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Matthew "Stretch" Wilson

An all-around good guy, if a little silly at times. He has a dark side, though, and when it awakens...

0 · 201 views · located in Earth

a character in “Facility”, as played by UltimAkimbo

Description

Name: Matthew Wilson
Aliases: "Stretch"
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Face Claim: Milo Ventimiglia
Extra physical info: That involves his power, get there in a mo
Power: Able to control and rearrange every atom in his body; can extend or retract his body by his command
Personality: Easygoing, carefree, with a bit of a distaste for violence. Intelligent, but prefers to fool around most of the time. Like I said, distaste for violence, but can often delve into a dangerous darker personality. This side of him is far more sadistic and is unafraid to get violent.
Biography: Matthew Wilson was born an only child to two loving parents, with a relatively stable economic standing. They weren't exactly well-off, but they made ends meet and still had enough to get each other nice gifts every Christmas.
His life continued, and he became a popular kid in school. Matthew would always stand up for anyone who needed him, however; that's just how he was raised. He was very well-liked by everyone, and was voted the Prom King in high school, before leaving for college on an academic scholarship. While in college, he pursued a biomedical sciences degree, and received his AA right on schedule with Valedictorian status, continuing the pattern of excellence right up until his Graduation Day. At his college graduation, however, the Facility Retrieval Squad hacked the loudspeakers and proclaimed that there was a known Powered in the graduation class. Given the option to come anonymously or risk his public dispatching and potential harm to his friends and family, Matthew chose to meet the Squad outside during the evacuation and come willingly.
Stretch has entered the Facility.
Likes (at least 3):
1. People- Matt has always had excellent people skills, and his fondness for people lasts for as long as he can see good in them.
2. Horseplay- He's a clown. He knows when to be serious, but doesn't enjoy it as much as good old-fashioned tomfoolery.
3. Family- Matt would do anything to help those he considers family. This includes both blood relatives and anyone who's lucky enough to come into his inner circle.
Dislikes (at least 3):
1. Violence- He's a pacifist. He'll fight, and win, if he has to. But he hates it.
2. Arrogance- Matt, as "the popular kid", has experienced a lot of arrogant snobs, and he isn't exactly fond of them.
3. Himself- Sometimes, that sadist side will get out. And if it does, he'll never forgive himself for any damage it causes.
Strengths (at least 2):
1. Body Manipulation- Able to change his molecular structure at any point in time. Includes compression, extension, and straight up oddities: He can, feasibly, change his body into a hammer.
2. Intelligence- As a college graduate in the biomedical field, Matt knows the way his body is doing the things it is doing, which offers him greater control. In addition, he is a scientific genius and is more than passable at mathematics.
Weaknesses (at least 2):
1. Ice- his bodily manipulation can be easily stopped in this way. If someone were to force-feed him liquid Nitrogen or some compound of a similar temperature, he would most likely completely freeze.
2. Attachments- While he is more than capable of any sort of combat, Matt's emotional attachments are a distraction to him. Threatening someone he loves is a good way to distract him and potentially get him to surrender.
Fears (at least 1):
Matthew fears total isolation. He hates being alone, and will do anything to avoid it. The thoughts he has while alone terrify him.

So begins...

Matthew "Stretch" Wilson's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Persephone Nyx Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: SETTING Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson Character Portrait: Zilla Levina
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Cells are arranged in long rows consisting of one hundred a line. The first two numbers in an ID is the row number. Odds are for males, evens for females. Row 11 faces row 12, row 13 faces row 14, et cetera. The last two numbers are the cell's placement in that row. For example, cells 1111 and 1211 are directly across from one another. Unless a Powered requires it for the safety of everyone in the Facility, cells are not soundproof. They can be communicated across unless preventative measures are taken. All cells are adaptive. Visibility is a privilege. All cells are able to be moved by a large crane hidden in the shadows over everyone's heads, almost like an elaborate warehouse. The facility is invariably painted bright white and is very very well lit under the level of the lights. Again, this can change depending on the needs of an inmate's keeping.

Meals are given twice daily, sedation by various means whenever the previous dose is half an hour from running out. The most common method is a gas vent in the ceiling. Some Powered require tranq shots or some other method. Unless otherwise required, each cell has a simple cot, sink, shower spigot, and powdered disinfectant dispersal system. Emergency methods are in place for every inmate.

Any polymers used are clear, tintable, and able to be manipulated in a variety of ways. They are insanely resilient, nearly impossible for even a Powered to go through. Any other materials are treated to be more than strong enough to handle what it will receive from any side.

Matthew Wilson's cell is constructed of polymers. It's kept colder than most, but not unbearably so. Emergency measure: A sudden drop in temperature to below freezing and water vapour dispersal.

Roald Hartford's cell is constructed of polymers. It's just large enough to keep any large forms he may shift into contained, if uncomfortably so and to the damage of all interior features. Emergency measure: gas grenades of varying strengths depending on the size of his form.

