Paint by Numbers
Let me be the first to say I can't remember ever having a conversation about the definition of consent when I was a kid. I knew that 'no' meant 'no,' but that's it.
Nate Parker
WC: 1584
Your next memory, if you can call it that, is of lying flat on your back on a backlit table. Manacles, sturdy and thick, clasp each of your limbs, but you doubt you could move if you wanted to. That old exhaustion was still fading, but the pain, dear Vis the pain, was still filtering through your body. Small shocks and jumps arced between your body, keeping your motor functions down.
You make quiet noises on the table, slight shrill whimpers as you process your surroundings. Where the previous environment had been wet and dirty, this was dry and sanitized. The slight turns of the head you could pull off showed you grey gunmetal walls that had been scrubbed clean, the same color, shape, and dimensions of the ceiling. Basic shelving lined the walls of the building, and one door lay at the wall in the direction your feet were pointed, a pressurized wheel lock keeping the door shut and secure
You remembered waking up, and the light, and Delos… the pain started to resurge, and you blocked it out as best you could. Scattered images of crates and carts remained, but nothing solid. Nothing coherent or chronological. Nothing until here, at least.
A sharp sound to your north interrupts your introspection. You crane your neck up and back as best you can, and spy a workbench. From what you can tell, metal plates and paints cover the area and floor around it, and you can see one thick, booted leg from whoever is working.
Then the humming reaches your senses. A deep workman’s hum, but not cold like… like the others you encountered. An enjoyment seeps through the deep baritone, telling of a man who enjoys what they do. It’s too low to make out any words, but intermingled with the studious sounds coming from the bench, it is obvious that this person is happy with how their work is going.
The humming continues unabated for a few minutes more, your existence obviously not a concern to the man. However, equally as obvious is how much his work is related to you. After all, you were the one lying on that table, in that work room. What could he be doing, you thought. Were they dismantling you? Delos had said something about part of you being broken, hadn’t he?
Blue lights start to echo through your form again, almost impossible to see against the light of the table you were strapped to. Something inside you was shifting, processing? It was hard to say, and only you would know really truly how it felt. But, in your words, it was the anticipation of an emergence.
Which was promptly shut down when the shock hit you.
Not as bad as when he had done it, nevertheless you felt the volts zap into you, and saw the manacles lighting up with energy as pain flooded your body. Your back arches and another set of whirling cries escape you. This was pain, as you saw it. It was torture and how could anyone want to do this to another person?
“Ah! I see why they’ve been calling you Cicada, now! You sound just like one, with them weird noises you've been making!” The man’s voice reached your ears as he stepped into view, your half closed eyes facing him as the pain danced across your body. From what you could tell, with your brain as addled as it was, he seemed to be a large rotund man, with an equally large ginger beard. It sprayed out in all directions, and paint and burn marks scorched down his arms. A manic smile, minus a few teeth, lit up his face as he looked down on you.
“But that blue light of yours is not okay, demvir.” He continued, shaking his head with a small laugh. “Don’t worry, I ain’t here to scrap you. You just need a little… touchin’ up is all.” He laughs again, and flips a switch that was held in his hand. The manacles go dark, and the pain, though still ever-present in your limbs, starts to fade. The exertion from screaming leaves you exhausted, unable to move much again. Which, you noted once more, should not be possible with your body.
But at least the pain is gone, you told yourself. That was a positive. WIthout it, you could actually think for a bit. And right now, with your limbs chained and yourself essentially held hostage, thinking was the only thing you had going for you.
The man chuckled again as you tried your best to remain calm and think, setting the control down as he spoke to you. “There we go. There we go. Just go with it, right? No need to hurt yourself, demvir.” You recognized an almost sickeningly affectionate tone in his voice, like he was addressing a small child, but with an undertone that should never be used with small children. You fought a shudder down. Think. You had to keep thinking. Figure a way out.
“Now, I suppose you is wondering why you are here, right?” He said to you, temporarily stepping out of sight. You hear a rustling of metal, and yet another blasted cart being wheeled out. “Well, Cicada, as they call you, I am what we call a reconditioner.” He hummed again as he spoke, and this time you could not repress the shudder as the cart was wheeled into view. “I take busted demvir like you and make them resale ready. I turn your old busted scrap self into a beautiful product, that I do.” He nods to himself.
The cart was something that, on the surface, seemed innocent enough. Various jars of paint set on the top layer, each with an attachment that would let him fill up some odd looking spray gun. Additional brushes sat next to it, presumably for line and detail work. It seemed that the palette was mostly whites and gunmetal greys. Sterilized, easy on the eye colors.
Underneath, various other tools sat. Welders, binders, wire cutters, and other various tools. Anything one would need to patch up a vehicle or airship, you noted. Sharing the space were various plates and mechanical bits that you could not place, but also assumed they would be useful for repairs or for prettying up an “inferior product.”
“It’s okay. We gonna make you the best there is. Even with your fucked up voicebox. Don’t worry. Daddy Vertox’s got ya.”
And that, with you there, on that table, made it incredibly obvious who or what exactly was the inferior product in question. Your guts, mechanical though they were, still managed to tie themselves into knots as the man who called himself Vertox touched a white tipped brush to your metallic flesh. It was chill, somehow, and felt slimy on you. You told yourself it shouldn’t. It was just paint, after all. But it still was. It felt wrong on your skin. Like someone was dousing you in bleached tar.
“White,” the man said as he worked, ignoring your low whimpers and distressed shrills, “will be perfect for you. You’ll be beautiful. A treasure.” He laughed, his own delight consuming himself. “Then I think an expressive plate will do, since I don’t have a replacement voicebox. Something that sort of reads your moods, so everyone can see how happy you are to be a good demvir.” He nods as he works, clearly speaking to himself, and begins ignoring you studiously.
And all you can do is cry and wait for it to be over.
Minutes, hours, or perhaps an eternity later, it is done. Your skin is now a perfect alabaster white, and a digital readout clogs your face. You can feel the extra weight all over you, but still cannot move. If you had tear ducts, you would probably ruin the white around your face from how awful it felt.
Dressed up, trussed up, you were made to wait like that as the coats dried, Vertox tightening the chains around you to the point where you could not move at all.
“Good demvir! You’re so beautiful now, with those wonderful blue eyes. Just have to get you used to making the right faces with them.” He giggles again to himself, obviously thrilled at your new appearance, and both of you know that that plate he had affixed to your face could do nothing right now but glare icy daggers at him. That spirit of yours, bereft of the exhaustion and fresh from the pain and anger, was not quite back but was still lying deep within you, came to the forefront for a moment.
In the coming weeks, the pain they put you through would bury it so far down, would hide it under the desire to not hurt and the desire for “a few good days” to break up how awful you felt. That spirit and fire would almost be lost. Would be replaced with a dull lifeless look at that they wanted all their products.
Out of all the things that you went through while in their care, burying your spirit is the one thing that I can never forgive them for.