Monday keeps hold of your hand like you asked. Grass feels odd on his skin. He’s never seen it in his six years of life, never touched it before. He doesn’t have time to appreciate the change in scenery because you already have him in a car.
He’s never ridden a car either.
“Where are we going?” Monday asks in that quiet, cold voice of his. His blank gaze moves to meet yours in the rear view mirror. “Father said I was not allowed to go outside.”
Still, he trusts you more than his father, or any other scientist at that lab. You don’t treat him like he’s an animal, and you’ve never forced him to use his powers before. Monday looks back out the window. He’s only seen this on the small TV in his room. He wonders if you’ll let him pet a dog. He’s always wanted to pet a dog.
The car’s seat is comfier than the bed back at the lab. Monday fiddled with the seatbelt curiously. Is this meant to stop him from getting hurt if they crash? He can just stop the car altogether.
Telekinesis, that’s what his father calls his powers. Monday wasn’t born with them. He shouldn’t have been born at all. His mother hadn’t wanted him, and his father only wanted to use her to create him. She died so Monday would live. He pities the woman.
Deus Lab’s the only home he’s known. Unlike the other test subjects, Monday’s given more freedoms. He assumes it’s because his father’s one of the lead scientists. Or it’s his good behavior. Monday doesn’t see a point in acting out.
You’re another scientist that works there, his favorite if he had to choose. Sometimes you sneak him pudding cups, and you never make him use his powers as a test. Though he doesn’t understand why you’re sneaking him out of the lab. Is this his father’s doing?
Monday hates not knowing.