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Wayland "Brimstone" Smith

Captive, imprisoned, but watchful, and waiting.

0 · 257 views · located in Earth

a character in “Facility”, as played by NobodiesHiiro

Description

Image
Real name:Wayland Smith
Aliases:Brimstone
Relatives:None-
Alignment:Good
Citizenship:U.S.A
Marital status:Single
Occupation:Prisoner #1337
Education:High-school diploma, instinctual knowledge of metals.

Characteristics:
Age:25
Gender:Male
Height:6'0”
Weight:187lbs(before powers.) 323lbs(now that his muscle and tissue is laced with molten metal.)
Eyes:Hazel(Before powers awakened.)
Hair:Dirty-blond(Before powers awakened.)
Face claim:Jude law
Extra physical info:After his powers came to him his eyes turned a dark amber color. Also, his hair has turned the color of ash. Has a faint, but persistent scent of fire, ash, and molten metal about him. Especially when his powers are in use.

Personality: Quiet, steady, watchful, able to keep his head in most situations, and detach himself enough to keep going. Sarcastic at times, with a viciousness when he or those he cares for are threatened. Likes to think about problems before giving an answer, but unafraid to slap it all together and hope for the best.

Biography: Wayland was born to a woman he never knew, she abandoned him to his grandmother a month after he was born, His father was a lawyer, who had no need for a son, and never had anything to do with him, his grandfather died of old age four years before he was born.

His grandmother lived on the money left by his grandfather, and though it was hard, she made it work for the both of them. She brought him up the best that she knew how. Teaching him manners, and how to treat people how you yourself want to be treated. He never had the newest things, or the best clothes, but he loved his grandmother and saw how she went without for him, and so, never complained.

He was a quiet child. Always keeping his head down, and trying to keep out of trouble, but the values instilled into him by his Grandmother meant he stood up for people, even when it meant getting into a fight. She wasn't happy about that, but understood. He did well in school, averaging B's and planned to go to college to become an engineer after he graduated.

They lived happily, and she saw him graduate high-school, it was a great day for the both of them. Unfortunately, all good thing must come to an end. And on his twenty first birthday, his grandmother passed away in her sleep, at the age of eighty seven. In his grief his power came to him in a rush of pain, fire, and molten metal he passed out, and woke up in a cell. The Facility. Has been in captivity for four years. Almost to the day.

Powers: At first it was just constant pain. Like he was on fire. Red hot vomit, that solidified into a mass of cold metal when cool. Food turning to ash in his stomach, and water evaporating. His eyes, and hair changing over night, and a constant feel of the metal around him, and the instinctual knowledge of every type as soon as he saw it, and maybe, someday, what it could become.

Then, he began to experiment, small things of course. Teeth and nails becoming hard as steel and sharp as a dagger. Breathing out smoke, ash, and super heated air. Carefully disguised as a coughing fit. Discovering he has to eat metal to gain nourishment, and that large amounts can help him heal faster, the new metal effectively filling in the wounds. That he was stronger now, heavier, tougher. That the back of his throat lights up when he uses his powers, and warmth spreads from his core, smoke occasionally curling from his mouth and nostrils. A constant sound of the grating of metal on metal when he moves. What the limits are he doesn't know, he probably won't not as long as they held him in a cell.(Sedatives are burned from his system, usually before they can take effect.)

Likes:
1.Food(Despite not gaining any nutritional value from it, he still enjoys the taste. Even more so now that he doesn't have to worry about fat, or calories.)(His food is delivered with a vial of dense metal shavings to pour over it.)
2.Silence(His youth was spent reading with his grandmother, or listening to classical music, but mostly in comfortable silence.)
3.Parks(open space, trees, happy people. What's not to like?)

Dislikes:
1.Rude people(manners cost us nothing.)
2.Sour cream(Taste disgusting, ugh.)
3.Enclosed spaces.(See fear.)

Strengths:
1.Level headed
2.Patience

Weaknesses:
1.Water(He sinks like a rock. It is extremely difficult, but not impossible for him to swim. His ability to manipulate the metal in his body becomes sluggish when he is submersed in cold water.)
2.Electricity(As his body is almost literally a lightning rod now, his body acts more like a conductor for electricity than ever. He loses control of his powers while charged with electricity, and for a few(3) seconds after.)

