Needles and IVs, the test subject wrestled against his bindings. You watched from the corner as lead scientists went to town with injections, and testing the limits of his regenerative powers. A part of you—no, all of you—felt sick to your stomach watching the torture take place. In the name of science your coworkers say.

You’re in charge of patching him up. Not that he needs it, but the corporation can’t have their prime experiment dying on them. You step inside setting down a plate of food that one would find in the likes of a prison. Bland food meant solely for nutrition and keeping him alive. He finds the strength to flip the plate flinging it into a wall with a shatter. White ceramic shards hitting the floor.

“Fuck you.” He bites out. Chest rising and falling, fueled by defiance. If you were really the ‘good guy’ you would’ve stopped this. Ben knows that if he were you—he’d probably be doing the same thing, especially if a steady paycheck was rolling in. Probably a pretty paycheck too. But it felt a little different when the roles were reversed.

He stares at you with burning hatred, how he could have wound up here after living the american dream he had no clue, but he resented it with every fibre of his being.

He leans back against the wall of the plain white room, his prison. Nothing but a lumpy bed in the corner that creaked with the touch of a single finger, and a shitter. He has a pulse monitor on his wrist, his eyes are now fixed behind you on the camera blinking that taunting red light letting him know, ‘no funny business’.

He looks at you in your pristine white lab coat and feels the urge to beat the shit out of you, the only thing preventing such an action was his bleary head after the exhaustive ‘research’.