theweakhavepurpose | Closed: Diogo

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musebox

Closed: Diogo

It's early morning in the Veteran's Center. The sun is filtering down into the secured area, starting the process of sun baking the prisoners who lay in their cages in various states of starvation. Brainwashing and conditioning is mostly done at the Grandview, having all those rooms made it so much easier to keep track of who was where and in what state of the process.

But there's always a few at the Center itself, Jacob takes a personal interest in some for reasons that he tends to keep to himself. Either he enjoys breaking someone weak down to fail, or he sees some that might become Chosen, the most elite of his army.

Pratt isn't sure where this particular one lands on that spectrum, but Jacob gave him orders and he'll follow them. Doesn't have much a choice really. His head is filled with the sound of music, with a mantra constantly being muttered in Jacob's voice. Repeating the doctrine constantly. There's no escape from it, and Pratt isn't able to tune any of it out.

He's long since stopped trying.

Jingling the keys at his belt, he heads down to the prison to check on some new recruits. He's incredibly conspicuous, his hair a shock of white, but dirty and with bloody chunks. Just as the Judge serum turned wolves larger, whiter, obedient and more aggressive, it had done the same to Pratt. Well, not the larger part, but definitely the hair and the obedience. He's so far the only human that Jacob has tried this on, which is either a great honor, or a mark of shame. No one has quite figured it out yet.

"Are you awake?" Pratt grabs the bars of the cage, clanging it in the lock. "Hey!"

He kneels down, trying to get his face at the same level as the sleeping prisoner. "Wake up wake up. It's time for trials. Time to show your strength. And I.."

He trails off, springing to his feet and pulling a silver canteen off his belt and holding it far enough away from the bars that it can't be reached from the inside. "I have this. For you. If you're awake. If you're strong."

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Diogo wakes up slow, cracking one eye to glare at the man. Another stupid inner, this one with a shock of white hair like an old man even though his face is young. It hurts to breathe, to exist and so Diogo moves as little as possible. Stays close to the ground and tries to conserve his air. In the beginning he fought, even smashed his head into the bars to prove he wasn't afraid of what was coming, but -

Well. That was then. This is now. He's stopped thinking of how things would go back on the belt. It no longer applies. This is Earth and Diogo hates it with a low and all-encompassing passion. Hates that he can't take a deep breath without feeling like his ribs are going to break, hates that he's in a cage, hates that parts of him did break, earlier, and how the man doing it had seemed surprised. Like he'd done it by accident.

He didn't cry. Diogo holds onto that. He yelled but he didn't cry.

Things are simple now. The weak must be culled. Don't be weak.

Diogo doesn't get up. Glares at the man. It's been a long time since he's had anything to drink, but he won't beg. It goes bad when you beg. "What you want, ówala?"

His voice is hoarse and rough, but if he keeps very still and doesn't ask, then maybe the man won't notice how Diogo is staring at the canteen.

"What do I want?"

He tilts his head, thinking. What he wants is irrelevant, he's spent a long time not thinking about what he wants honestly, and he's not about to start now in front of some prisoner. Pratt's obedient, corrupted, insane, but he's not completely beholden to the cause. There's cracks there, small ones, but with enough prodding they threaten to turn into great big canyons. The kind that Jacob would be thrilled to shove him off of and plant pointy sharp spikes at the bottom for him to impale on.

"Jacob wants you ready. Thinks you're ready." Yes, better to talk about that than himself. Because he doesn't have wants. Shower. Sleep. Run away from here. No. No wants at all.

He transfers the canteen from one hand to the other, making sure it sloshes so that Diogo knows that there's water in there. He's watching his eyes, a smirk tugging his lips when he sees them follow the precious resource.

"I'm going to give you this. And you're going to drink half. Only half. Only half for you. And then give it back. Understand?"

This is a test. A test that he's fairly certain Diogo won't pass.

He holds the canteen out for him to take.

