theweakhavepurpose | Closed: Diogo

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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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"Pratt," Diogo repeats, trying the word out. He's never met anybody with that name before, but that doesn't mean anything. The Inners do things strange. But names are important, in the end. You don't joke about names. It's one of the few things that no Belter will ever steal, not even from an Inner. Names are sacred. "I'm Diogo."

Nobody asked before, so Diogo hadn't offered. Wasn't like it mattered to the Inners.

He's sitting, suddenly, staring down at a plastic table. Mess hall. Right.

Diogo presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard. Trying to clear his vision up. The fuzziness never left, through the red is gone. And his hand really fucking hurts. Almost as much as his shoulder.

"Uh huh," Diogo agrees vaguely, staring down at his hands. He can tell two fingers are broken just by looking. And the ache.

It hurts a lot more when he snaps them back into place but that pain is clarifying and pure and for a moment, Diogo feels like a person when he curses, doubling over so he won't yell. "Sabakawala!"

Pratt leaves him there, trusting that if he runs off someone else might stop him, or he won't get too far. He seems disoriented, not that he can blame him. Pratt's used to existing in a state where he has no idea what's real or not, but it wasn't always the case and he still remembers fondly when he could tell reality from hallucinations.

He returns with a tray with a burger on it, and a bowl of soup that he pushed towards Diogo. "Go easy on it, you haven't eaten for a while and you'll puke if you eat too fast."

There's also a dented thermos of water that he sets down in front of him.

"How's the head?"

Pratt bites into his burger, chewing happily. He kind of turns to the side to do it, he's very aware that his teeth don't quite fit together so watching him eat is pretty disgusting.

Not the first time he's broken fingers. They hurt more than they should and they ache as they heal, but this, at least, Diogo knows how to handle. It'll be good if he can find something to splint them with, but he'll survive either way.

Well. Those breaks, anyway.

Diogo pulls the tray closer, though he doesn't move to eat just yet. His head feels like its full of rocks, honestly. Maybe he's got a concussion. He had one of those a couple years ago, wasn't much fun. Missed a handhold climbing one of the maintenance tunnels and went down hard. Spent most of the time puking before one of his friends finally dragged him off to the free clinic, convinced the world had gone strange around him. All the textures had been different, like they'd been filed down, and all the colors had seemed painfully bright. He'd tried telling his friends about it, between the puking, and that'd probably been what convinced them to drag him up for the doc.

It feels like that, now. Not much texture. But lots of strange, pulsing color.

Slowly, Diogo begins eating. It doesn't taste like much, but the soup is hot and that helps center him, a little. This is happening. This is right now.

"What'd he do to me?"

Diogo isn't looking at Pratt. It's easier to keep his eyes down, focus on the food. Hurts his eyes less.

Pratt bites down his first response which is something along the lines of made you strong to actually think about it. "Trial. To see if you're worth being a soldier. How was it? What did you see?"

Everyone sees something similar, but there's always little variations. Jacob isn't training Diogo to something specific so there likely isn't someone to kill at the end. Unless he is and hasn't told Pratt which.. is possible but not likely. He likes to talk to Pratt, tell him his plans and use him as a sounding board since Pratt rarely talked back. A good little judge.

"Your head will feel better after sleep. You can sleep on a cot tonight, it'll be better than the cell."

He licks his fingers after scarfing down the burger, "Are your fingers broken? We can splint them."

Diogo almost says he's already a soldier. It means something different here. Down on Earth, nobody cares that he fought for the Belt, that he's bled and killed for the cause. It really doesn't matter that he had a cause in the first place. These people have a different one that Diogo only vaguely understands. Something bad is coming so everyone must be strong, otherwise no one will survive and that would be a very bad thing.

Doesn't make much sense to Diogo when he thinks about it. Bad things happen all the time. Lots of people die, sure, but a few survive and those ones, they move on. Build something out of what's left. And they weren't the strongest or the smartest, just clever and mostly lucky.

He doesn't say any of that. Has a feeling it wouldn't go over well and they might take his food away. So he keeps his head down and tries not to eat too quickly. Now he's starting to feel hungry all over again, aware of his body beyond the various hurts. Fuck, he's hungry.

That's not new. He can survive that. Probably. If nothing else gets added on.

"Inyalowda shooting me." Diogo frowns, flexing his right hand to see if his busted fingers will behave. They're swollen and red, but in relatively the right shape. "Everything red. No gravity, then gravity. Maybe Ceres, for a bit. It looked like Ceres sometimes."