Wayland Smith has been assigned ID number 1337. His cell is constructed of non-flammable, conductive polymers. Below the floor is a matrix which is able to send up electricity. Emergency measure: Activate said matrix and keep active until cell is able to be moved away.

Persephone Nyx has been assigned ID number 1441. Her cell is constructed of Gypsum boards with Rockwood insulation. Only one side is constructed of polymers, and upon any sort of heating up the cell will begin to take on water. All items inside are flame retardant, scrubs included. A thin film of water is kept on the floor. Emergency measure: Flood cell.

Cassandra Hall has been assigned ID number 1434. Her cell is constructed of polymers and has a thin film of water on the floor. Emergency measure: One shot gas grenade, flood cell.

Zilla Levina has been assigned ID number 2218. Her cell is constructed of insulation coated by conductive polymers, through which a pulsing current runs through. Emergency measure: Tazer, gas grenade.

Welcome to the Facility.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Waking up kind of hurt.
Okay, waking up really hurt...
"God damn, they hit my head hard when they threw me in here, huh?"
As Matt opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the chill in the cell. His recently acquired transformational abilities wouldn't help him at all here, then, he mused silently as he took an account of his surroundings. Walls seem to be made out of some sort of... Polymer, or something. That was prototype technology, though, even for Biomed majors... Why would they use it to hold people captive? He stood shakily, regaining feeling in his body. "Alright, first order of business, figure out why the hell these walls are made from polymer," he muttered, not quite trusting his voice yet. He sauntered over to the wall, running his fingers along it. "Okay, so this seems like it's a bit... Full. No way for me to slip through any cracks in it. That'll be a problem." He could feel the sedative they'd forcefully injected into his system forcing his movements into the sluggish territory. "There's another problem... Can't stretch, can't get out. Th' hell am I supposed to make friends now, huh?" At the silence, he rolled his eyes and raised his voice. "Can anyone hear me? C'mon, I know you're out there!" For the love of God, please, someone be out there...

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Persephone Nyx Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson Character Portrait: Zilla Levina
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Cassandra Hall
"I miss the sky, the rain, the sun...I miss it all."






Image
"Walls, floor, ceiling. Walls, floor, Ceiling. Walls, floor, wall, ceiling, wall, floor." Andy Hall sat in the corner of her cell, number 1434, bare feet shuffling back and forth in the small film of water along the floor. A shiver went through her body, hands tugging through her hair as she moved towards the entrance of the cell, standing to her full height. For two years it had been this same thing every morning, "Walls, floor, ceiling. Walls, floor, ceiling." Her head snapped up as a new voice rung in her ears, eyes flicking around. Most were starting to wake, the sleep cycle was over and it was stimulated to feel like morning, though Andy could never tell.

"Walls, floor, ceiling...Voice. Voice. New voice..." There was a small pause as her dilated eyes blinked back to normal. "Hello?" Andy called out hesitantly. She started twitching again, pupils going wide as she continued her muttering. "Walls, floor, ceiling. Walls, floor, Ceiling. Walls, floor, wall, ceiling, wall, floor." Her stomach growled in hunger and she could feel the fluidity of her muscles starting to return as her sleep tranquilizers started to wear off. This feeling of returned control made her feel wonderfully back in control, though it wouldn't be long until a personnel came and gave her another sedative.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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He heard the screams in the cell beside him, and snapped awake. Someone else was definitely here, and it seemed like they weren't exactly happy about the arrangements, either. He moved quickly over to the wall nearest to the noise. The screams sounded male, that much he could gather. But... These were screams of panic. This guy was freaking out.

"Hey!" He yelled over the other man's screaming. After he got the other's attention, he lowered his voice considerably. "Hey, man, it... It's alright, it'll be alright. Eventually. We'll..." C'mon, Matt, think. What does the guy need to hear? What would you need to hear? "We'll survive, right? Can't be that hard. Find a way to escape, maybe. They can't keep us here forever, right?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Cassandra Hall
"I miss the sky, the rain, the sun...I miss it all."






Image
Andy's head perked up as she heard yelling from down the hall, pressing her hand against the polymer wall, banging on it slightly as she scratched at the creases, looking around wildly to try and pin point the voices she had heard. First one and then another, both unfamiliar. Actually, she had heard one before, but it was fairly new, not like her voice. It had been here for 730 days, 24 months, 2 full years. "He-help! Someone...Help! Get me out of here! Walls! Floor! Ceiling! Walls! Floor! Ceiling!" Andy screamed. The yelling continued, voices swimming around her, scents, emotions, bodies. [color=#006891"Stop! Stop! Stop!"[/color] She covered her ears with her hands as she yelled at the people talking. The cold water was seeping from the floor and into her bones, making her shake uncontrollably. Another bad side effect of the medication wearing off, she could feel everything, nothing was numbed or blanked away. The world was now a vivid and frightening place to Andy. The sound of a slot opening made her shriek, jumping back with cat like reflexes to land on the balls of her feet on the mattress of her bed. A man dressed in white set a tray down on the floor through the slot, closing it once it was on the watery ground. "Eat up." The man chuckled, continuing on with a cart of other trays with food and medication. Crawling forward on hands and feet she approached the tray, bottom lip quivering as she sat down on the wet floor, putting the plate on her lap as she used shaky fingers to pick up the pills and place them on her tongue, swallowing painfully.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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He woke early again today. Calm amber colored eyes letting off a soft glow in the blackness, woke up before the lights again he noted. Getting lazily out of his cot, his joints creaking with a metallic grind and working his way through his routine. Bathing, if it could be called that, consist of rubbing the body with disinfecting powder, and rinsing it off. He checked himself in the reflective surface of the window, something he got for 'good behavior”. They didn't change my face while I slept at least. He thought with a wry grin, rubbing at his ash colored hair.

