[center][h2] DEEP, DARK SECRET[/h2][/center]
[indent]Location: Nevada, -Basement level of Experimental Facility 
Time: Weeks Before The Present[/indent]
[hr]

Michael’s eyes fluttered open.


Darkness filled his vision and greeted him when his sight adjusted into focus. The monotone color scheme blended into an endless mass within his cell drawing out a long mental sigh, his figure gradually shifted upright within his bunk. A thin, worthless blanket drifted to the ground in his restlessness as his legs twisted to dangle over the bed’s edge. A twitch came unwillingly when the soles came into contact with the ice cold concrete flooring. His torso hunched over while his mind knocked away the hazy of sleep, the rhythm of the day coming into the muscle memory and followed by the stiffness in each bone. 


On instinct, his eyes snapped shut when the cell flooded with fluorescent. It had happened like this for several years and his mind so in tune with it, Michael naturally did automatically. His right hand lifted to farther shade his eyes as his blond head shifted toward the sound, the creaking metal echoing off the confined room. The door opened cautiously allowing a single guard, more intact than his last one, to cautiously enter. His hand hovered over his holster and fingers easily twitched to place a bullet through either the head or the chest, snuffing out whatever life remained within these walls. 


The thought made Michael darkly chuckle. Immediately he lifted himself upright and turned to face the guard with a wryly smirk, his figure dressed in pale olive scrub like uniform and shoeless since last night. The guard, unsettled by his stare, tightened his hand about the handle of his gun for several moments. Their eyes met and filtered into each other, both seizing each other up. A battle of the wills seemed to occur between them until finally, the guard broke it off by simply tossing a pencil and pad upon the bunk’s end. 


“Write your fucking meal requests for your last week here, asshole. They are done with you” The man spat, saliva dripped from his lower lip and smacked Michael’s face. 


Causally, his right forefinger lifted then wiped it away. Michael’s eyes darkened in that moment when his figure lowered back down to the bunk, his hand pulled the pad and pencil into his lap. Slowly he tapped the pencil end against the paper. Tap...tap...tap went the end, the black lead edge stained the white paper darker and darker gradually. From his peripheral vision, he caught the guard nearby frown deeper at the sound. Pausing, much to the younger man’s relief, he scratched something over the surface creating a series of chicken scratch before he returned to once again tapping the paper with it. His tongue edged out and the end was bitten lightly to imply he was focusing on his next words, the tapping trying to imitate a bad habit. In reality, it was a purposefully tactic to draw irritation in the guard. 


It worked well.


The younger guard snapped out loud, “ Will you knock that the fuck off? You got the paper to write your meal requests, not drive me crazy with.” 


Michael’s head leaned up from his hunched over position, his greenish eyes caught the guard’s attention enough to lower his hand to his gun more. An obvious warning. Michael’s  lips narrowed into a slitted smile and his greenish eyes filled with mirth to see the man squirm and glare fruitlessly. Both knew the guard was unable to touch him despite being within the same room. Unless Michael attacked him, using the gun unprovoked would come with consequences. 


The irritation the man felt was a wonderful study over the effects a trickling patience created in the expression of an individual. Especially when they were about to lose it completely. It kept his ability to read people alive and well practiced, a matter he appreciated since he aimed to put it to good use much later. Flipping the pencil through his fingers, slow at first but quickly picked up speed, he began to talk. 


“But it’s so fun to study your reaction…” His words taunted, lightly. 


The man’s teeth clenched and fingers tightened about his gun, still hoisted. For a soft moment, Michael considered ridding the world of another filthy insect until a voice spoke. 


“He’s just trying to provoke, Thomas. Just ignore it. He’ll be out of here soon enough,” A figure donning a white, pristine lab coat stepped into view from behind the guard. About in his late sixties, he placed an aged hand onto the guard’s shoulder to calm him. Michael recognized him as the head doctor, Abraham Winstone.   


“Now,” Winstone continued while his grey eyes never left Michael, “Would you kindly merely pass back the pad or complete your request?” 


“Of course… doctor. There’s very little to do within here and one has to keep their mind sharp or watch it fade away.” 


“I think, in your case, Mr. Garth the world could live to lose a mind like yours. When you’re finished, slip the pad and pencil into the food slot where the kitchen will receive it.” 

Without another word, both Thomas and Winstone left Michael once more isolated from any human contact. The man smirked idly to himself then continued to scritch-scratch across the paper.