[Oswald jerks awake on the floor of his cell, gasping as his calf immediately threatens to seize up. The pain in his leg was going to wake him sooner than later in this subterranean-damp place. But today, it’s the screaming that does it. He’s still struggling to understand where he is, what’s happening, when a second, jagged cry rings out, cutting through the static in his skull. Jangling him into high-alert.]
‘Monsters! Animals!’
[Oswald swings upright, blinking hard in the dark. His temples throb viciously.]
'Oh god! Oh god, someone help me!!'
[There's a sudden, frantic squealing of skin or rubber over the tiles. Curses and grunts.]
‘They're killing us!!' [The man shouts, over and over, his voice carrying down the hall. Already fading into the distance.] 'They’re going to kill us ALL!!’
[Finally, a door closes.
What follows is the closest thing to silence Oswald has known since Day 2. For the longest minute of his life, it's as if the ward itself is holding its breath. The absence of sound worse, so much worse, somehow, than what came before it.
Then, another door squeals open. And it begins.
Softly, at first. An idle whistling drifting down the corridor. Then the clunk, clunk, clunk of a baton dragged along the bars of every cell it passes, the sound growing louder, closer. Heavy footsteps. The jingle of keys. Then it all stops just outside Oswald’s cell. A face leans in, smirking at him: lantern-jawed and clean shaven, with a busted, crooked nose. A face that could almost be considered handsome anywhere other than here.]
‘Rise and shine - Dr. Strange wants you.’
[A flashlight clicks on, blinding Oswald with its harsh beam. He winces, squinting up at the latest recruit assigned to the ward on Day 3. Daly - a forty-something year old, like most of the security Strange has hired. Blond hair kept short and neat, his ex-military build starting to go to seed under his tactical vest. Funny enough, despite the two-guard-minimum per fifteen inmates, it’s this one Oswald seems to see most often.
Oswald staggers to his feet, swiping his tongue across cracked, sticky-dry lips. Every joint in his body protests the effort it takes to force himself upright.]
Tell him... I want my leg brace. [Oswald says, his voice raw and scraping. Daly barks a laugh.]
‘Want your bottle too?’ [He jeers.] ‘You’re not the one giving orders anymore, Princess. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Or do you need that beaten into your skull?’
[Blood roars behind Oswald’s eye, his vision pulsing at the edges. He lurches forward, hands clenching and unclenching --
And then Daly's baton comes alive with a buzzy-crackle. Oswald freezes, his insides coiling tight.]
‘Oh-ho, just give me one reason, ONE reason to shut that mouth of yours again, you little fucker! Give me one good reason!!'
[The baton crashes over the bars of Oswald's cell - metal on metal – the violence of it driving Oswald backwards. He stumbles into a corner, wide-eyed, his spine flush to the wall.
A long beat passes.]
‘...heh.' [Daly lowers his arm.] 'That's right.’
[A key grates into the lock. Slowly, the barred door groans open just enough to let Oswald out.]
‘Hands where I can see 'em. Let’s go!’
[Breath rattling, Oswald glares up at the man from under his brows, his mouth screwing into a tight line.
Soon, he vows to himself.
Soon.]
* * *
[In the medical bay, Strange greets him with a politician’s politeness and a smile that shows too many teeth.]
‘Ahhhh, Mr. Cobblepot. Welcome. Today marks a significant milestone for us both. A pivotal turning point... not only in your personal development, but in the advancement of human understanding. Even the very evolution of our species.’
[Strange stands with his arms folded behind his back, surrounded by a small throng of nameless, masked faces in lab coats and latex gloves. Oswald’s stomach swoops. His thoughts jump to the electrocautery pen again. The threat of touch-ups looming over his head ever since he was held down, wailing as numbers were etched deep into his trembling flesh. The acrid-sweet stink of singed meat doesn’t hang in the air today. He breathes in a cocktail of bleach and antiseptic instead. It sticks to the back of his throat all the same.
Still smiling, Strange gestures to The Chair.]
‘Please undress and have a seat. It might be a little... cold.’
[Machines hum and blip softly in the background. Oswald stares Strange down, chest rising and falling. The tension in the room is electric.]