There were no guards in the cell blocks themselves as far as he knew. Really, there was no need. Each and every cell was tailor made to keep the prisoner within contained. It had been disheartening for him when he'd first been caged, what was it, he wondered eyeing the small scratches on the frame of his cot, and counting. Fourteen hundred and seventy five days ago? Damn, time flies. Now however it didn't bother him. Nothing in this world is perfect, there would be a flaw, a mistake someday, and he'd be ready and waiting to exploit it.

Some yelling farther off into one of the other cell blocks shocked him from his thoughts. New prisoner he supposed, sounds like about five or six halls away, in the nineteen hundreds. He tried to feel sympathy, but honestly they were all in this together. No one person had a monopoly on misery, he should know. He'd seen people come and go, but the routine stayed the same, keep your head down, and do as you're told, and you'll be alright.

“Hello.” He heard, right across the hall, a young womens voice. He groaned, don't be a screamer please. “They're too far away to hear you.” He muttered quietly, waiting for the announcement he knew to be coming soon, one he could recite by memory he'd heard it so many times.

More screaming, a different voice this time, and pounding on the walls, thankfully in the same cell block as the first voice, and not in the one he had to live in. Call him cold if you like, but his motto was be calm, be courteous, and maybe they wouldn't dissect you because you're creating too much trouble.

As he had these thoughts, another noise interrupted his thought process. Wheels, and footsteps. “Chow time.” He spoke aloud with a vicious grin, this place was so predictable, everything happened exactly the same way everyday.

He watched the man dressed in white scrubs pushing a cart laden with food and sedatives. He recognized him, same guy that fed them in the morning everyday, average looking and in decent shape, he was as nondescript as they came. He stopped at cell fourteen, thirty four, and slid the food in, eliciting a shriek from the cells occupant.

He made his way methodically down the rest of the hall, same as everyday, before finally reaching his. Wayland watched him through the window as he slid his card to unlock the feed slot, and slid his tray through onto the little table within.

“Much obliged.” He said politely with a nod. Wayland was ready to eat and return to waiting, but the voice of the man stopped him. “Pills first.” Unsurprising, he thought, as he picked up the two pills and shoved them in his mouth, and promptly swallowed them without a fuss. Feeling them turn to ash as soon as they reached his stomach. Sedatives didn't really work on him, his ah, unique physiology burning out foreign substances before they could take effect, but he humored them anyway, acting like they had some minor affect. The man seemed satisfied by him swaying in place slightly, and “woozily” heading to his cot to eat.

“Same time tomorrow?” He asked the back of the man as he dug into his decidedly bland meal, all but the metal shavings in the meat turning to ash as he swallowed it, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but a grin on his face. He was ignored of course, they weren't here to socialize.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson Character Portrait: Zilla Levina
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Panic, terror, fear, pain, anguish, memories he didn't want, surroundings of captivity. He was an animal in a cage. A very small, very frightening cage. The young man didn't know why he was here. All he knew was that he needed out. Though he was breathing fast, he was suffocating on his own anxiety. It was as if there was no oxygen. Tiny space, no air, no breathing. Too little air to scream, to speak, to live. Yet he did anyway. He begged for help as loud as he was able, slamming hit after hit against tinted walls. They sounded thick. They sounded stifling. Get help, get out, get free, don't breathe, don't speak, breathe, scream and bellow for help, go, run, escape the unknown area.

Yet somehow, he was able to register a voice from the other side of his prison. It was a lifeline. It was safety. Ro's breath caught in his throat, cutting off his shrieks to send him stumbling to the wall it came from. He pressed his palms desperately against it, tried to force it down with his will alone. Leaning on it kept him standing. His knees wouldn't have supported his weight if he hadn't. As it was, everything was faint. His ears still rang with stubborn alarm bells. His head swam with the adrenaline fear had given him. All he was consciously aware of was terror and the voice on the other side of this wall. The sedating gas hissing into his cell escaped all notice.

