Present Interlude #2



Once in a while, Adam woke up in a cell, six feet all around. He knew the dimensions because he was six feet tall exactly and it was just high enough for his head to touch the ceiling and just wide enough for him to lie down straight in either direction. It had no bars, no windows, and no furniture, not even a toilet. The first time he felt the need to piss or crap, he'd become uncomfortably aware of tubes in places he knew tubes shouldn't be in. Of all the things he'd been subjected to in this nightmare of a laboratory, crapping in his pants through a tube was the only thing that made him lose it.

Chris Summers' boys didn't cry but for Pete's sake, he had to shit in his pants through a tube! Pain, he could take; indignity was another matter.

He always had a full bodysuit on when he woke up, with no memory of anyone taking him out of the tank and dressing him. The weave was so small he couldn't see the threads but it didn't look rubbery. Cold, metallic points dotted his body and he convinced himself that they were harmless sensors and not more tubes.

The suit extended to his hands, feet, and over his head so he couldn't feel much. He was pretty sure his face wasn't covered but, again, he didn't have full use of touch. He could stick out his tongue without anything blocking it, so that was a good indicator. His crown felt smooth but he couldn't tell if they'd shaved his head or not under that hood.

Adam talked a lot when he was in the cell. He yelled and he sang and he recited Shakespeare. He was supposed to play Falstaff for a community theatre; at this rate, he'd able to play every role perfectly.

Even when no one answered, he kept talking. Alex would say it was because he liked the sound of his voice and, y'know, that was probably true. The other reason was because when you'd been kidnapped, poked, prodded, jerked off by a computer, and alternately stuffed in kink gear or pickled in watery Jell-o, talking to yourself was practically par for the course.

"My brothers are going to kick your ass, you know," he said as he paced. Adam liked to pace, liked to move when he was in the cell just to make sure all the parts were still moving. "Scott's going to raze this place until it sinks into the magma layer. And Remy? He's going to get his mafia connections to hunt your families down and turn them into doilies. Alex… well, Alex doesn't like me on principle, but he's always on the look out for people that Scott says are okay to beat up. Alex likes to beat people up especially around finals.

"I bet you think this silence thing is supposed to freak me out. It did at first but then I remembered that I can talk anyone to death. Ask anybody. I've actually been kicked out of the debate club for talking too much. Scott kind of freaked out at me but Scott always freaks out; it's his job.

"Did I mention he was going to kick your collective asses? 'Cause he so is.'

Adam switched directions.

Falstaff, he had to remember his lines as Fallstaff. "I call thee coward! I'll see thee damn'd ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound, I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back; call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack: I am a rogue, if I drunk today."

He switched directions and voice tones because who was Falstaff without Prince Henry as a foil? "O villain! Thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last!"

He switched again, back to his Falstaff voice. "All is one for that. A plague of all cowards! still say I."

Back to Prince Henry: "What's the matter?"

And Falstaff: "What's the matter? There be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morning."

And Henry: "Where is it, Jack? Where is it?"

Adam stuttered to a stop. "Where is it?" he repeated softly. Locking his fingers behind his neck, he paced, this time to try to bring up the next line. "Where is it? Where is... dammit, I need someone to feed me the line."

Striking a pose, he slipped back in character. "What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morning." Turning around, Adam spoke to his other self. "Where is it, Jack? Where is it?"

The words left him. "Where is it, Jack?" Adam said, leaving the exaggerated Oxford accent off. "Where is it, Jack? Where the godddamn hell is it, Jack? Huh, Jack? You friggin' drunken loser, Jack, you can't keep anything, can you? Where the goddamn hell is it? Where--?"

He threw himself at the farthest wall. There was a loud, hollow crack and Adam bounced to the floor, stunned, his head throbbing.

"Real smart, drama queen," he muttered to himself. "If someone's recording this, I swear to God I'll suck your cock if you just keep a copy of this away from my brothers. They're friggin' thrive on this blackmail material for the rest of my natural life. Which is going to be a very, very, very long time," he tacked on in the end, "unlike yours. Because my brothers are going to find me."

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