Fear:
1.Claustrophobia(fear of small places.)

Containment method: He should be kept in a room made of stone, or other non-flammable, non-metal material. With some way of charging him with electricity.(most likely through the floor.)

So begins...

Wayland "Brimstone" Smith'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

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

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

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith
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Cassandra Hall
"I miss the sky, the rain, the sun...I miss it all."






Image
Andy had scooped runny mashed potatoes onto a spoon, opening her mouth to take a bite when she heard his voice. She dropped her spoon back onto her plate, holding the tray in a white knuckled grip as she turned her head to look out the clear polymer wall of her cell. With eyes narrowed she glared across the hall at the man, if he could be called that, who spoke with the feeder. As far as Andy knew he had been here longer, much longer. He had been here when she had first arrived, the first person she had spoke to. Andy muttered under her breath and picked her spoon back up, cleaning the utensil of the mashed potatoes. It was like this everyday, listening to him try and make conversation with the people who had them locked up, lips puckered 24/7 to kiss ass at any opportunity. Andy couldn't stand him. Finishing her potatoes and gravy covered meat she set the tray down, sliding it across the slick floor to bang against the wall. Crawling off the bed she followed the dry path it had let, though the floor was quickly slicked with water once more. Standing at the door she began muttering again, over and over the same thing. "Walls, floor, ceiling. Walls, floor, ceiling." Her body was in one place and mind in another, staring down to watch the way her head turned in different directions, fingers twitching against the glass, and lips moving as she spoke in rhythm of what her body's eyes were seeing. "Walls, floor, ceiling...Brimstone. Brimstone. Brimstone. Tray. Walls, floor, ceiling." Being in one 6 by 6 cell for two years with no change, no ability to stretch, run, or do anything except pace or sit did things to people. Insane things to people.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Persephone Nyx Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith
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Two bangs drew his attention. His hall mates, he could only see the source of one though, the other he thought may have originated in cell fourteen, forty one. Cassandra he believed her name was. He was pretty sure she didn't like him much, didn't like the way he talked to the feeders, to the Doctors, didn't understand why he did it. Maybe they'd escape someday, maybe they'd get confronted by one of these people, and maybe, just maybe, that person hesitates. Hesitates long enough for him to rip out their throat. The thought made him want to grin, but he didn't. He didn't move, just kept eating, quickly finishing his meal and placing it on the table to be picked up later.

She watched him sometimes too. He could tell, stay in isolation long enough, and you could tell when people were watching. He didn't mind. He watched her too, he watched everyone, and everything. He sighed, smoke billowing from his mouth as he did.

The cell was just big enough for him to lay down and have his feet and head touch both sides. Not big enough to do much of anything, but he did do some light exercise. Crunches, push up, squats, not much else to do. They were essentially animals to these people. He hated them, despised them, but he never let on. He let them become complacent, and someday he'd make them remember why they had to keep a live circuit active in his floor.

“Somethings gotta give someday. Nothing is perfect.”

Setting

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith
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Cassandra Hall
"I miss the sky, the rain, the sun...I miss it all."






Image
“Something's gotta give someday. Nothing is perfect.” Brimstone's voice echoed in Andy's ears, drawing the woman back into her body, head tilting to the side as her eyes focused on the curly haired man. He was right, even if she didn't want to admit it, all humans made mistakes and one day someone here would slip up. Sitting up, balancing on her feet, she looked to the left. Standing she looked to the right and then curled a hand into a fist, knocking on the glass of her cell with her knuckles. "What are we going to do when it gives?" Andy whispered across the hall. If anybody knew every little detail about this place, it was Brimstone, not to mention he could burn through just about everything with a simple blink of his eyes. Andy had a similar ability to break down walls, though it was much more...messier. If Brimstone was able to get out of his cell would he help her? The rest? Or would he leave them all behind and try to escape by himself? Her lip quivered at the though and she tapped the glass with her fingers, running her other hand through her straw colored hair. What if she were to get out? Would she help the others? It was something she had never asked herself before, it made her chew her lip and flick her eyes around the cell blocks. These people, even if behind panes of polymer had grown to be her family and friends. She would do anything possible to free them from this hell hole and hoped they'd do the same for her.

