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ManiacInsomniac

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Stark white light illuminates the room. Harsh shadows cast the world in an unpleasant, sinister darkness. The scratched plastic and cold, white linoleum floor dispel any warmth and relaxation the room might afford its residents. Tables strewn around the room surrounded by worn plastic chairs host chatting people. A torn beige couch shoved against a wall sits next to a shelf laden with worn board games and books. A box of crayons and paper breaks the room's white monotony. Surveillance cameras loom in the four corners. A thick mirror replaces a wall, distortedly reflecting the room. The heavy doors bear thick bars and locks.

Felicity sits on the lumpy couch, her legs drawn up near her chest as she reads a book. She glances at the mirror, hatred and vitriol gleaming in her eyes. Cold, clinical eyes watch behind the mirror. The Facility has no freedom or privacy. A regimented schedule swallows all free time and punishes deviation.

She wants to scream. The acute, haunting absence demonstrated by her inability to vocalize strengthens her urge to scream. Her jaw aches. The ache is dull background at this point. The gag shoved down her throat and the dull metal mask stifle all noise.

The government brands powered individuals dangerous, a public safety risk. Even the mild-mannered, civic-minded civilians are locked up. So how is it possible— in a room filled with powered, frightening individuals— they are the ones trapped like cattle? A deep, vengeful flame burns in her chest. Felicity misses freedom, the wind rustling her hair and sun on her face. There was a brief moment when she could go anywhere, do anything she desired. The government fuckers took it from her.

But no matter how much she screams, no sound passes her stifling mask. No matter how much she struggles, she cannot beat guards prepared to take down inhumanly strong individuals. She glances down at a book, shoving down helplessness and frustration.
 
Stark white light illuminates the room. Harsh shadows cast the world in an unpleasant, sinister darkness. The scratched plastic and cold, white linoleum floor dispel any warmth and relaxation the room might afford its residents. Tables strewn around the room surrounded by worn plastic chairs host chatting people. A torn beige couch shoved against a wall sits next to a shelf laden with worn board games and books. A box of crayons and paper breaks the room's white monotony. Surveillance cameras loom in the four corners. A thick mirror replaces a wall, distortedly reflecting the room. The heavy doors bear thick bars and locks.

Felicity sits on the lumpy couch, her legs drawn up near her chest as she reads a book. She glances at the mirror, hatred and vitriol gleaming in her eyes. Cold, clinical eyes watch behind the mirror. The Facility has no freedom or privacy. A regimented schedule swallows all free time and punishes deviation.

She wants to scream. The acute, haunting absence demonstrated by her inability to vocalize strengthens her urge to scream. Her jaw aches. The ache is dull background at this point. The gag shoved down her throat and the dull metal mask stifle all noise.

The government brands powered individuals dangerous, a public safety risk. Even the mild-mannered, civic-minded civilians are locked up. So how is it possible— in a room filled with powered, frightening individuals— they are the ones trapped like cattle? A deep, vengeful flame burns in her chest. Felicity misses freedom, the wind rustling her hair and sun on her face. There was a brief moment when she could go anywhere, do anything she desired. The government fuckers took it from her.

But no matter how much she screams, no sound passes her stifling mask. No matter how much she struggles, she cannot beat guards prepared to take down inhumanly strong individuals. She glances down at a book, shoving down helplessness and frustration.
((Hiya! Never really posted on rps here before--Do 1v1's take place on this thread or in PMs? Wasn't sure so I put this here!))

Regardless of what power someone has, what type of person they are, humanity is required to have some sort of social life. An hour, give or take, to interact with individuals and share small talk. Anything to refuel the invisible bar needed to keep sane, as sane captors are far easier to maintain and keep restrained.

They took him away, Nails dug into the uniform pants he was forced into many days ago. They took him away.

Yusaku had been graced with a power that was sentient. For a while, he thought he was cursed. The thing wouldn't shut up, never listened to him, and overall caused chaos in his otherwise boring life.

He didn't realize how much he would miss the normalcy and company until government officials broke into his room because of his own miscalculation. Yusaku could still taste the copper between his gums from a ruthless punch one of the agents had done. Yusaku didn't stand a chance. He wasn't athletic, wasn't much of a fighter, really. No, his talents lay elsewhere, talents the officials knew little of, because he always kept his traces nonexistent. Yusaku was only found due to a careless error. Using his ability to save someone on the streets.

Apparently, Yusaku missed a camera.

And now here he was. In a dull, dull, dull, boring white room and equally despaired people staring at the walls, or like the girl on the couch--Books.
There was even a child present, they couldn't be any older than 13. They were doodling in a book. It made Yusaku feel sick, but the feeling of losing half of himself is frankly a lot worse.

I can't feel him. Yusaku suspects when they separated him from his accomplice, his partner, and his sentient attachment; they put Yusaku through strict observation. Even now, he feels their eyes.

They're waiting for him to snap. They want realistic propaganda, a case to demonstrate to the world how dangerous people like him were. It would be easy. Take an obligate mutualism relationship...And put several walls between them for days on end.

Hah. Yusaku refuses to hurt people. He wasn't that kind of person.

Can't feel him. Can't feel him. Can't feel,

Yusaku breathes in, breathes out, and bites on his teeth. I need a distraction, Anything away from the intrusive thoughts threatening to swallow him whole.
Yusaku picked himself up and practically fell on the side of the couch. It was a pathetic sight. Yusaku hoped he didn't come off as too sickly, or some kind of unstable creep. He rubbed at his temples, muttering, before glancing at the girl on the couch.

"I'm sorry," Yusaku starts with because he had the grace of a baby fawn at this time. "Do you have any extra books next to you? Or...Could you tell me about what you're reading? I can't...Seem to find the strength to look around."

Can't feel him, can't feel him, they TOOK HIM AWAY AND IT HURTS.

Breath in. Out.

Right. Conversation.

Right.
 

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