![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
CHRONOLOGY
E N T R A N C E, 2.11
(solo log)
Laura waited until the hover car was out of earshot, and then slipped out the back door of the house—training, rather than any belief that they wouldn’t see her. She crossed through an unfenced yard and out onto a second street. The neighborhood was quiet, suburban, the kind of place in which not much would be within what most people considered walking distance. There were rows and rows of nearly identical houses on the same postage stamp yards. Palm trees. Sweat and fresh-cut grass. The distant cries of children and dogs.
She shoved her hands into her pockets, let them turn into fists rather than allowing herself to break and run, claws out, at the nearest civilian she could find and demand answers. Avoid attention. Observe your surroundings. Identify vulnerabilities. Her mind ticked off data points about the neighborhood and the few people that she could see as she passed through, filing away for reference, but it was all unconscious, focused on one directive: get as far away from the house as you can. Her thoughts were tangling together, winding over and over themselves, fanning her rage and tension into viciousness and an instinctual need for violence. Pinpricks of metal between her knuckles, drops of blood on her hands. Her fingers clenched tighter, sparking with adrenaline.
She had been tagged. Ripped away from the cold and ice of Weapon X and dumped into Florida’s swollen heat only to wake up, once again, in a lab. Her greeter had been a woman she did not recognize—cheerful, high-voiced—and Laura’s claws had been barely out before her surroundings had abruptly shifted again. The lab had vanished, replaced with soldiers as she was restrained by something she could not see. They had shown her a file—her file. Explained that they knew her and everything she could do. That she had a purpose here. They were giving her a new life. She was special, they said. She would be part of something great.
They had spoken of heroism, and protection, and government, and the good of all, but the details did not matter.
It was always the same thing. She was never wanted for anything else.
But she had relaxed, performed submission. Allowed the soldiers to take her to a car and escort her to a her new address, letting her body slip into the motions that would tell them she was safe, slowed her heart rate until it was even, calm. Pretended. She would wait. She could do nothing while restrained.
It was a short ride. Before even an hour had passed since her abduction they had arrived, released her inside the house—still immobile, bound by whatever held her—and left, filing out one after another. One soldier—female, 35, medicated—had told her that they would be back tomorrow. For now, they would leave her alone. To get accustomed to things, the soldier had added with an almost-smile.
Laura had not smiled back, but she was still and kept her body relaxed. I have submitted, her body said. I am tame. She had told this lie many times. It was easy to pretend again.
She had watched as the soldier left with the others, all of them unworried about leaving her alone. When she heard the car take off, she felt the restraints release as if they had never been. The doors were unlocked—she could go and come as she pleased. There were no guards that she could see. There was no immediately visible surveillance. No one outside. That meant power, but it could also mean over-confidence. Their efficiency indicated that they had done this before. It was a routine. They were almost bored. Bored could mean sloppy.
She was not the first.
She would not be the first to run, either. It did not matter.
The house was behind her. Now she had only to go as far as her captors would allow. Laura’s pace picked up, faster, but not enough to attract attention. She would see how far they would let her pull the chains, where the bars of the cage ended. When they came for her, when she knew, then she could begin to plan.
Someone else might not consider it a cage, or hold to the idea that she was still captive with her captors gone. Someone else might have hope, might think that being alone meant an easy escape, that she was finally free.
Nothing in Laura’s short life had taught her optimism.
(solo log)
Laura waited until the hover car was out of earshot, and then slipped out the back door of the house—training, rather than any belief that they wouldn’t see her. She crossed through an unfenced yard and out onto a second street. The neighborhood was quiet, suburban, the kind of place in which not much would be within what most people considered walking distance. There were rows and rows of nearly identical houses on the same postage stamp yards. Palm trees. Sweat and fresh-cut grass. The distant cries of children and dogs.
She shoved her hands into her pockets, let them turn into fists rather than allowing herself to break and run, claws out, at the nearest civilian she could find and demand answers. Avoid attention. Observe your surroundings. Identify vulnerabilities. Her mind ticked off data points about the neighborhood and the few people that she could see as she passed through, filing away for reference, but it was all unconscious, focused on one directive: get as far away from the house as you can. Her thoughts were tangling together, winding over and over themselves, fanning her rage and tension into viciousness and an instinctual need for violence. Pinpricks of metal between her knuckles, drops of blood on her hands. Her fingers clenched tighter, sparking with adrenaline.
She had been tagged. Ripped away from the cold and ice of Weapon X and dumped into Florida’s swollen heat only to wake up, once again, in a lab. Her greeter had been a woman she did not recognize—cheerful, high-voiced—and Laura’s claws had been barely out before her surroundings had abruptly shifted again. The lab had vanished, replaced with soldiers as she was restrained by something she could not see. They had shown her a file—her file. Explained that they knew her and everything she could do. That she had a purpose here. They were giving her a new life. She was special, they said. She would be part of something great.
They had spoken of heroism, and protection, and government, and the good of all, but the details did not matter.
It was always the same thing. She was never wanted for anything else.
But she had relaxed, performed submission. Allowed the soldiers to take her to a car and escort her to a her new address, letting her body slip into the motions that would tell them she was safe, slowed her heart rate until it was even, calm. Pretended. She would wait. She could do nothing while restrained.
It was a short ride. Before even an hour had passed since her abduction they had arrived, released her inside the house—still immobile, bound by whatever held her—and left, filing out one after another. One soldier—female, 35, medicated—had told her that they would be back tomorrow. For now, they would leave her alone. To get accustomed to things, the soldier had added with an almost-smile.
Laura had not smiled back, but she was still and kept her body relaxed. I have submitted, her body said. I am tame. She had told this lie many times. It was easy to pretend again.
She had watched as the soldier left with the others, all of them unworried about leaving her alone. When she heard the car take off, she felt the restraints release as if they had never been. The doors were unlocked—she could go and come as she pleased. There were no guards that she could see. There was no immediately visible surveillance. No one outside. That meant power, but it could also mean over-confidence. Their efficiency indicated that they had done this before. It was a routine. They were almost bored. Bored could mean sloppy.
She was not the first.
She would not be the first to run, either. It did not matter.
The house was behind her. Now she had only to go as far as her captors would allow. Laura’s pace picked up, faster, but not enough to attract attention. She would see how far they would let her pull the chains, where the bars of the cage ended. When they came for her, when she knew, then she could begin to plan.
Someone else might not consider it a cage, or hold to the idea that she was still captive with her captors gone. Someone else might have hope, might think that being alone meant an easy escape, that she was finally free.
Nothing in Laura’s short life had taught her optimism.