"P-Please, I dunnae know where I am," bubbled Roald's voice, far softer now. It was foreign even to the student in this situation. It was too loud and sudden. Yet is was the only way he would be able to communicate with this saviour phantom. "I'm jus' a student, I attend Edinburgh Napier University, major in cinematography, I'm no one, nothin' special, please, wh-why'm I here?!"

A startled yelp tore from him again at a beep from the wall to his left, followed by a resounding shout of "Quiet.". It was enough to send him sliding to the ground. Nonetheless, he clung to this one special wall the best he could, shaky hands making sure his lifeline was still there. Anything could come from that sound... yet all that materialised was a tray with food, pills, and a plastic cup of water. "Meds," barked a voice from outside, but Ro couldn't bring himself to leave his current spot. He didn't take any medication other than vitamins. There was nothing wrong with him. Just a student. Just a student. No one special. Nothing special at all.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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The screaming was animalistic, something reminiscent of the time that one of Matt's friends had needed to put his new cat into a kennel. This was far more panicked, however... The walls were thin enough that the other man could easily be heard, and his voice was downright chilling. They were also thin enough that Matt could feel the way the other man nearly crashed into the wall, causing him to take a step back. However, as the voice became softer, he could detect a... Was that a Scottish accent? Huh.

"Alright, it seems like..." The American sighed. This was not what he wanted to do with his life. Although it kinda seemed like he didn't have a choice anymore... "It seems like this place is equipped to deal with people who're a bit... Unnatural. Like me, I... Stretch. Really well. And they've set up my room so that there's no way for me to escape, even using my, erm, stretchiness." His face fell when he heard that his newest conversation partner was taken from college. "Damn. They took you out of college too? Not exactly the nicest people, here, are they? I got taken at my freakin' graduation, of all things..." He sighed. "You didn't do anything to net yourself a prison sentence? 'Cuz if so, that'll make two of us. This place seems... Well, it seems really shady." A prison well-enough equipped to have a special cell made with the exact materials to properly remove any supernatural abilities from the equation? "Something's definitely up with this place..."

He heard the (presumably) younger man yelp again, and heard him slide to the ground, going silent as well. It was deafening, yes, but now he could hear the sound of... Some sort of gas entering his room? The hissing sound continued, and after a couple seconds he heard footsteps outside his room as well. A bang on... Huh. That wasn't a door, but to his left, a... Something opened, and a plate of food was slid in. "Meds," The benefactor drawled intimidatingly, before slamming the door behind him. "Well, as I was gonna say before we were so rudely interrupted, what's your name?" Better to calm this guy down, help him as best he could from this damn cell...

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Roald clung to the wall as the surprisingly human voice across the wall spoke to him. His chest flickered in and out, rustling the scrubs which now clung to his sweaty form. It was around this time that some more basic things became apparent. For one, this one wall was particularly chilly. He could feel the coolness against his palms and shoulder, the side of his face pressed against it. Ro really didn't care. He wanted to be as close to that voice as he could. He wanted something to listen to.

He was American, that much was obvious. And he was male. At least he sounded male. Roald shifted as silently as he could to bring his trembling knees to his chest. Listening was easy, it was something he could do. Listening was a hold on reality that as of these past few minutes he had none of. So, he shut his eyes to block as much of it out as he could. When his conversation partner stopped talking, Ro did the same with breathing. Thankfully, it was a brief pause before he resumed again. His breaths began to even slightly, despite being shaky and faint.

"No... I've never gotten inta any trouble. Jus'... I-I keep to m'self most o' the time... Certainly n-never... never committed any felonies..." He took as deep a breath as he was able, held it for three seconds, then blew it out. Something he'd learned over the years and tended to slip his mind. It did help. More than usual, actually. Made him even more lightheaded. "So're... you a gymnast? With the, th'stretchin' thing?" His voice remained soft, tentative.

Then a voice boomed overhead. Attacking cell walls. Ro's heart stopped, along with his thought process, as those panicked moments replayed in his head of trying to punch his way out. Punishment... A light whimper. It was addressed specifically to him.

"R-Roald... Roald Hartford..." he whispered.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Scared was right; this guy was absolutely terrified. He had every reason to be, though. Normal guy, pretty good life from the sounds of it, and all of a sudden he's whacked over the head and brought here. What a wonderful world, right? He seemed to be calming down, though, which was always good... Perhaps they could find themselves a way out of here after all.

"Well, like I said that makes two of us. But..." He paused, just for a second, and tried to think of a way to phrase his next statement. "No, I'm not exactly a gymnast. At all, I mean. I'm a biomedical sciences major, the stretching, it's something I recently acquired. They, uh... They captured me because of my elasticity. It's something... I shouldn't be able to do." A huff; enough beating around the bush already. "I'm paranormal. I can stretch my body in ways that it should be impossible to. That's why I'm in here, because I've got this goddamn thing to worry about on top of everything." He made sure to keep his voice from sounding too aggressive, but he was really quite aggravated regarding his newfound 'gift'. Couldn't he have at least graduated first?