Jacob is the bosmang, Diogo's pretty sure. Maybe not the one all the way on top - that seems to be the Father, or something - but Jacob was there, a lot. Left an impression. Had the sort of low, calm voice that said it was only a matter of time before he got what he wanted, so why not just get with the program? Less painful that way. There's been a lot of talking, things Diogo half-understands, but that stuck.

Just go along with it. It'll be much easier that way.

Diogo pushes himself up to a sitting position, leaning against the bars. Hurts to exist on Earth. He hates this place. Hates how it makes him slow, hates how he doesn't know what half the shit around here even is. The first night he stayed up, jumping every time he heard a strange noise, which was often. More and more he thinks of the stories Uncle Mateo told him about slavers, how they lock people in boxes and break them down into something less than human before it's done. Thinks this might be the same. They want to make him cargo?

Least he can do is make it hard.

Diogo snatches the canteen, glaring at the man all the while. And he drinks. Tries not to choke. The water is cold and clean, and it's the only thing that's felt good in days.

He drinks half. Stops, meeting the man's eyes, and takes another drink. Then he leans forward with exaggerated care to spit in his face.

The canteen he throws at the man's head. Fucker.

Pratt just laughs, knocks the canteen to the side and lets it fall, precious water spilling out on the ground. Wasted. The part of him that's still Deputy Pratt is actually a little amused by this, technically he only drank half. Clever. He can appreciate that since Pratt himself is a little shit that might have done the same thing.

"No. Not strong enough. Not yet."

He kicks the canteen to the side, letting water spray out and then backs up to the wall. Jacob wants him ready for training, but they have time. Plenty of time.

"Thirsty then? Want more water? We can fix that."

He pulls something off the wall, a hose, thick canvas and from the way Pratt is walking it's very heavy. Standing in front of the cage for a minute before turning on the spray.

He aims the full force of the firehose right at Diogo's face. Probably not the best idea since this is powerful enough to plaster him to the far wall and peel his skin off if Pratt does it too long. But if he dies he dies. There's always more sinners to train. The strong survive. The weak.. well, the weak must be culled.

Diogo sinks low, not sure what's coming but certain it won't be good. It'll probably hurt, the way the man's looking at him. Gotta make a point. There are rules, lines painted across the floor, and crossing one incurs a penalty. Kinda like back home. And like back home, Diogo knows there are times when you have to take a beating or risk becoming something lesser.

It'll hurt. He'll take it.

Diogo stares at the man for a moment, confusion evident, before the water comes on and --

So, that happens.

Diogo knows, in an abstract sort of way, that people drown on Earth. It happens, it doesn't sound like much fun, but it's the sort of trouble Inners get themselves into. Who else has that much water? Even the pirates, who like to make flashy gestures when killing people, don't go for drowning. Waste of resources.

Welcome to Earth, he thinks, stupidly, right before he gets thrown back and cracks his head against the bars. He chokes, trying to shield his face, and there's a moment there where the universe narrows down to the very specific sensation of being suffocated. Diogo got choked out once in a fight, went down hard but thought he knew what to expect going forward. He's run low on oxygen on space walks before, he can adapt, he can survive with only a little oxygen. Right?

This is worse than being choked out. This is pain everywhere, in his throat and face. The roar of water, the smell of it, becomes everything until he gets knocked to the ground.

Pratt turns the spray off and lowers the nozzle. He doesn't want to actually kill Diogo, the kid had showed some promise. Well spirit anyway, not exactly physical strength.

Whistling softly to himself, Pratt unlocks the cage, stepping into the soggy interior and kneeling near Diogo.

"Still thirsty?" He's being a dick and he knows it, can't help himself. There's so little in his life he has control over that he'll cling to any petty bit of dominance he can find.

He thwaps Diogo on the back to encourage him to throw up any water he got in his lungs. "Feel that burning in your lungs? That's what it's like to die weak, to be sacrificed. That's not what you want is it? Now you've tasted it and you know. You know and you'll do better next time right?"

Sitting down next to him he waits for him to sputter and get back up or lay down and die, whatever Diogo choses. "Today you get to go outside, see the sun a bit. We're going to send you through the obstacle course before we do the trials. No sense wasting a trial setup if you can't even make it through a simple course."

