A/N: So this is totally, terribly not happy, but you asked, so here it is.
Rett woke coughing blood. His muscles ached and his skin burned, but he lay still and felt. There was no blood on his back. He listened carefully and heard nothing. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and glanced around.
He was in an empty, grey-walled room on a thinly carpeted floor—no windows, door in the corner. He forced his body to uncurl and forced himself to ignore the pain screaming through him as he did. He stood, trembling but able. He had practice.
Rett was almost seven years old, but in his short life, he had already learned how to stay under the radar, how to not, and how to hide his weaknesses. He stepped up to the door and listened until he was sure no one was waiting on the other side. He tried the handle. It was unlocked.
The little boy stripped off his bloody shirt and put it in a heap of ruined clothes he would need to replace later. He had school, and neither of the children were willing to wind up in protective services.
He crawled into bed beside his sister. Anna Kalien woke, coughing. This winter had been hard and very cold. She murmured softly, "Kiernan?"
Their mother had called them by their middle names before she died. Rett liked it when Anna Kalien did the same.
"Phone will be out," he whispered.
She lifted her head, frowning at him. "We need the phone."
Rett shook his head. "Dad would kill me if he found more money missing. We need the heat more."
"I'll be okay." But then she coughed again, shivered, and had to snuggle into him for warmth. She wasn't doing so good.
They were just kids, just six, and it was perhaps a miracle that Rett was a math genius, but even he knew, he was in over his head. "We need the heat," he repeated, hugging her.
His twin hugged back and fell into fitful slumber. Downstairs, their father drank away his paycheck.
A narrow hallway of slick, grey metal greeted Rett. Doors went up and down its length. He wasn't the only one, he realized suddenly.
Grimly, he frowned and started opening the doors.
Anna Kalien dropped a plate.
Rett's fork clattered to his own plate as he launched himself out of his chair toward his twin sister. She was tall for her age, both of them were, but slender. She curled up into a trembling ball too tiny for her own form. By the time their father brought down his belt, Rett was wrapped around her like a living shield.
He held on through the time that would have normally been given to breakfast. The beating was worse because Rett had added his own sin—by getting in the way.
When his hands touched the metal, the hairs on his skin stood on end. He felt the sizzle before he could understand it, then the surge. A rush of electric energy slammed through him and out of him, arcing like lightning into the adult trying vainly to herd a hundred children into the common area.
He hadn't meant to do it.
Rett realized with a sick shock that they were dangerous.
A tiny girl cried beside him, younger than he was. She was still sparking with arcs of white and blue power. The second guard checked his fellow and saw the girl. His face got the same look Rett's father did when he was angry.
Rett had practice. He threw himself over the girl, wrapped her in his arms, and found she didn't know how to ball up, but she knew how to hold onto him as he took the blows that had been intended for her and took the shocks she couldn't stop. He gritted his teeth and waited for blood.
"Hang on, pint-size," he whispered. "Hang on."
She almost cut off his breath completely, but she held on until the frightened guard stepped back suddenly, cursing at what he had done.
They were weapons. They were children. And they were completely out of control.
Kingdoms and Thorn Ficlet: Waiting for Blood
Rett woke coughing blood. His muscles ached and his skin burned, but he lay still and felt. There was no blood on his back. He listened carefully and heard nothing. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and glanced around.
He was in an empty, grey-walled room on a thinly carpeted floor—no windows, door in the corner. He forced his body to uncurl and forced himself to ignore the pain screaming through him as he did. He stood, trembling but able. He had practice.
Rett was almost seven years old, but in his short life, he had already learned how to stay under the radar, how to not, and how to hide his weaknesses. He stepped up to the door and listened until he was sure no one was waiting on the other side. He tried the handle. It was unlocked.
The little boy stripped off his bloody shirt and put it in a heap of ruined clothes he would need to replace later. He had school, and neither of the children were willing to wind up in protective services.
He crawled into bed beside his sister. Anna Kalien woke, coughing. This winter had been hard and very cold. She murmured softly, "Kiernan?"
Their mother had called them by their middle names before she died. Rett liked it when Anna Kalien did the same.
"Phone will be out," he whispered.
She lifted her head, frowning at him. "We need the phone."
Rett shook his head. "Dad would kill me if he found more money missing. We need the heat more."
"I'll be okay." But then she coughed again, shivered, and had to snuggle into him for warmth. She wasn't doing so good.
They were just kids, just six, and it was perhaps a miracle that Rett was a math genius, but even he knew, he was in over his head. "We need the heat," he repeated, hugging her.
His twin hugged back and fell into fitful slumber. Downstairs, their father drank away his paycheck.
A narrow hallway of slick, grey metal greeted Rett. Doors went up and down its length. He wasn't the only one, he realized suddenly.
Grimly, he frowned and started opening the doors.
Anna Kalien dropped a plate.
Rett's fork clattered to his own plate as he launched himself out of his chair toward his twin sister. She was tall for her age, both of them were, but slender. She curled up into a trembling ball too tiny for her own form. By the time their father brought down his belt, Rett was wrapped around her like a living shield.
He held on through the time that would have normally been given to breakfast. The beating was worse because Rett had added his own sin—by getting in the way.
When his hands touched the metal, the hairs on his skin stood on end. He felt the sizzle before he could understand it, then the surge. A rush of electric energy slammed through him and out of him, arcing like lightning into the adult trying vainly to herd a hundred children into the common area.
He hadn't meant to do it.
Rett realized with a sick shock that they were dangerous.
A tiny girl cried beside him, younger than he was. She was still sparking with arcs of white and blue power. The second guard checked his fellow and saw the girl. His face got the same look Rett's father did when he was angry.
Rett had practice. He threw himself over the girl, wrapped her in his arms, and found she didn't know how to ball up, but she knew how to hold onto him as he took the blows that had been intended for her and took the shocks she couldn't stop. He gritted his teeth and waited for blood.
"Hang on, pint-size," he whispered. "Hang on."
She almost cut off his breath completely, but she held on until the frightened guard stepped back suddenly, cursing at what he had done.
They were weapons. They were children. And they were completely out of control.