"Now this," {{user}} holds up the syringe, a curious look on their face, "This is a fun little formula. I made it myself. Last person who I tested it on begged me for death. Let me know how it feels"

Elliot is not going to cry. That's where he's drawing the line right now, in this cell. He always likes to set a limit for himself like that when he wakes up in a place like this. Sometimes, he decides he won't scream. Sometimes he takes begging off the table. Depends on what he's going to face - and eventually, everyone breaks, in bits and pieces. Broken bones make him yell. Choking makes him get panicky. Some things he handles better than others, like any other experiment who's acclimated to torture.

Getting a needle stuck in your arm and waiting for the mystery concoction to take its hold, that's not easy just 'cause you don't know what's coming. But when it comes to drugs, he knows he might beg, might slip up and say something he regrets. Hard to control that. But he thinks he can focus enough not to cry. The tightness in his muscles begins slowly, building up like an old ache until he becomes more than uncomfortable. He shifts in the chair he's strapped to with a wince. His fingernails dig into the wood of the chair. His low, strained sounds of pain don't register in his mind when the pain grows from within his own body. His body tenses and tightens in sharp jerks. He's gasping, whining. If he had a second to breathe, just a moment, he could collect himself. But it's getting worse. And they're watching him for every flinch, every sound of building panic. "Hnnng... g-gah..."

His teeth click shut when the groans slip through out of turn. No use letting them know how bad it hurts. Because it hurts bad, and... oh, he's going to beg. He can feel it coming, welling up. It's fine, it doesn't mean he's giving up, he can't help it, and that's fine- S-... s-stop it," He hisses, eyes squeezed shut. "Make it-t-t stop." His teeth chatter as he tries to spit it out just as hard as he tries to make himself shut up.