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith
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He stopped his activities when a knock brought his attention back to her cell. She was standing there, lucid as he'd ever seen her and looking right at him. A question in her eyes, and on her lips.

“What are we gonna do when it gives?” Excellent question, he thought. Making eye contact with her, leveling the same intense gaze on her eyes as he had used to study this place for years, now studying her, weighing her.

She ran a hand through her hair as he studied her, her lip quivering, finger tapping the glass, and he knew, knew that he could never leave anyone behind if he got free. It just wasn't in him to abandon these other people to their fate. They were all family now, bonded by agony, and shared suffering. That at least he was sure of. So he answered her question truthfully, voice a raspy whisper, barely carrying to her cell. Whisp of smoke escaping his lips as he talked.

“They want to treat us like animals,” He paused, grinning savagely, confidently, eyes shining with the absolute faith that they would all someday be free, even if he had to tear this place down, stone by stone. “then we'll show them what happens when a whipped dog slips it's chain.” He never once broke eye contact, wanting to see her reaction to his words.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith
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Cassandra Hall
"I miss the sky, the rain, the sun...I miss it all."






Image
"If they want to treat us like animals," Brimstone paused, Andy seeing the Cheshire Cat grin that split his face. The woman smiled back, eyes widening at the way his soft and scratchy voice carried from his cell to hers, inhaling sharply. Her crazed eyes flicked back and forth excitedly as she tapped her finger more forcefully against the glass, keeping in time with the click of the good cart's wheels as it was pushed down the cell block hall. She stopped suddenly, hand pressing against the glass, fingers spread as she looked between them at Brimstone.

The voice boomed overhead, dark and threatening. All inmates are reminded that cell walls are impervious to attempted escape. Continued acting up will be punished. Andy shivered at the sound but didn't break eye contact with Brimstone as smoke whispered out between his lips and nostrils. Ignoring the warning over the loud speaker she laughed slowly as he spoke, finishing his previous sentence. "then we'll show them what's happens when a whipped dog slips it's chain." Andy loved the way his voice empowered her, gave her hope, and made her want to escape even more than before. They would escape, it would take planning, observation, and absolute perfection. If one mistake was made...everybody involved could be killed or worse... Andy shook her head, standing on her tiptoes, fingers curling against the glass, trying to scratch it. "Just give the word and you'll have my support."

Setting

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith
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“Good to know,” He whispered. Seeing her smile, when before she was on the edge of sanity made his heart soar, and he smiled back. A genuine smile not the one he gave the feeders, or the doctors, but the one he hadn't used in a long time. Her hope, steeled his resolve, and bolstered his will.

He stepped up to the clear wall. Laying his forehead flat against its surface. Eyes still fixed on the woman across from him, he allowed his ashen breath to fog against the clear polymer surface. “If we get out of here, I'll do everything in my power to help you and everyone else get back to wherever you belong.”

He held eye contact for a heartbeat longer before returning to his cot to sit, digging a single metallic talon into his cot frame to mark the passing of another day. Off in the distance he could hear something. Yelling, war cries, the sound of something hitting the side of a cell, much harder than was intelligent if you liked your insides un-examined.

He hoped the poor bastard escaped. If not, they wouldn't get another shot. Not if they managed to damage their cell at all. They'd most likely be transferred to an upgraded one, that was twice as secure, and be punished within an inch of their life. Moments later a scream of pure agony started, followed seconds later by another, before both were cut off.

“That's what I thought.” He said, holding his head in his hands, his elbows resting against his knees. A soft hiss of smoke escaping his mouth as the weight of possibly having just heard the death of two inmates settled onto his shoulders. He didn't cry, couldn't, he'd seen and heard it all before. Only the smart survived this place for very long. He hardened his heart and looked up at his hall mate again a sad look in his eyes, and tried to give her a reassuring smile. Now seeing the tint on her cell darkening slightly.