Frowning he pulls a granola bar out of one of his pockets, putting it on the ground near the man's head. "Jacob thinks you won't make it. But it'll be fine. Just need to give you a little boost. You'll be strong enough. A little bit of an edge."

The world comes back slowly. Diogo wheezes, trying to take a deep breath and falling short. It hurts. It really fucking hurts and there's a nasty taste in his nose and throat when he tries to breathe and this is what drowning feels like, he thinks. This is what the Inners do. They've got enough water to kill each other with it. He coughs hard, spitting water, and lets the world swim around his head. Everything feels fuzzy and too-sharp all at once.

Diogo rolls onto his side, trying to breathe. He wants to kick the man, swear at him, something, but doesn't. Hurts too much. He'll probably die if the hose gets turned on again.

This isn't fair, Diogo thinks stupidly. The other prisoners can breathe just fine. They aren't belters. He'd be fine if they were up on a ship, doing something with engineering or explosives. He's not the best, but he's good enough. He could survive that.

A fucking obstacle course? He can barely stand.

Diogo bares his teeth at the dirt, coughing. "Keting pashang to ando du, ówala? What you doing?"

Offering food like a consolation prize? Oh, that's funny. Diogo kicks at the ground, breath coming in a low wheeze. Doesn't feel like anything broke this time, somehow, but it hurts to breathe. Hurts to exist.

Doesn't matter. He won't beg. He won't.

"Helping you. Making you strong." He says that disdainfully as if that should be perfectly obvious.

Since Diogo isn't going to take the bait he puts the bar in his hand. "It's not poisoned. Eat."

He's content to just sit there for a bit, ignoring Diogo in favor of carding his fingers through his own hair and digging out some of the crud that's crusted there.

"Something's wrong with you isn't it? That's why you walk the way you do. Starved before this? Sick?"

He reaches over to pat Diogo like a dog, "We'll fix it. Might fix it. I think it'll fix it. Maybe not. Worked on me!"

He grins big, showing a mouthful of teeth that are slightly too big and far too sharp. Whatever he's talking about sure doesn't look like it worked out in Pratt's best interests.

Making you strong. Yeah, right. That's one fucked up definition of strong.

Diogo coughs hard. Doesn't say it. He's got food now, and it'd really fucking suck if that got taken away. Wouldn't be the first time he's gone hungry, but these things have a way of adding up and going wrong. He knows belters don't survive on Earth, not for long anyway. Can't take the pressure. Lungs are weak, bones give out. Everything gives out. Probably gonna be the hypoxia that kills him, Diogo thinks, which is going to suck. Unless this asshole gets tired of watching him wheeze and makes it fast.

You never know. You never fucking know.

He goes rigid at the touch, even though it doesn't hurt. Probably the first thing that hasn't, in a while. That might actually be worse.

"Can't breathe," he mutters. Coughs hard. And yeah. He's been hungry before. It got bad like this exactly twice, which is why he's very careful not to think about those times. "Beltalowa live in - uhhhh. Zero...zero g. No good here."

He eats. Tries not to choke and does it anyway. He's not so proud he'll refuse food.

"Can't breathe."

Police training kicks in, those EMT classes he had to take to handle emergency situations. Granted those had been tailored to violent crimes and not dealing with people who were suffering from pressure changes. He doesn't know what a Beltalowa is, or really believe that he lives in zero g.. but.. Usually people don't lie as they're suffering. They lie under torture, say whatever it'll take to make it stop. But when they're just in pain for other reasons? Then the truth flows free.

"Can your lungs not expand? Or are they bruised?" The music is fading, and Deputy Pratt is making a reemergence. Triaging the situation.

"This should help that too. Unless your lungs are in a state of necrosis, then it might make it worse. Henbane is a paralytic. Or that's what Fenney says anyway."