He'd much rather be on Ceres now.

Diogo can explain Inyalowda all day and all night and Pratt is never going to understand, he assumes it's some sort of insult which would be fitting in this situation. Pratt makes no move to take the food away, taking a sip of his cup of water while he watches Diogo, trying to mentally take stock of his injuries.

"Where's Ceres?" For someone who spends a lot of time looking up at the galaxy here in big sky country, he doesn't know much about it. He likes the colors and the shapes and it makes him feel real small, but he could name maybe three constellations and any star that's slightly brighter than the others is probably the big dipper.

"The red is from the music. That never gets better. But the pain will." He's not saying anything about the disorientation because honestly that gets much, much worse.

"Still hungry? I can get you more, but don't go puking it up."

"Not here."

He doesn't actually want to talk about home. If he does that he might start thinking about the noodles they used to sell on C Level or that old lady who raised birds. Everyone called her grandma and pretended she didn't sell guns and other, more dangerous things on the side. Or his friend Sika who joined the OPA long before he did and got herself blown up. She'd always been quick when they robbed tourists. Had those long Earther legs - good genetics, the docs said. Make for a good strong soldier. Good fast thief, too. He wishes he'd painted her name on the walls back home. He should've done that. Made sure to remember her.

Those thoughts are going places. Diogo shakes his head. Finishes the soup. "Don't like the music."

It feels wrong.

"Not going to throw up. Who gonna waste food like that, keyá?" He shakes his head, examining the bowl to make sure he hasn't missed anything. Almost brags that this is nothing, he can take much worse, but stops. Doesn't want to risk finding out if that's true. "There more?"

"No one throws up on purpose." Pratt rolls his eyes, if Diogo thinks he can just out-think bodily functions he's in for a surprise. "There's more. Water too if you want it."

He makes no move to get up and get it for him though, he's still eyeing Diogo's hands. "Your fingers look wrong. Did you snap them back into place?"

The comment about the music doesn't go unnoticed, but Pratt doesn't want to talk about it. No one likes it, he's honestly pretty sure even Jacob doesn't. It's a means to an end. And being here for so long Pratt is convinced that Jacob doesn't like much of anything.

"If you don't splint them right your joints are going to swell up. Won't be able to hold a gun right anymore."

"Uh huh." Diogo waves his bad hand vaguely. It hurts but he's done this before. Fingers break easy. Easy to get caught on things. He's lucky he's never lost any going out with Uncle Mateo. Rock hoppers tend to lose whole hands. "I'll do it. I can still fight."

He adds that a little louder, in case there was a question. He's not useless. Maybe he's no good at brawling like the Earthers but he can shoot. It'll be fine.

Pratt is grinning again, "If you say so."

He likes this new soldier who is quick to get back up and fights to the last breath and can take some pain without crumpling into a ball and falling apart. He gets up to get him more food, "Don't run off, I don't want to have to chase you."

Not that he thinks Diogo cares what Pratt wants, but he's sure he doesn't have to mention that the more annoyed Pratt is, the more terrible things he could do to the kid.

Maybe tomorrow or the next day they could go on a mission, get some field training in. There's a small band of resistance fighters holed up in the hills to the north, might be a good opportunity to try and flush them out.

Assuming he can convince anyone to give Diogo a gun after he stabbed a guard earlier.

Diogo huffs, making a face. He's a good fighter! He is! Or at least he's alive. That ought to count for something, especially around here. Seems like a lot of people end up dead. Diogo isn't sure he understands the why, but that matters less than perhaps it ought to. Doesn't matter if he understands or not. He's out of the cage. He's got some food and even the phantom pain in his shoulder seems to have lessened.

It's almost okay right now.

But he doesn't run. Wouldn't do him much good. The mess is filled with people, a couple of whom are glaring at him. Maybe mad he stabbed that man. Though Pratt and Jacob didn't seem to care much.

Not a whole lot makes sense in this place.

He's still sitting there when Pratt comes back, flexing his hand to test how far the pain goes. How much he can still do before the pain bites in. "Oi. You want soldiers, ya? Maybe I fight for you, then you let me go home?"

Diogo thinks he's nineteen and that might not be too old, but he's seen some stuff. He's never been on Earth before. It hasn't been fun. He wants desperately to go back home.

Pratt passes over another bowl of soup, sitting across from him and glaring back at some of the people there. They'd happily gut him if given the chance, but the threat of what Jacob would do to them keeps him safe. It's an odd feeling, knowing that the person you hate the most is the only reason you're still alive.