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith
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Cassandra Hall
"I miss the sky, the rain, the sun...I miss it all."






Image
1434, you were given warning not to attack walls. Your next disobedient action will result in two skipped meals, a day on the table, and a week in isolation. Cassandra covered her ears as the loud speaker spoke her number, head pounding at the thought of isolation. The walls of her cell tinted, darkening the box she was trapped within, making it harder to see out of the glass. Above there was a hiss, causing her to look up and scream as she inhaled the noxious air, tears rolling down her face. "No! No! No! Stop! My name is Cassandra! My name is Cassandra!" Andy screamed at the top of her lungs. Her name wasn't 1434! "My name is Cassandra!" The woman cried, sinking to her knees as she leaned against the wall, the sedative gases numbing her ability to stand or move her arms without a lot of effort. She didn't have the mental strength to fight the drugs, she hadn't been that strong since her first week here. Some would say she had been broken, most would agree, but as her eyes went to the corners she looked to Brimstone the one person she could sympathize with, the one person she had put all of her will and trust in...Even if she couldn't stand him, he was an anchor. "Brimstone?" Andy whispered once she had calmed down, voice weak. "Don't let them hurt me...I don't want to die here." A tear rolled down her cheek before her head rolled to the side, the sedatives making her sleepy enough to cause a blackout.

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith
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He shot to his feet the minute she'd begun screaming. Core temperature skyrocketing to the hottest he could ever remember it being, he crossed from his cot to the clear polymer wall separating him from the hall way in three powerful strides, but a quick jolt from the floor made him stop before he'd slammed into the wall. He caught a look at himself in the reflection, smoke and ash heaving from his mouth with each breath, eyes practically glowing in their sockets, and a red glow coming from his throat. It was undoubtedly his history of good behavior, spotless behavior that kept the techs watching from just lighting him up like a Christmas tree where he stood.

“Cassandra! Calm down, Cassandra listen to me, concentrate! You're going to be all right.” He tried to get through to her, but she didn't even seem to notice his voice, as she collapsed to the floor, for one second her eyes locked onto him. “Brimstone?” She said voice weak, freezing where he stood, he listened with rapt attention.

“Don't let them hurt me... I don't want to die here.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, the sight hurt him more than it had any right to, almost making him physically ill, before her head rolled to the side, and she slumped to the floor.

“She's not dead.” He breathed. You know this. Calm the fuck down Wayland it's just the sedatives, just the sedatives. She'll be fine. “Keep your head on.” He breathed, every breath having less smoke in it than the last, until finally he was calm again.

“I won't let anyone hurt you.” He sat on his cot after that watching her unconscious form, thoughts a mess of worry and rage, desperately hanging on to the thin edges of his sanity through shear will power tempered by years of practice.

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: SETTING
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The sound of pneumatic clamps locking on the side of a cell was what woke him. Senses coming on line in a surge of adrenalin as he noted that, no, it was not his cell being prepared for movement.

“What?” He muttered, hearing Cassandra crying, but not registering why, the question on his lips. Before stopping, hearing the sound of footsteps coming up the hall, orderlies. Where are you going? He thought, watching the two men in white coats closely, eyes widening in surprise when they stopped in front of cell 1434, Cassandra's cell.

“This one 1434.” One of the men said, clipboard in hard, checking it going down the list, this one, this one, this one. Like we weren't even people. Like we didn't have names, families, jobs, children, LIVES, that we had been living. He could hear the crane whirring, preparing to move the cell.

'I won't let anyone hurt you.'

His words from earlier tasted of bile in his throat, they had been said with sincerity, with the belief that he could actually prevent them from hurting her, or punishing her if they wanted. He could hear Cassandra crying, begging for them not to take her, pleading, apologizing.

“Damn it.” He grit out through clenched teeth, realizing he'd moved without realizing, that he was already standing, already against the polymer pane separating him from them, forehead pressed against the glass, nails scratching along the surface of the wall making a screeching noise as the steel talons tried for purchase against the polymer. Smoke and superheated air pouring from his mouth with every breath, and in this lighting his eyes glowed with an unholy amber light. He knew he couldn't force his way out, but maybe...