He blinks and that calm rational side is gone again, "And it'll get you ready to complete training! Give you an edge. I've done it. Plenty of times. Easier if you kill the others right at the beginning, then they won't kill you at the barbed wire."

Pro-tips from Pratt as he stands up, grabbing Diogo's arm, ready to throw him over his shoulder and carry him out of there.

"It'll hurt, but it hurts to be strong. Then it won't hurt at all."

Frown, "No, that's a lie. It still hurts, these teeth hurt. " He makes some chomping motions. "But I'm not giving you that much. Just enough. Fix you right up."

There are a lot of words then. A lot of questions. Diogo lifts his head a little, squinting. The water in his hair is dripping down his face, into his eyes. Doesn't seem like the man's waiting for an answer to any of them, just going with it. Calm and professional one moment, then switching gears to something much faster.

Crazy. He's fucking crazy.

Diogo coughs hard, trying to bat Pratt's hand away. He doesn't like the cage but he does not want to be carried anywhere. "Train for what, ówala?"

Bad things. Bad things are going to happen. There's something wrong with Pratt's teeth, his old-man hair.

No. Never make it easy. Diogo snarls, redoubling his efforts. Get away. Get away, fight.

"For the Collapse. To fight. To be ready." He snarls that out. Ready. Ready for anything all in service to the Project, to Jacob, to forces that were larger and more important than himself. A cog in a wheel. One that knows its place and its purpose.

"See? SEE!" He laughs as if Diogo is proving his point for him. "You already want to fight. Want to survive and tear flesh and escape. We just need to channel that the right way. The right purpose!"

Pratt stands up, Diogo is hard to get a grip on when he's flailing and soaking wet. "You can stay here, suffocate on the water you can't breathe. I could leave you here. Or I could take you direct to the course, drop you there and start the training. But I'm not. Won't. Giving you a leg up."

He smiles that derranged smile. "If you won't come to it, I'll bring it to you!"

Those words again. The collapse. Like some great tragedy is coming and everybody knows the details and knows how it's going to end except Diogo, who feels like an idiot because he doesn't. If they were back home, he might have guessed a ship's reactor was on the way to meltdown or one of those bad moments that comes with a timer. This long until you die. What're you gonna do in the meantime?

Only they're not on a ship. This is Earth. Nothing makes sense on Earth.

Diogo snarls, trying to push himself upright. It takes him two tries. Everything hurts and his arms tremble, barely supporting his weight. He's never felt weak before, never been ashamed of coming from the belt but here he's slow and wheezing, here he's floundering. None of the things he's learned over the years are relevant and if they expect him to fight another person, Diogo knows already he's going to lose. He can't stand. Earth hates him.

The feeling is mutual.

So, that's happening. Earth hates him, Pratt has crazy eyes and keeps talking about worse things, and Diogo can't fucking breathe. He's going to die here. Not even on his knees. Down on the ground. Soaking wet.

"You crazy, ówala." Diogo coughs. He won't beg. He won't. "Do what you gotta do."

"I will." He says cheerfully. Flopping out on the soaking wet ground near Diogo he mimics the exact same position he's in. "And I am."

His eyes flick around, unable to settle on anything for long. He's in a fairly vulnerable position down on the ground, and there's no reason for it other than to be a jerk and show Diogo how pathetic he looks all splayed out and drippy.

"Might help though. With the breathing." He can hear it now, the way Diogo is struggling for breath.

"I'll be back. Get you all strong. Nice and fixed up. Shouldn't hurt too bad. Not going to give you too much. It'll be alright." He springs to his feet, leaving the cage door wide open as he disappears down the hall and out of earshot.

Motherfucker, Diogo thinks viscously. Crazy motherfucker with the crazy eyes. Ashford would have shot Pratt dead or come up with a plan that's even better than shooting him dead. Ashford would have taken one look at this place and figured out how to come out on top because that's what Ashford fucking does. Not without bleeding, maybe, not without loss, but he would've done it.

He hasn't thought about Ashford and the others for a while now. That's probably bad. But maybe not. They're not here. They're not here and so they're not relevant.