His expression softens when he hears that, turning back to the kid in front of him, "No that's .. it doesn't work like that Diogo. You can't go back. You can't ever go back."

He looks down at his hands, blood dried under his fingernails in places, the bite wound throbbing in his arm. "That's what this place does, you're not the same anymore. You're not even you anymore. You're what Jacob wants you to be. We all are."

Pratt struggled with that loss of self, he still does in the rare moments where he's not fully the Judge he's been made into. Which has happened a lot today. Diogo is either good for him, or really bad.

"...oh."

Diogo isn't sure what he's supposed to say to that. Protest somehow? Say it isn't true? But he's wondered if this hasn't changed him already, if he's less of Belter now than when he started. He's not like the others, he can breathe under Earth's gravity. And after the chair -

All that red. He saw Ceres and other, familiar things, but they were all strange to him. And in the end, he's not sure Ashford and the others will do anything once they realize he's gone. Get pissed, probably. But even if they were talking with anybody on Earth, Diogo doubts they'd bother with him. They've got bigger concerns and he's just one soldier. Ashford could find another head of security easy enough.

He puts his head down and eats. That's simple. There's no question about that.

It's a good attitude, Pratt approves.

"We'll get those fingers splinted, strengthened." He nods, yes that's a good plan. "Do you want to rest after this? You can come with me to feed the Judges."

He could use the company, talking to an actual person and not himself is a really good feeling. He's forgotten what that's like. Very rarely does anyone else in the compound want to talk to the guy rocking back and forth and laughing. Which he fortunately isn't doing right now, but it's always there, at the back of his mind ready to burst forth at inappropriate times.

"Tomorrow maybe a mission. I don't know if they'll let me bring you, you did stab a guard." Pratt grins, "Showed courage!"

"The dogs?" Diogo looks up curiously. Before this place, he'd never seen a dog before. Now he's seen them up close and also what it looks like when they're tearing other animals apart. "....ya. Okay."

Though there is the thing with the guard. Yeah. That happened.

Diogo shrugs. Pulls his bowl a little closer. "You said kill them at the start."

It's said casually. No big deal, just a dead man. Only Diogo had never stabbed anyone before, never killed anyone with a knife, and it's. A thing that happened. He's trying not to think about it too hard which means he's thinking about it constantly. The way the man's eyes went wide before he dropped.

"Wolves. Judges."

Pratt has his signature crazy smile on again. "I did! Not quite what I meant, but it worked. You lived to see lunch. That's the goal, survive until your next meal. It's all we can do."

Well and fight and obey and cull and sacrifice and other things he wants to pretend aren't happening. He bounces to his feet, pulling on all the nervous frantic energy he has to cover the fact he's exhausted and hasn't slept in about four days.

"Come on, lets get out of here." Before more of the Chosen show up and he starts picking fights.

Apparently there's a difference between dogs and wolves. Diogo looks confused a moment, but nods. "I do a good job, I get to eat."

It's a mentality he can understand, even if he doesn't like it. And this is better than being in the cages.

He finishes the soup, glancing around for silverware that could potentially be sharpened to a point or a knife he might steal. None in reach. Fuck. "Ya, pampa. Okay. We go feed the - Judges."

Apparently they like to rip things apart. Diogo hopes they won't eat him.

"Now you're getting it!" He claps Diogo on the shoulder. Look at him, so smart already.

Pampa. He doesn't like that one either, but it sounds less offensive than Inya somehow, though for all he knows it means 'someone who fucks sheep.' Pratt glares at everyone around them as he leads Diogo out of the mess hall and down to the pens.

The Judges can be smelled before they're seen, Pratt's been too busy to give them all baths and brush out their fluffy fur. Admittedly he still takes better of them than he does himself.

They start baying and jumping around excitedly when Pratt walks in. He's their source of food, and also the only person who pets them.

"Hello everyone. Hello!" He kneels down and hugs them, letting the giant wolves lick his face and nip at his throat. "This is Diogo. He's going to help."

He gestures to Diogo, motioning him to stay where he is. "Let them sniff you."

Wolves are huge. That's the first thought Diogo has. He saw the one Judge earlier, spent a good long time staring at its teeth and imagining how it might rip him apart, but that had just been the one. Now there are more. A - pack. That's the word. A pack. All of them as big as the first, bright eyed and watchful. And full of teeth.