The announcement came through, way too loud to miss. Attacking cell walls, huh? Yeah, whoever did that... Wait. But he had heard thumping from the room across. Was it... Him? Powerful guy when he's in a panic.

Roald Hartford, huh? Good, strong Scottish name, that's for sure. "Matthew Wilson. You can call me Matthew, or Matt, or Stretch, whichever you'd prefer."

Setting

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Though the announcement roiled up his fear again, his newfound and invisible companion served to continue to calm him. For some reason having someone to listen to allowed him to imagine he wasn't here. Back in the real world, Ro was often the one whom a friend would ring late at night with some sort of problem. They'd meet over coffee or a burger, no matter what the time, and work things out. He was known to be the rational one, the one who could listen to anything, no matter how long it took. Those who knew Ro knew the value of what he took the time to say.

That is, when he was in a rational situation, which this certainly wasn't. When panicked they would phone just to talk him down. The instances were rare, but tense on all accounts. This, by far, was the worst one yet, and he couldn't exactly contact anyone. Except that voice which he tried to press against. That voice with no face attached.

But what it said made no sense. Roald opened his eyes to slits in confusion. Something impossible? Wasn't this asylum impossible enough? It was likely a nightmare... a really very vivid nightmare, but the most logical solution. Paranormality, again, was something from one of his shoots. Sounded like something Vaughn would try to talk him into doing the screenplay and shooting for. He was all into comic book things.

Then something he said became glaringly apparent.

They captured me because of my elasticity.That's why I'm in here.

Another spike of panic. "B-But I cannae do that," Ro protested, hysteria beginning to creep back into his voice. "I'm j-just a regular bloke, my main worry was i-if I'd make th'bloody train on time! I'm not... elastic, or stretchy, or whatever tha hell! I'm-- I..." The man tapered off under a choked sound of anguish. None of this made any sense. At least, not until something regular came up. A name. He could do that. Matthew Wilson. He chose to ignore the nickname. Matt Wilson, Matthew Wilson, Wilson Matthew, Wilson Matt. He routed it to memory, shut his eyes again, and shivered his way further into a lanky ball of scrubs, skin, and hair against the cell wall.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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The faceless man on the other side of the wall- Roald, Matt reminded himself, He's got a name, and it'd be good of me to remember it- began to panic when he heard what the almost-graduate had to say about his abnormality, and Matt sighed. This was why he was uncomfortable with telling anyone, panic wasn't something he wanted to incite, he hated causing negative emotion in others who definitely didn't need it-

But that was enough self-pity, there was a person that needed help and he could help. Or, he reasoned internally, at least I can try. "Roald. Do you mind if I call you Roald, buddy? Listen, man, I had the exact same problems. I was only ever worried if I'd make it to class on time, if I'd be able to convince Jane to finally go out on a date today, if I would finish my project in time, if I would get pranked by my idiot friends on my way to class-"

His voice cut off as the gravity of the situation hit him. And now I'm stuck in a fucking CELL- No, he needed to stay strong, this guy- Roald, his new cell-buddy, he needed him to stay calm about this. He composed himself, taking a deep breath before continuing to try and placate the Scot.

"... And now I'm stuck here, man, just like you. But we'll find a way out, alright? Find our friends, let everyone know we're okay... Hopefully, eventually things'll go back to normal, and we can rest easy, with our families." His voice shook slightly as he remembered his family. What would they think? God, I hope they're alright... "And everything'll go back to normal. I'll graduate, you can go back into college, this... This'll be over."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Valen "The Shade" King Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson Character Portrait: Zilla Levina
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Roald didn't dare to move away from the voice, not even after the revelation that the American was impossible. Fantasy or not, he was here and he was speaking to the young man. As he went on, Ro tried to learn about him. He sounded like some people Roald knew from his own school. A couple of his own friends. Hell, he could relate with a few of those problems. He'd done more than a couple all night shoots just before a project was due.

Something dawned on him. It was desperate, but maybe it was true? He had friends who could fake accents, and there were lots of sets available that he hadn't seen yet. Hell, maybe the man across from him had given him the biggest hint of all with the idea of pranking. An uneasy breath blew from barely parted lips. "If this is a joke, it's really no' funny. I want ta go see my Dad, alright? I dunnae have money to buy another ticket. I'm no' in any fraternity, nor am I interested in--"

Then came the bellow from far off. Further than was possible for any contained set on campus. Another. Then a scream of the purest agony he had ever heard. Roald's eyes misted over with the crushing realisation that this was no prank. This was very, very real, and that was no sound of a simple broken arm. That man, woman, child, maybe even animal, might have just died. Then another shriek. The Scot broke. He let out a bubbly whimper and clung to the wall as the tears started. He was terrified. More than he ever had been.

"M-Matthew, I dunnae want ta die, I-I wan-- I want ta go home," he breathed desperately. "I jus' want ta see my Dad, I j-jus'... I... want ta go home, I dunna-- I'm no' ready ta die..."