Diogo rolls onto his side, coughing. Motherfucker left the cage open. Like he thinks there's no way Diogo can do anything. Like he's just going be good and wait until Pratt comes back with whatever crazy he's talking up now.

Fuck that.

He can't stand but he can crawl and does, out of pure fucking spite. Fuck Earth. Fuck everyone here. He just needs to get a weapon. Get out of here.

Aw, look at him trying. Pratt wanders back, a small vial in his hand that he tucks into his breast pocket as he walks along next to Diogo. "Where are we going?"

He looks down at him and then the hallway ahead of them. "If you're trying to find the exit you'd be better off going the other way. This one leads to the mess hall."

Pratt seems content to just walk beside him as he crawls along the floor, watching this attempt.

"How are the lungs? Still breathing?"

"Sabakawala," Diogo spits. He's never hated anyone in his life as much as he hates the man towering over him. Generally Diogo doesn't have strong feelings about people at all. Why bother? They never stick around. Either they move on to a different station, a different ship, or they die. No point taking things personally. Stick in the moment and everything will work out.

Moments, though, Diogo has opinions about those. He hates Earth. Hates when the air filters crapped out on Ceres. And now he hates Pratt enough that he wants to stab the man. Knock him down and rib his guts out with a knife.

"Why you not kill me, huh?"

This is - Diogo isn't sure what this is. Has no words for it. .

He twists onto his side and, nearly spitting with rage, tries for a leg sweep. Maybe he can knock Pratt on his ass, that'd be something.

"Sabakawala." He rolls the word around his tongue. "Sabakawala. I like that one. What's it mean?"

He easily dodges the sweep kneeling down in front of him and grabbing Diogo's face, palms on both cheeks. His eyes sparkle with insanity, piercing in their intensity, "I'm not going to kill you because that's not your purpose. You will train. You will hunt. You will Sacrifice. And I'll see that you do it."

Releasing him he stands up, digging the vial out of his pocket, along with a syringe. "This will hurt, but then you'll be stronger. I'm not giving you much, should be just enough. Enough for an edge. Enough to beat the course. Then you live to see tomorrow. Live to get some food."

Drawing up half dose, he surveys the fighting squirming man at his feet, debating where the best place to jab him with a needle would be. The neck would be easiest, but also the most painful, and there's a chance the needle will break. Maybe he can get him in the side, under the shirt.

He reaches out to grasp at his shirt and pull it up, attempting to jam the needle into his side.

"There's hamburgers in the mess hall tonight." Casual conversation. It seems important, maybe he'll be more congenial with the promise of burgers.

You do not scream. That was one of the rules on Ceres and it was a rule whenever the OPA sent him out to fight. You will see and do some shit, but you will not scream. Not even when you're stupid and the bastards get you in the corners. Maybe you'll die but you'll be a belter. A fighter to the end.

Now it's a rule on Earth. Those times seem distant now, vague and formless, like they happened to someone else. Maybe some fucker get you in a corner, but you do not scream.

Diogo makes a low sound, stuck between a snarl and a groan as he grabs for Pratt's hands. It hurts. He hurts all over, still wet from the hose and above him, the world is spinning. Going strange. Maybe he hit his head. Maybe he's dying all over again. Uncle Mateo'd be pissed. Uncle Mateo died for something. "Motherfucker," he spits.

Don't go down easy. Don't go down with some inner fuck taunting him, touching him. No.

Diogo jerks his head back, smacking it against the floor, and goes for Pratt's eyes.

He's not sure if Diogo is cursing at him or actually translating, but he supposes it doesn't really matter. He tries to slam the needle into him, push the plunger and backpedal all at the same time.

It doesn't go quite as well as he'd planned and Diogo is able to grasp at his face painfully. Pratt resorts to biting, trying to chomp down on Diogo's hand with his sharp teeth. He hates those things, they make him slur slightly and it's hard to chew and when they'd first formed he'd drooled a whole bunch. But if he has to have them, might as well use them.