“Take me instead!” He'd yelled it before even registering his own words, slamming his forehead into the wall, he could hear the mechanical hiss above him signifying the activation of his sedatives, could taste them on every breath. This time he didn't feign weakness, didn't play the game that had become almost second nature. He stood strong repeating his words from before even as a loud 'Boom' issued forth from Cassandra's cell.

“Take me instead!” This time he yelled it to the monitors in his roof, getting a jolt from the floor for his trouble. He growled low in his throat, a noise not so much like an animal, as it was similar to the roar of a diesel engine coming to life. The two men in the hall were now looking at him like he was crazy, fear clear in their eyes, and in their body language.

Maybe he was crazy, he knew what they would do to him if they did let him take her place, but he'd promised. Had given that women his word, so he'd begged.

“Please, she wasn't even supposed to be taken. She'd only gotten a warning before, take me, do whatever you want with me, just leave her alone, make an example of me I don't care,” He stopped there to stare into the camera again. “I'll come quietly, I'll walk right up to the table and let you strap me down no struggle, I won't make a noise. So please, take me instead.”

Time seemed to stop for a second in his mind. Like the world was holding it's breath just for him, and then the whirring of the crane started back up. He drew breath to begin screaming anew, when the familiar clank of hydraulic locks engaging drew his eyes to Cassandra's cell, sitting back where it belonged. Another set disengaging moments later, his cell was being prepped to move, there might have been an announcement over the speakers, but he didn't hear it, couldn't acknowledge it. He was happy, god he was happy that he would be tortured. By his own request no less. He wanted to laugh.

Raising his eyes to the monitor a familiar smile on his face he replied the same way he always did to the feeder. “Much obliged.”

Setting

Characters Present

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: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: SETTING Character Portrait: Corso Asange Hart
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Wayland stood tall, back rigidly straight, head held high, feet set firmly shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, hands loosely held at his sides, staring straight ahead, a look of firm unflinching resolve, and acceptance on his face.

He could see nothing before him however. The tint of his walls was such that now he was in a black cube, headed to be tortured. It should have been a maddening experience, but he felt nothing, content in the knowledge that he had just won a small victory. It did not matter how small.

The only warning before the images began playing was a split second of agonized giggling, before the torturous scene was played. The very walls acting as massive flat screens. He caught sight of the inmate splayed across the table for only an instant seeing his burned skin, and shaved head, before he closed his eyes calmly. He could still hear it, could hear the words of the torturer, and the maddening laughter of the inmate, but he didn't watch it. Shut his eyes to that insanity, remaining in the exact spot, with the exact posture as before, features a mask of cold calm. The look of a man ready to face the same kind of fate.

Do not bite the hand that feeds you. He'd heard the phrase a hundred, hundred times since being imprisoned here. It was like something you'd tell an animal, a dumb beast.

They declared they just want the best for us, but then called us it, declaring that anything that happens to us is our own fault. It made him sick, made him want to rage, to thrash around his cage, allow his power to run free, but he didn't, wouldn't, do anything like that and they might change their minds and take Cassandra as well.

There ain't no getting off this train I'm on. He thought grimly.

He could feel the crane slow, his cell being lowered to the ground. The speakers and video cutting out as his cell came to a full rest. He opened his eyes to the sight of a room that he did not expect. There was a table, it's molecular structure coming into his head on an instinctual level, he saw it's construction, and the heat that tempered it, stainless steel high quality. The chairs too.

The only indication that he was surprised being a tiny narrowing of his eyes, he never moved from his position, using his peripheral vision to take in the entirety of the room. He examined the new sight, the first new site in years for several minutes before the door on the far side of the room opened admitting a man he had never seen before.

Confident, well dressed, immaculately groomed, he was sure of his standing, sure that he had all the power, and in this situation he'd be right. It made Brimstone want to growl.

The man slowly walked up to the table, settling himself casual as you please into one of the chairs steepling his hands in front of his mouth and observing him.