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Matt's face fell. The guy thought he was one of his friends, playing a prank on him. Honestly, the would-be graduate wished with all his heart that was the case. That... Sounded so much better than this shithole they'd found themselves. So much better.

"No, Roald, this isn't a prank. I'm not the type to play pranks on people, and this would be fucked up, even if I was. I wish it was, though. I wish this was just some big fucking prank, and I could go home again. But I'm stuck here, just the same as you. I-"

What he was tryin to say was cut off, however, by the racket that came from further down the hall. That screech, that wasn't something easily pulled out of someone. Something happened, something big, and it caused someone great pain. Not good... This place may be more a torture cell than a prison, then, or some sort of experimental laboratory... He may be some sort of experiment, before long.

The thought frightened him, to put it bluntly.

His focus returned to hear the Scot's plea for life, for normalcy, and he reminded himself of his current goal. "Listen, Ro, I don't want to die either, okay? We'll- we've got to find some way out of here, and we'll survive, alright? You'll see your dad again, I'll- see my dad again..." His voice trailed off as his mind conjured up the image of his father's compassionate and caring gaze, the feeling of a paternal embrace, a reminder that he was a gift to everyone who met him, a joking push as they competed with each other... "Yeah, we'll see them. We have to. We won't die, not yet."

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Roald sobbed silently against the cold wall, as curled in on himself as he possibly could be. He shouldn't have taken that walk. If he hadn't, perhaps he'd be with his dad right now. He might not be trapped cowering in a cell with his only companion being a voice he couldn't see the source of. A source which claimed to be impossibly elastic, of all things. Ro couldn't shake the thought that, if that was why Matt was here, something might be wrong with him. Something as equally impossible. The thought scared him just as much as the slowly solidifying reality that he was trapped here with the screams of others and oppressive walls.

Unfortunately, that thought became real, as well.

Roald's breath hitched after a sharp grunt as a lance of searing pain zinged up his spine. His teary eyes snapped open in surprise. Was this what happened to the screamer? Another lance, more insistent, and he was on his side grappling for a hold on the wall again with a sobbing cry. "M-Matthew?!" he pleaded. "M-M--" Another exclamation and an arched back. This time, it didn't stop at just his spine, it moved through his arms and legs, into his swimming head. "God, Matthew, what's happen-ning?" He grasped at the white wall for all he was worth, careful not to "attack" it. Fresh tears sprang to his eyes, not just from fear now, but agony.

He said we wouldn't die. Not yet. I can't die yet. Not yet, no!

Another shot of excruciating pain, another shout, progressively more terrified and louder. They were speeding up.

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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The sobs broke the older man's heart. Alone, with only a disembodied voice for a companion, someone who had nothing wrong with him (or, at least, so he claimed) was stuck in a cell for no good reason, separated from his family and his life. The assholes in charge of this place had some questions to answer, that was for sure... But that wouldn't matter until they found a way to escape-

He became alert at the initial interrogative, the exclamations of pain causing his heart rate to quicken. This wasn't supposed to happen, was he dying, or was he breaking? Why? "Roald, what- what's going on? Tell me what's going on, man. Are you-" cut off by an exclamation of pain. Well, obviously he wasn't alright, so there's a question answered... "God, man, what's happening?!" He could only hear the pain, the way the screams seemed to speed up, but why? What was going on?

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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"Matthew!" Roald screamed long and loud, back arching in the curl of agony that grasped him. He could hardly breathe. Everything hurt now to a point where he couldn't feel anything but pure pain. The second the tsunami faded away, he tried to stammer out as much as he could through rasping breaths. "I dunnae know, I-I-I du--" a sharp grunt, "E-Everythin's hot an' sharp an' j-ju--" He broke off under a fresh shriek.

But this time, it didn't sound human. Had his ears not set about ringing again, he might have noticed. Instead, he dragged in what breath he could while he was able, just to send it out again in a strangled... whine. Not the whines from before. Something far more animalistic, almost canine in nature under the pain saturating it.

Darkness began to cloud the edges of Ro's vision. He tried to stave it off, but the pain refused to subside. It was as if his own body was shifting about. Delirium. He was losing it. He was already going crazy from the pain alone, so it seemed. Breathing became harder still and the room, though it bucked and turned, seemed to lose its colour. Roald tried to shout his companion's name again, but all that emitted was an agonized howl from longer jaws than before. He couldn't form the word. God help him.

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Oh, God.

He's a shapeshifter. He's a shapeshifter, and it's a painful change. He could hear the bones cracking, rearranging, the snapping sound overtaking even the screaming of the poor Scot. But...

Wolf. He... He was a wolf. He turned into a goddamn wolf, howling and all. Shit. Dogs had superior hearing, didn't they? The howling wouldn't be a nice addition to the pain that the shapeshifter had felt, that's for sure... It didn't seem like there was any way for him to help, either. FUCK!!! What was he supposed to do now?

