gave him as a parting gift. You’ve been undergoing trials for two months. It’s a meaningless line in your head, all the things you’ve done.
From blending a human body while it screams to shoving your hands deep into the chest cavity of writhing cargo, you’ve discovered there’s nothing you won’t do in order to make it to the next day. Even if you have no real understanding of what makes up a day anymore.
(Hours have metastasized into a bleak eternity in Sinyala; the sunless void).
Fellow reagents that surround you appear and vanish just as easily. The voices and faces commingle, recreating one another by association until everyone you encounter is one living entity in different places.
It’s a product of the sleep room. It’s a product of the therapy. Easterman tells you through a tinny speaker that you’re better off being unmade into something all together perfect and impassive. You’re a tool that could be shrouded or left out alone and you would do as you’re told. You would follow that line to the very edge.
“You don’t have to do this. You can stop. You know that, don’t you?” The voice sounds worse as you push your objective further on.
Turning a corner places you in direct line of sight with a grunt. The bigger guy — blind man. He’s throwing his weight forward five feet at a time, stone-like muscle cratering walls where he connects. His strength exhilarates you in a bad way.
You feel your heartbeat in your stomach and bend at the knee, using the man locked in a cage as cover. He rocks backward as a result. The track you steer him down clicks and he groans, splintered voice degrading into labored breathing.
“Someone there?” Chains clink and another wall is nearly broken in half.
You make yourself as still as possible. You’ll wait however long it takes until you’re cleared for movement, understanding that the alternative is untenable; you will not receive a poor grade. It’s a sick game you play with the ex-pops. Whose attention span is longer?
“You don’t wanna do this. I’m — I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please? I’ll do whatever you want.”
The grunt up the hall tilts his head and you can see it in the way his body turns. He makes a noise of interest. Your rig is on cooldown for the next thirty seconds. The bottle in your hand feels slimy considering how sweaty your palms have become.
The snitch bows his head forward. You’re staring at the sack over his head with such intensity you think you could burn a hole right through. If he says anything else you’ll need to find a place to hide — that means more time spent inside Coyle’s prison.
“Please… please… it hurts. I think I’m bleeding on the inside.”
One of your hands comes up to rest on the bar of the cage, close enough to touch him. Each bead of sweat on his bloodied pectorals stands out in stark relief. Lettering they stabbed into his skin looks infected closer up. You can tell it was done by something serrated, an uneven point driving in over and over to leave Murkoff’s horrible brand behind.
SNITCH
He isn’t. A snitch. You’re sure of it. No one inside these trials has done anything worth being mutilated for. You, similarly, have shown no proclivities or preferences in your life toward senseless violence. But there are very few roles on the stage you occupy now. If you’re not pushing the cart, you’re the unlucky shitbird getting fried like chicken.
“Stop talking.” It’s the first thing you’ve said in days. Weeks, potentially.
His head twitches beneath the harsh knitting concealing his features and he begins to shake his head. You listen to him as he breathes more harshly than before for loaded moments. Then, after what you assume is consideration, he nods.
“My...,” he responds, whispering as you had, “my head’s all messed… messed up.”
It’s a sentiment you can relate to, as aggravating as that is. Understanding, empathy, even cursory concern are all stakes on which you’ve seen many other reagents just like yourself fall. Giving the place around you consideration for even a moment will lead to hesitancy. Lagging movement, slow feet — having a conscience turns you into a dead man walking.
The grunt blocking the hall is gone when you glance back up, but you can still hear his heavy chains rattling where they drag. Out of sight is never out of mind in the trials. He’s effectively barricading the first door you need to get through with his gigantic body.
Overhead, harsh blaring echoes through the dilapidated halls of the prison, signaling yet another malicious presence stalking you down. You grit your teeth, eyes rabbiting between carvings in skin and broken tiling up the way.
“Are you… are you…?” His voice cuts through your internal monologue. “Following the TVs?”
You watch his mask, brows furrowed, wondering where the keys you need hide among flesh and bone. It will be the last thing he does, as well as an ultimately unremarkable event in your career at Sinyala. Each primly-presented corpse you find will press him further into an early grave until all you’ll see behind your eyes are cracking, white hot sparks of electricity.
“Yes.” You confess without emotion.
It’s easier to negate his humanity, sparing both of you a face to remember in detail, but solo trials make that harder. You shoulder through your tasks unaffected… until shit hits the fan. Then you’re left staring at the horror you wrought, paralyzed, awaiting a machined voice to flatly command your return to the shuttle.
More than a few times you’ve balled your fists and rubbed your eyes red to stem streaming tears inside the train pod. It’s useless; a useless feeling of guilt embedded deeply in further helplessness at knowing you can’t change either outcome. Either you die or he will. Even if you do die (fail), it’s likely the trial objectives won’t survive past their final debut.
Each ex-pop is more bloodthirsty than the next, and Murkoff is nothing if not a generous host. It will allow its favorites to bloat themselves on whoever remains in their crossfire. You remember the reagents stuck in dog kennels at the orphanage, all too aware that those despotic corners are likely still occupied.
Comparatively, the snitch might be getting off easy. Right? Isn’t he? Electrocution is deemed a humane method of murder by the US government. Good enough for a known criminal, good enough for an unnamed actor. Of course that meant nothing. None of what ran through your head was real. None of it had merit or truth outside this trial. And this trial didn’t exist, either.
“Are you really gonna do this?” He presses you, his agonized breathing filling you up from your feet to your forehead. “I’ll — I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll say whatever you want me to say.”
Your hand slips down to your thigh. “Keep your voice down.”
Your rig clicks, giving you peace of mind to move forward. Back up on your feet, you grab the cart with both hands and push the snitch forward. Instantly, he’s begging and pleading at full volume, shaking his head dramatically side to side.
“No, no, no! Why would you do this? They’re never gonna let you out of here!” Thunderous footsteps pause a few feet shy of you two. “No matter what you do to me. Dummy! Goddamn, hopeless dummy.”
Your lip curls against your better judgement. It’s an obstacle you can’t avoid anymore, so you pause and caress the side of the bag in front of you. It flinches and jars back, working to find distance from you. You use your other hand to frame the other side, cajoling him into place.
“You need to be quiet.” You tell him, aware you have precious seconds to speak. “I can’t help you unless you help me. Okay?”
Your face is so close to the fabric of the bag. You can smell him clearly and it makes you sick. He reeks of psychosis gas, the metal tang distinct above so many other human stains, and it makes you reel in sense memory alone.
You feel his head move in another nod.
“Ain’t you a pretty little thing?” The giant laden with metal has finally found you.
Shocked away from the snitch, you aim your rig and stun the grunt descending on you. It halts him for only a few seconds, but it’ll be more than enough for your temporary escape.
You sprint forward past the checkpoint and slam into the first door you see leading back into Coyle’s labyrinth. Behind you the man strapped down to the cart screams and pleads, each word punctuated by heavy footfalls.
You’ll loop back around. You’ll be forced back to square one, just like every other trial.
Not before you stash up on lock picks, though.
And bottles.
Whatever it takes to wrench the snitch out.