...I will submit to your little experiment - [he bites out] - grudgingly. But I demand that my brace is returned to me when you’re done playing mad scientist.
[Over Oswald’s head, Daly shoots a stern look to Strange. But the good doctor only chuckles.]
‘Oswald, Ooooswald...’ [He drawls, with all the patronizing patience of an adult explaining a simple concept to a child. That smile of his lingers just a touch too long before he school his expression into something resembling sympathy or hurt.] ‘I understand your concern.’
[Strange furrows his brow.]
‘Truly, I do. But, very soon, I promise you... you’ll no longer need to rely on such... primitive assistive devices. Now... strip.’
[Oswald’s ears begin to ring. He hates them - all of them - with a black, bubbling hate. Them and their gawking cattle-eyes as he slides his pants down the cut of his hips, cupping himself with a hand. His knees are the first to betray him, quivering. His face burns.]
Happy now? [He spits the question at Strange like a mouthful of venom.
The meaty paw at the back of his neck clamps down, giving him an angry shake.]
‘Watch it,’ [Daly growls into his ear.]
‘Gentlemen, pleeease...’ [Strange lifts a hand, willing peace.] ‘Oswald, this is simply protocol - you know this. And there is nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all adults here, [he casts a glance around at his team] and, I remind you, you have nothing we haven’t already seen. Come. Sit.’
[Fury trembles on the tip of Oswald’s tongue. He chokes it down, stumbling as he's marched to The Chair.
He’s seen it before - always there during the routine humiliations and microaggressions masquerading as medical tests. Another looming threat clenching up his bladder while he strained to squeeze out what little he could manage with an audience. Its presence planting something dangerous in the more desperate parts of their brains: the fragile hope that if they just played along - yes sir, no sir, took their brandings, shut their mouths, spread their legs, and thanked Strange for it - they might avoid The Chair.
But that, like having any kind of choice down here, real choice, was never anything more than an illusion.
The Chair still comes with no name, no explanation. Its solid, Brutalist design - all angles and edges - is a departure from the electrotherapy chair. But the straps explain themselves.
Oswald is pushed into it, skin sticking to the icy metal. He yelps, panicking, as hands, so many hands, swarm him. They wrench his arms apart and buckle them in place, others removing his collar, smoothing electrodes over his chest. A damp cotton ball swipes across his neck.]
‘Five millilitres, sir?’
‘...Yeees. That will do, for now.’
[It isn't until his head is yanked back and pinned - until the needle enters Oswald's view, glinting as it catches the harsh florescent light – that it hits him: a balls-sucking-into-the-abdomen kind of terror. He lets out a high, anxious wheeze, tugging frantically at his wrists.
Strange shushes him gently.]
‘Don't worry, this will all be over soon.’
[Oswald’s lashes flutter, his eye darting from Strange to stranger and back again, desperately searching for an alternative. For anything else.]
‘You will feel... just a little prick.’
[The needle pierces his skin like wet tissue paper. The plunger depresses.
And then it’s Oswald’s turn to scream.]
* * *
[The spasms come first.
Wrenching, full-body chills that make him piss himself. Then comes a nausea so heavy that the whole world swims.
That he doesn’t have to walk back - that he buckles at his first attempt - is a small mercy. While Daly is sent to drag in the next victim, someone else takes over. Clements: a mustachioed giant with a close-cropped afro and the kind of silence that leaves no room for negotiation. It falls to him to dress Oswald and haul him out - which he does, uncomplaining. A few brisk, efficient movements, and Oswald’s drooling, shivering body is slung over his shoulder, bouncing limply with every step.
They reach the cell. Clements dumps him without word and locks up. The jangling of his keys follows him back down the hallway.
The concrete is cool against Oswald’s fevered, aching skin. He doesn’t move. Just lies there, curled in on himself, fighting the urge to vomit with no strength left to claw his way over to the toilet. Ed's not helping. Not with the sounds he’s making: all the gasping and spluttering, and thick, guttural-wet hacking of a man heaving his guts out.]
...gonna k-kill them...