"Ro- Roald, buddy, just keep calm, alright? Try and- just try and focus on changing back. C'mon, man, don't go dark on me now." I can't handle this alone...

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Ma-Matthew? God, ye're so loud, wh-- I... You sound... different... Everything's loud... And it smells sharp. Wh... How can...

A series of growling, undulating whines. Everything hurt so much. How could it hurt this much, and how... He could smell the sharp cleanliness of the room, the warmth of his own body, and... He could smell Matt. The American smelled warm, too. But how could something smell warm? Hell, how could he smell a person?! In all honesty, he would have been far more panicked had he been more coherent under the stabbing of burning spikes all over his body. At least, that's what it felt like.

He heard voices everywhere, a squeaking wheel on the cart continuing away, the unmistakable whir of a camera changing angles, the hum of electricity, tapping fingers, shifting clothing from across the wall he now faced.

His mind ached with the further flood of new information. He could feel himself on the border of passing out. He couldn't do that. Not now, not when Matt smelled so afraid, not in this new place. Ah. So he could smell fear, too. In fact, this place reeked of it. Cold, dark, something that curled in the nostrils into something that made him want to wrinkle away from the smell. Yet at the same time, something foreign in the side of his mind wanted to chase whatever smelled like that. Fear meant food.

... What?

Matthew's voice dragged him back from that place, that other voice which he'd never heard before and said such awful wonderful things about the stench of terror. Roald. He was Roald. He was Roald buddy. He was supposed to keep calm. Easy, when one didn't have the energy to be anything else. But changing back? He hadn't changed at all, had he?

God, Matt, I'm so tired... I hurt so much, please... I dunnae want ta die, but... if this keeps up... What're ye talking about, I dunnae understand...

More piercing whines of pain and confusion. They hurt his ears, so he pinned them back against his skull. Where was that sound even coming from? Something was off, but he was in too much excruciating pain to figure out what it was.

That pain wasn't helped when a shock from the floor jolted through his arm. He yelped weakly, but was too far into shock to move. Another with the same result. What in God's name was happening?

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Shit, it seemed the room Roald was in was made with him in mind, too. "Roald, man, just- just keep calm, okay? Try and keep calm." The whimpers tug at his heartstrings, but he had to stay strong.

He began to ramble in a calming tone, allowing the words to flow out of his mouth."Dude, I think- it sounds like you've turned into a wolf. Or some sort of big dog, I don't know. This is..." He shook his head. "This is crazy. I know. But think about it. I mean, they grabbed you for no good reason, from a normal life, and threw you in here. You had to have done something- to have had something- that made you a target to them..." He sighed. "Just like me."

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Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Persephone Nyx Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Thomas Mullen Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: Valen "The Shade" King Character Portrait: SETTING Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Valen King's torment is about to worsen. With the higher dose holding, the cameras click on to show the red, cracked skin of Valen in the sun. The image shows only due to shaded lenses. Between the intense sunlight and floodlight beneath (to ensure no shadow), it's somewhat difficult to see, but clear enough. The angle shown is one of his hips up, a focus in one corner of the screen being the masked and shaved head of the inmate. His wrists are shackled far above his head on the slim table, exposing tender sides, shivering from the giggles he's wracked with on occasion from between clenched teeth. For the first time in several hours of torment, a spritz of water is put into the mask, just so the others can see him struggle for it. The staff laugh and jeer from the sides, but their faces and voices don't carry to the cameras. They're centered on the maddening chuckles of the inmate. This plays in every cell, the audio over the loudspeakers.

A man comes into the room, midnight hair resembling his before it was shaved, wearing a surgical mask and one glove covered in slim tassels. He stands over the inmate for a moment before barely upping the dosage of happy gas. He then sets to work. The tassels on the glove are gently skimmed over Valen's sides, forcing his traumatized skin to ripple with the spasms of muscles underneath. At first, it's not much, but after so much pain with lack of touch, the tickles quickly increase in severity. They flicker over cracks in his flesh, spreading the sensation while he has no chance to defend himself from it. His desperate squirms are for naught except to cause the splits to set about bleeding and discharging pus in various areas over his body. The areas around the shackles are hit particularly hard, where he may have hope to press the tickles away (quickly crushed by the true lack of movement he's allowed). He has no choice but to writhe as the glove trails inch by maddening inch from hip to underarm.

All the while, the happy gas courses through his system. Chuckles before spread to insane laughter, cutting off oxygen and furthering his need to thrash about. He bleeds harder. He's defenseless. His sides, belly, inner legs, the bottoms of his feet are all tickled without mercy. Halfway through, he receives another spritz of blessed water. It will be impossible to catch with his distraction. His lips will be unable to close around it before it evaporates. A shame, seeing as how he just lost a load of the precious fluid onto the table. The scientist glances at the inmate's soaked through briefs and directs a camera to show the spreading puddle running down his shivering legs. He laughs something about a "filthy beast, unable to control his own bladder and happy to piss on himself" before continuing. Oxygen becomes a luxury. One he can't afford. It suddenly becomes very apparent how slim his chances are of survival for the next few minutes.