Diogo holds himself very still. The one closest to him has big, notched ears. "Can I touch them?"

They look soft. He really wants to.

"Yeah but," Pratt looks around, closing his hand around the scruff of one wolf that looks identical to the others. "This one. This is number twelve. He's nicer than the others."

He pulls the wolf over, nudging it towards Diogo. "They like their ears skritched." Pratt helpfully demonstrates on two wolves who are trying to climb all over him.

"Plus they're all friendlier when they know they're about to be fed." Pratt shoves them away to give pats to another. "This is Two, that's Four, and Twenty-one and Fourteen. There's only five of them here, but there's a lot more out in the field. With their handlers."

Twelve nudges Diogo's knees, wondering where his attention is.

"Why they all have number names?"

Diogo reaches out hesitantly and scratches Twelve's ears. The wolf bumps its massive head against his knees. And it's soft. It's the softest thing Diogo's ever seen in his life and he laughs, surprised.

"Hi, wolf. Hi."

There aren't many animals on space stations. Rats and birds, sometimes. Nothing bigger. Diogo likes wolves, he decides. They're big and soft and he likes the texture of their fur. How thick it is.

"Jacob won't let me name them. They're tools, not pets. Livestock. Can't get close to them." Which apparently hasn't stopped Pratt who looks to be having the time of his life in a sea of fluffy white wolves.

Eventually he pulls himself out of the pile going over to a fridge to get them some grub.

"They used to be different colors, now all white. Like my hair. Same serum. Same result. Same drug." He pulls a giant ribcage out of the fridge, cutting it apart with a much bloodied hacksaw. "He cuts their tails off, trains them, they get smart. Obedient."

Pratt didn't really get smarter when drugged up with the serum, just crazier. It's a little unfair honestly. He barks a command at the wolves who all eagerly sit down in front of him, little tail nubbins wiggling.

"They'll fight each other for food if you throw it to them." Which most of the handlers do, they like to see them fight. But Pratt doesn't. He gently hands each of them a few ribs to gnaw on.

That seems wrong to Diogo. Everything important should have a name. Ships aren't ships until they have names. Even the asteroids Uncle Mateo mined had names. Not good names, maybe, but it was something. Diogo isn't sure how that started. Respect for the drift, maybe, for the vastness of space. Or maybe just to make things a little more human.

He doesn't say that, busying himself with scratching Twelve's ears. "Why cut their tails off?"

Seems like an odd thing to do.

He steps back as the wolves line up. Even Diogo knows better than to get between someone and their meal. "They nice! They always so big?"

"He didn't say." And Pratt had asked, a lot. More than he should have, it seemed cruel and unnecessary. "I think it's because they wag them when they're happy, and he doesn't wanna see that. Then they're living things with feelings. Not mindless tools to use."

Would Jacob care if he could see such things? Maybe. Pratt's closer to him than most and he's not entirely the unfeeling monster that everyone sees him as. He's human in there somewhere. But just barely.

"Wolves are big, but these ones are bigger. The serum does that. Judges." He laughs again, "Didn't work so well on me. I'm still fucking weak and tiny."

He's really not tiny, he's emaciated from not eating and looks sick and malnourished. He'd be a totally average human if he was getting decent meals and not being worked to exhaustion.

"No, not weak. Never weak. Just .." He looks down at his hands, they're shaking a little from lack of sleep and pent up energy reserves that are dwindling away fast. "Haven't trained enough."

He locks the fridge back up now that all the Judges are happily chomping away. Gesturing to Diogo he heads out.

"Quarters. Can sleep, there'll be more training tomorrow. But not a trial. I don't think. He didn't say anything about a trial."

But he also hadn't said anything about the chair before today, so Pratt isn't sure.

"Oh."

Dogs wag their tails when they're happy, Diogo knows. He's seen it in videos, if not in person. Can't have the wolves look happy because i they're happy that means they're - what? That they feel?

He swallows. Touches his injured fingers briefly, feeling the swelling rising hot under the skin. It's a warning, right? Means he's got to behave. Be a good soldier.

It's hard to follow what Pratt means, sometimes. The serum didn't make him strong? Or at least it didn't make him big like the wolves, Diogo thinks. Pratt looks like an old man, with his white hair and lined face, the wild eyes.

He follows cautiously. Where else is he going to go?

"Training? Okay." Diogo nods, trying to convince himself that it is. He's done training before, with Ashford and the others. It was fine, it didn't hurt too much. "Okay, pampa."

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