Wayland's eyes had locked on to him the minute he'd walked into the room, analyzed everything about him exactly as he did everything else, weighing how he could be used, or if he could be at all. He however would not be the first to talk. He would show these people no weakness. So they remained like that for several minutes before the man finally spoke.

“What's your name, Thirteen-Thirty-seven? Or do you remember it? He was a soft spoken man, surprisingly, voice a soothing tenor. It set Brimstone's teeth on edge. “Unless of course you'd rather I use that address.”

As if you don't already know, he thought furiously. I didn't throw it away, you lot tried to steal it. He couldn't not reply, so he spoke calmly, but firmly never changing his standing position. His voice raspy from little use, with a underlying rumble like a large engine.

“My name is, Wayland Smith.”

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Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: Corso Asange Hart
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"Wayland Smith..."

The man seemed to ponder this for a while, sorting it away into various folders in his head. Rather interesting name. American. Hardly as interesting as the man before him, though. He kept his head tilted as a curious smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Tell me, Wayland Smith, how would you like to be addressed, any nicknames, Mr. Smith, just Wayland?" He'd wanted to be near this one for a long while, but never had the opportunity. He was just so well behaved. A nice little metal man. Without cause, he wasn't likely to pull a cell out. Simply wasn't orthodox. Besides, he would hate to send the wrong message. Good behaviour leading to being moved? Heavens, no.

Completely at ease, the man shifted his fingers into a single clasped fist to rest his pale chin upon. He was a stark contrast to the singeing man outside the Facility. Hardly looked like he received any sun at all. All in all, he looked beautiful. All smooth lines and grace, blemish free. Yet the true beauty in this room was the anomaly of Wayland Smith.

"How did it happen?" the man asked softly. Genuine curiosity peered through his smooth voice. "I know a great many things about you, but that was never found."

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Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: Corso Asange Hart
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“Wayland Smith...” It bothered him for some reason. He couldn't place his finger on it, but there was something up with the mans voice. It made his ears ring somewhat to hear it. Not the ringing most people hear, but a low metallic ring like a bell, and he didn't know why. It was disconcerting.

“Tell me, Wayland Smith, how would you like to be addressed, any nicknames, Mr. Smith, just Wayland?” Wayland appeared to ponder the question seriously for a second, but his mind was a storm of thought. Why am I not being tortured? Who is this man? Where am I? Question after question piled up, he however let none of this show on his face. He remained still as a statue, face set in rigid lines.

The man casually rested his chin on a single clenched fist. What did what he called him matter anyway? He wondered. Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, He couldn't figure out this ones game. Everyone to this point has been simple, low level grunts. This man, the way he's dressed, I bet you're right up at the top aren't you? He thought to himself.

“How did it happen?” He asked, in that same melodic voice that Wayland was growing to despise, his ears ringing with every syllable. “I know a great many things about you, but that was never found.” Oh, I see your game, I'm just an interesting little mystery to you aren't I? You'd just loved to figure us all out. Wayland grinned ever so slightly showing his teeth, and ignoring the question for the moment.

“Just Wayland is fine.” He rumbled out, relaxing his own posture into something less formal, but no less rigid in its bearing. “As for nicknames, some of the other prisoners seem to be fond of Brimstone.”

He let that hang in the air for a second, as he scratched his cheek, acting as if in thought again, but really watching the mans reactions, after a moment he replied.

“Honestly,” He started. Staring off into space for a second, lost in thought. Remembering the night he became like this. All he could remember was the soul searing agony of his Granny's death, and then the smell of ash, and flame before he passed out. He frowned as he recalled something, the pain was very much real. It had felt as if his whole body was on fire, then his senses were overwhelmed by ash, and smoke, and he woke in the facility. “I've no idea how I came to be like this, just born luck I suppose.” He tried, but couldn't keep from adding the last part to his sentence.

He'd always been comfortable around flames, temperatures that would make others uncomfortably warm rarely made him sweat. He was born with a higher than average core temperature as well, but he'd never thought anything of it, never considered why he loved metallurgy so much, or why he was so good at it. Curious.