[Oswald forces the words through his chattering teeth, tasting bile. He doesn’t even know if Ed can hear him - or if all he’s doing is muttering fiercely to himself. The ramblings of a man halfway to madness.
no subject
‘Monsters! Animals!’
[Oswald swings upright, blinking hard in the dark. His temples throb viciously.]
'Oh god! Oh god, someone help me!!'
[There's a sudden, frantic squealing of skin or rubber over the tiles. Curses and grunts.]
‘They're killing us!!' [The man shouts, over and over, his voice carrying down the hall. Already fading into the distance.] 'They’re going to kill us ALL!!’
[Finally, a door closes.
What follows is the closest thing to silence Oswald has known since Day 2. For the longest minute of his life, it's as if the ward itself is holding its breath. The absence of sound worse, so much worse, somehow, than what came before it.
Then, another door squeals open. And it begins.
Softly, at first. An idle whistling drifting down the corridor. Then the clunk, clunk, clunk of a baton dragged along the bars of every cell it passes, the sound growing louder, closer. Heavy footsteps. The jingle of keys. Then it all stops just outside Oswald’s cell. A face leans in, smirking at him: lantern-jawed and clean shaven, with a busted, crooked nose. A face that could almost be considered handsome anywhere other than here.]
‘Rise and shine - Dr. Strange wants you.’
[A flashlight clicks on, blinding Oswald with its harsh beam. He winces, squinting up at the latest recruit assigned to the ward on Day 3. Daly - a forty-something year old, like most of the security Strange has hired. Blond hair kept short and neat, his ex-military build starting to go to seed under his tactical vest. Funny enough, despite the two-guard-minimum per fifteen inmates, it’s this one Oswald seems to see most often.
Oswald staggers to his feet, swiping his tongue across cracked, sticky-dry lips. Every joint in his body protests the effort it takes to force himself upright.]
Tell him... I want my leg brace. [Oswald says, his voice raw and scraping. Daly barks a laugh.]
‘Want your bottle too?’ [He jeers.] ‘You’re not the one giving orders anymore, Princess. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Or do you need that beaten into your skull?’
[Blood roars behind Oswald’s eye, his vision pulsing at the edges. He lurches forward, hands clenching and unclenching --
And then Daly's baton comes alive with a buzzy-crackle. Oswald freezes, his insides coiling tight.]
‘Oh-ho, just give me one reason, ONE reason to shut that mouth of yours again, you little fucker! Give me one good reason!!'
[The baton crashes over the bars of Oswald's cell - metal on metal – the violence of it driving Oswald backwards. He stumbles into a corner, wide-eyed, his spine flush to the wall.
A long beat passes.]
‘...heh.' [Daly lowers his arm.] 'That's right.’
[A key grates into the lock. Slowly, the barred door groans open just enough to let Oswald out.]
‘Hands where I can see 'em. Let’s go!’
[Breath rattling, Oswald glares up at the man from under his brows, his mouth screwing into a tight line.
Soon, he vows to himself.
Soon.]
* * *
[In the medical bay, Strange greets him with a politician’s politeness and a smile that shows too many teeth.]
‘Ahhhh, Mr. Cobblepot. Welcome. Today marks a significant milestone for us both. A pivotal turning point... not only in your personal development, but in the advancement of human understanding. Even the very evolution of our species.’
[Strange stands with his arms folded behind his back, surrounded by a small throng of nameless, masked faces in lab coats and latex gloves. Oswald’s stomach swoops. His thoughts jump to the electrocautery pen again. The threat of touch-ups looming over his head ever since he was held down, wailing as numbers were etched deep into his trembling flesh. The acrid-sweet stink of singed meat doesn’t hang in the air today. He breathes in a cocktail of bleach and antiseptic instead. It sticks to the back of his throat all the same.
Still smiling, Strange gestures to The Chair.]
‘Please undress and have a seat. It might be a little... cold.’
[Machines hum and blip softly in the background. Oswald stares Strange down, chest rising and falling. The tension in the room is electric.]
...I will submit to your little experiment - [he bites out] - grudgingly. But I demand that my brace is returned to me when you’re done playing mad scientist.