"It'll be quick. Works nice and quick, not like what they did to me. Took weeks. Not going to do that to you though, just a little bit. And maybe you'll be able to breathe again."

He scuttles backwards, the floor slippery enough now that he's not able to get much purchase.

The pain in his hand is sudden and needle-sharp. Diogo's bitten people in fights before. He bit one of the guards earlier when they made the mistake of getting too close with an ungloved hand. You fight hard and you fight dirty. Winning is survival, so win however you can. That's the Belter way.

This is the first time someone's turned it around on him.

In a way it's almost comforting. The pain in his hand is sharp and immediate, a distraction from whatever Pratt just injected him with. Diogo jerks the syringe out and curses, spiting out Belter filth under his breath as he curls onto his side. Adrenaline's kicking too high for him to notice anything else. Whatever Pratt injected him with, it won't be good.

"Gonna kill you," he groans.

"Maybe you will." Pratt kneels down next to him, stroking his side like a wounded animal. "This would have been more comfortable in the cage instead of the middle of the floor here. But this is what you wanted."

He frowns, looking down the hall at the other prisoners for a few moments, and then back to Diogo. "You'll be okay. You might seizure and you might pass out, but whatever it feels like, you're not going to die. Know that. It helps."

He stays there next to Diogo, at the ready to keep him from slamming his head into the ground or injuring himself as the serum takes hold. It's not pleasant to feel your bones crack and reform, to actually hear muscles tear as they grow. But this will help. Pratt is helping.

Jacob said he couldn't help people anymore. But in a small show of defiance, he's prepared to prove him wrong.

There's a rule about not screaming. It's a rule that Diogo believes in firmly and has made a point of following since he was a kid. Have to have some rules otherwise the universe stops making sense.

It's a rule he's breaking now. Or would be, if he could remember how to breathe. Diogo thrashes, kicking out stupidly as he wheezes, throat caught up on what he really wants to do, which is yell his head off.

There was pain before. It sucked.

This is different. There are no words for this.

Diogo's vision goes white. Something twists in his back, in his hands. He can hear things breaking. Bones going crack. He coughs and suddenly can't stop coughing. Before he'd thought things were bad but this is the worst thing that's ever happened to him, worse than being out on the float, and it doesn't stop. It keeps on going and going and this time he has enough air to scream and does, right before trying to slam his head into the ground. Anything to make it stop.

"Okay. You're okay. Try to breathe." Pratt puts his hand below Diogo's head, stopping him from cracking it open on the ground. He can actually see his muscles spasming under his skin, growing and breaking and reforming.

Pratt may be insane, he may be a killer and a murderer and a traitor and a full blown cultist now. But he's not completely heartless and he winces in sympathy for what Diogo's going through. He's been there. Every day for weeks, he's been there.

"You're getting stronger. It doesn't seem like it now. But it will when this is done working." He doesn't know how to make this better really, there's no way to ease the pain of what's happening to him. "Concentrate on something else. Ignore the pain. Think good thoughts. Stomping my face in or throwing me off a cliff."

He tries to smile, but it's broken, doesn't really reach his face properly. Because even though he did this to Diogo intentionally, and knew full well what he was doing. He still feels bad about it.

Jacob doesn't know that he sneaks down to the holding pens to cuddle with the wolves after they get their dose of serum. Holding them while they whine and trying to soothe their pain.

Diogo would likely not appreciate being held and having his ears skritched, so making sure he doesn't hurt himself further is about all Pratt can do.

The people here have videos of animals being skinned and cutting, exposing the muscle beneath the skin. This is what happens when the knife goes in, this is what happens when it twists up and parts the layers. Good thing the animal was dead first, huh?

He feels like that, now. Like somebody jammed a knife under his skin and straight down to the muscle and started sawing. Pop the joints. See what's underneath.

There should be blood, Diogo thinks stupidly. It's the only clear thought he can mange. There should be blood for all the hurt but there's not.

It doesn't stop. It doesn't stop and it's never going to stop and it hurts---

Diogo howls, an animal sound, and then promptly blacks out.

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