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The steel of the table beneath his body is profoundly cold, impersonal and invasive all at once.
Tommy thinks this is what startled him into consciousness, a sharply taken breath rasping through his chest as he jolts upright. When he exhales again, he can't decide if he is imagining the smoke pluming out. And when he lifts his hand just to see, to make sure – is he alive? – he can’t tell whether the trembling in his fingers manifests from his abilities or just pure, unadulterated terror.
He is off the metal slab in a panicked blur, the white sheet wrapped around his hips, the overly starched fabric scratching against his bare skin, and oh god at least he’s up, he’s moving, he’s not dead, but… but when he slams up against the only feasible exit in the room, he can’t phase through. Trapped.
Imprisoned. Again.
Knowing better than to shout, to raise hell and clamor until he has no voice left, Tommy settles for crushing the side of his fist against the door—hard steel, just like the table, just like the rest of the stifling room. It really looks more like a mortuary than a cell. The place you go after the lab, when they tried just a little too hard with you, dissected just a little too far, broke you. He can’t quite believe, can’t quite fathom, that there is no way to manipulate the matter around him into an escape route. Not after everything he survived; when he could have vaporized those bastards for what they did to him, very nearly did, if it hadn’t been for—
—the bile rises hot in his throat and he chokes, keeling over under the weight of his panic and seeing stars. He tries to blink them away, not wanting to be found in a vulnerable heap in the floor, tries to conjure images of his brother and the others instead, conjure strength and solidarity.
Yes, he tries to blink; does blink.
Tommy thinks this is what startled him into consciousness, a sharply taken breath rasping through his chest as he jolts upright. When he exhales again, he can't decide if he is imagining the smoke pluming out. And when he lifts his hand just to see, to make sure – is he alive? – he can’t tell whether the trembling in his fingers manifests from his abilities or just pure, unadulterated terror.
He is off the metal slab in a panicked blur, the white sheet wrapped around his hips, the overly starched fabric scratching against his bare skin, and oh god at least he’s up, he’s moving, he’s not dead, but… but when he slams up against the only feasible exit in the room, he can’t phase through. Trapped.
Imprisoned. Again.
Knowing better than to shout, to raise hell and clamor until he has no voice left, Tommy settles for crushing the side of his fist against the door—hard steel, just like the table, just like the rest of the stifling room. It really looks more like a mortuary than a cell. The place you go after the lab, when they tried just a little too hard with you, dissected just a little too far, broke you. He can’t quite believe, can’t quite fathom, that there is no way to manipulate the matter around him into an escape route. Not after everything he survived; when he could have vaporized those bastards for what they did to him, very nearly did, if it hadn’t been for—
—the bile rises hot in his throat and he chokes, keeling over under the weight of his panic and seeing stars. He tries to blink them away, not wanting to be found in a vulnerable heap in the floor, tries to conjure images of his brother and the others instead, conjure strength and solidarity.
Yes, he tries to blink; does blink.
He blinks awake and promptly tumbles to the floor of his room, tangled in bed sheets and drenched in cold sweat. Alertness creeps over Tommy like ice on a body of water, and his lungs deflate.
A shaking hand reaches up for his alarm clock and he watches it combust, expressionless, just because he can.
There will be no missions today.
