ManiacInsomniac
New Member
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.
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.