[Over Oswald’s head, Daly shoots a stern look to Strange. But the good doctor only chuckles.]
‘Oswald, Ooooswald...’ [He drawls, with all the patronizing patience of an adult explaining a simple concept to a child. That smile of his lingers just a touch too long before he school his expression into something resembling sympathy or hurt.] ‘I understand your concern.’
[Strange furrows his brow.]
‘Truly, I do. But, very soon, I promise you... you’ll no longer need to rely on such... primitive assistive devices. Now... strip.’
[Oswald’s ears begin to ring. He hates them - all of them - with a black, bubbling hate. Them and their gawking cattle-eyes as he slides his pants down the cut of his hips, cupping himself with a hand. His knees are the first to betray him, quivering. His face burns.]
Happy now? [He spits the question at Strange like a mouthful of venom.
The meaty paw at the back of his neck clamps down, giving him an angry shake.]
‘Watch it,’ [Daly growls into his ear.]
‘Gentlemen, pleeease...’ [Strange lifts a hand, willing peace.] ‘Oswald, this is simply protocol - you know this. And there is nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all adults here, [he casts a glance around at his team] and, I remind you, you have nothing we haven’t already seen. Come. Sit.’
[Fury trembles on the tip of Oswald’s tongue. He chokes it down, stumbling as he's marched to The Chair.
He’s seen it before - always there during the routine humiliations and microaggressions masquerading as medical tests. Another looming threat clenching up his bladder while he strained to squeeze out what little he could manage with an audience. Its presence planting something dangerous in the more desperate parts of their brains: the fragile hope that if they just played along - yes sir, no sir, took their brandings, shut their mouths, spread their legs, and thanked Strange for it - they might avoid The Chair.
But that, like having any kind of choice down here, real choice, was never anything more than an illusion.
The Chair still comes with no name, no explanation. Its solid, Brutalist design - all angles and edges - is a departure from the electrotherapy chair. But the straps explain themselves.
Oswald is pushed into it, skin sticking to the icy metal. He yelps, panicking, as hands, so many hands, swarm him. They wrench his arms apart and buckle them in place, others removing his collar, smoothing electrodes over his chest. A damp cotton ball swipes across his neck.]
‘Five millilitres, sir?’
‘...Yeees. That will do, for now.’
[It isn't until his head is yanked back and pinned - until the needle enters Oswald's view, glinting as it catches the harsh florescent light – that it hits him: a balls-sucking-into-the-abdomen kind of terror. He lets out a high, anxious wheeze, tugging frantically at his wrists.
Strange shushes him gently.]
‘Don't worry, this will all be over soon.’
[Oswald’s lashes flutter, his eye darting from Strange to stranger and back again, desperately searching for an alternative. For anything else.]
‘You will feel... just a little prick.’
[The needle pierces his skin like wet tissue paper. The plunger depresses.
And then it’s Oswald’s turn to scream.]
* * *
[The spasms come first.
Wrenching, full-body chills that make him piss himself. Then comes a nausea so heavy that the whole world swims.
That he doesn’t have to walk back - that he buckles at his first attempt - is a small mercy.
While Daly is sent to drag in the next victim, someone else takes over. Clements: a mustachioed giant with a close-cropped afro and the kind of silence that leaves no room for negotiation. It falls to him to dress Oswald and haul him out - which he does, uncomplaining. A few brisk, efficient movements, and Oswald’s drooling, shivering body is slung over his shoulder, bouncing limply with every step.
They reach the cell. Clements dumps him without word and locks up. The jangling of his keys follows him back down the hallway.
The concrete is cool against Oswald’s fevered, aching skin. He doesn’t move. Just lies there, curled in on himself, fighting the urge to vomit with no strength left to claw his way over to the toilet. Ed's not helping. Not with the sounds he’s making: all the gasping and spluttering, and thick, guttural-wet hacking of a man heaving his guts out.]
...gonna k-kill them...
[Oswald forces the words through his chattering teeth, tasting bile. He doesn’t even know if Ed can hear him - or if all he’s doing is muttering fiercely to himself. The ramblings of a man halfway to madness.
...I'm gonna kill them all...