The laughter increases in its maddening severity as the inmate desperately bucks against his bonds. He can hardly move, and all it manages to do is cause him far further damage. Blood runs freely about his bonds, trickling down his sides and joints, about the mask on his face and the straps cutting into his traumatised skin. His scalp is hardly distinguishable as such from the burns streaking down it, same as his face. Tears and discharge mix with blood as Valen's scarred lips begin to pale under the sunburn beginning to blacken them. He's suffocating. The laughter is now far between, though his body still shows the signs of it. The brief moments he can laugh in are choked through with mirthful pleads for mercy. They're indistinguishable through his tightened jaw and the choking guffaws.

He fights harder, gripped with natural panic as he realises he's dying. The harder he struggles for air, the more of the gas he sucks in. Soon he makes no sound at all, though his lips are peeled back in a fierce grin. Dying, but overjoyed on top of terror. That sort of conflict would tear apart anyone's mind. Everything is tensed, bleeding, and raw. No more air is entering his system. The scientist notices the silence under the tears of amusement from the staff. Many are doubled over or patting others on the back. The inmate's skin twitches and quivers, overstimulated, and now without the oxygen needed. Hell, it needs more than usual with the excruciating torment it's been subjected to. With a hiss of irritation, he lowers the dose to where it was before. Were it not for the locks he would have cracked open the mask for a split second. Instead, he improvises. Taking off the glove, he gingerly soaks it through with the inmate's urine, walks around the table and presses it to Valen's face. It's still warm, and the acid only causes further bleeding, but after a few slaps to the eyes and scalp with it, breath begins to return. Disappointed that he can't logically continue, the man leaves. The cameras continue to roll, focused on the three liquids running down the inmate's face and his insane smile. One minute later, they click off.

Let this serve as a warning: Do not bite the hand that feeds you. 1926 is less than one day into its punishment. It has earned three. If it dies, it's its own fault for disobeying. We only want the best for you, but we will not hesitate to bring order to this environment. That being said...

Thomas Mullen's cell returns to normal light as the wailing fades away. He is given a small cup of extra food for good behaviour during this time.

Matthew Wilson's cell warms a few degrees.

Cassandra Hall's cell returns to full clarity in the front as if nothing happened. However, the front of her cell now displays her ID in large block letters.


...

Scruffy Tommings's cell increases in brightness by 50% with a 20% increase in sedatives.

Zilla Levina's cell is treated the same way.


... good behaviour is rewarded. Disobedience is punished.

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The crane dropped off Wayland Smith's cell somewhere far different than expected. Instead of the transition station, the cube, now tinted on his side so that he may not see the entire facility or the route taken, is brought to a large room with a regular metal table with six chairs around it. The table is obviously not one for examinations. As soon as the inmate's room was set securely on the ground, the walls cleared to reveal the space. Several minutes passed before a door on the far side opened and a tall man wearing an immaculate suit entered. He had blond hair which was short everywhere but a strip just off the center. A curtain of it hung straight over one eye, rippling with each paced step of his Oxfords. His hands were clasped behind his back, gloved and firm. He was obviously very at ease.

Slowly, he made his way to the table and slid into a chair. His elbows rested on the table and his fingers folded before his lips. He sat there for nearly ten minutes, simply inspecting the inmate before him, before he finally spoke.

"What's your name, Thirteen-Thirty-Seven? Or do you remember it?" His voice was soft, soothing, almost like a tenor lullaby. His head tilted amiably, shifting the hair away from one bright blue eye. "Unless of course you'd rather I use that address."

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Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Valen "The Shade" King Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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A wolf. Or a big dog.

If Roald weren't in such excruciating pain he would have laughed.

Matthew... That's almost as ridiculous as being elastic, he tried to say with some mirth, but yet again some sort of undulating whine drowned him out. His tongue felt so heavy, anyway, likely wouldn't have been distinguishable from garbled gibberish. It was as if he were still on fire, but those flames were slowly being put out. This bloke honestly believed that he was some sort of superhero... Was he really in an asylum? He wasn't crazy, he knew he wasn't, and what sort of asylum had polymer walls and tormented screams? Not to mention no doors.

His train of thought was cut off by the loudspeaker and a source of hazy light at the top of his vision (still skewed, somehow). He could barely make out the top of a picture. Some sort of video. The gray mass was shifting in time with the little giggles drilling through his ears. God, why was everything so loud?

But it only got worse. The picture shifted to where he could see some of what was actually happening. He heard everything, sharp and distorted as it was with the whine of electric whirring hammering his eardrums. Horror didn't begin to describe what coursed through him. Coupled with the pain, the terror, and the attack on his mind from that nagging voice to his right, Roald finally drifted into blissful darkness.

Thank you...