Their Souls Dangling Inside Out from Their Mouths [Open]

[nunpunching]

Who| Punchy and Open
What| Punchvox is in da house.
Where| Training Center
When| Before gas leak.
Warnings| Avox, mentions of torture.



It took a while to break the new Avox in. There was the physical brutality, of course, but the psychological regimen had to be implemented, and that took a while. It's been several weeks since the poorly-formatted message took over all of the network devices and televisions. Punchy hasn't been seen since then.

The boy who shows up in the Training Center now seems smaller, divided by some imperceptible distance from the name he once held so proudly. The spiky red hair is cut short, clean and functional like the other Avoxes. His eyes are lowered, body no longer held with casual swagger but instead like furniture covering, existing only to hide and protect what blunt form is beneath. His hands shake slightly as he takes a sponge and a mop and starts to clean up the room where the weapons are, weapons he flinches at when he sees them. He avoids the glints of blades as if they're the eyes of angry accusers or worse, stern teachers.

His fingers drum for a few beats, just a slice of time, on the handle of his mop. Just for a second, something winks out. Then he's back to work.

Comments

[nunpunching]

He tries not to think about it as communicating. He tries to think about it as taking orders. As an Avox he's supposed to disappear - and that, he realizes, is the last thing he's ever wanted to do. He's never wanted to melt into crowds and walls and floors; he's wanted to stand out, to be celebrated, to be recognized.

Now there's nothing he craves more than to cease being entirely.

He taps his fingers, a beat that echoes some long forgotten diss rap, the last pieces of himself stained indelibly into his brain. They scrubbed the important parts; some of the quirks escaped intact.

[formersurgeon]

He taps, and she tilts her head.

"Good."

Good. That's good. At the very least he can hear her and understand her.

"Okay, tap once for yes, twice for no. Do you remember your name?"

She wants to know how far they went in "reprogramming" him.

[nunpunching]

He taps once. He still remembers who he is. Punchy - Matthew O'Connor - Matty - just because he remembers that person doesn't mean he can reach it. It occurs to him that this new person he's become is another stage in his life, one without a name, because Avoxes aren't supposed to be individuals.

But he's still Punchy. He had that name emblazoned on his chest too many times to forget it. And he remembers bristling whenever anyone called him Matthew and rolling his eyes when Flora called him Matty. Those parts of him can't be taken away, even if they take his voice and his spirit.

[formersurgeon]

"Good." That's a start, something they can build from. He remembers his name, hopefully he remembers things that are connected with it. Tendrils of his former life. She doesn't know enough about him to explore those, though. She'll have to find someone who does. For the moment, though, she'll work with what she does know.

"You recognize me. Do you remember my name?"

[nunpunching]

Punchy nods. Part of him wishes he could explain, wishes he could tell her it's still him, he's just learned not to talk, to keep his head down, to avoid the Peacekeepers again-

-but when he thinks about how to tell her that, the memories of that awful office building return, of being injected with hallucinogens and having his tongue cut out.

He goes back to mopping.

[formersurgeon]

Okay, good. If he knows enough to remember her, there's probably still a good deal of him intact mentally.

But physically? He's dressed like an Avox. But his silence could be psychological, right?

She moves closer, and reaches out to touch the back of his hand gently, watching to see how he reacts before she starts to delve into more painful things.

[nunpunching]

He winces slightly, but doesn't recoil from her. He keeps his eyes purposefully averted, demure in a way that doesn't fit his tall and muscular stature.

[formersurgeon]

She debates briefly with herself, whether or not to ask. Because asking will doubtless be painful, and she doesn't want to cause him more pain. But she needs to know what they've done.

She leaves her hand where it is, gentle on the back of his.

"Did they do it? Did they make you an Avox?"

[nunpunching]

Because he's asked a direct question, and only because he's asked a direct question, he nods. And stares at the wall behind her shoulder.

[formersurgeon]

Oh God.

The sadness on Joan's expression doesn't even begin to convey the anger and grief she feels for what they've done to him. If they were at home, she would track down the people who did this to him and make them pay. But those people are the "justice" here, and a profound sense of powerlessness overcomes her. She wants to tell him they'll pay, but she can't. She wants to tell him she won't let them hurt him again, but she can't.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice quiet but tight. "I'm going to do whatever I can to help you whenever I can. If you ever need anything, you can always come to me."

She wishes those words didn't feel so terribly empty.

[nunpunching]

It's the fact that he can't say anything - not even that he's tongueless, but that there's this new specter of fear, that they'll take him back to the Peacekeeping Center, that they'll get her in trouble and do the same to her as they have to him - that makes up his mind.

Since she's not giving him a direct order, he goes back to mopping, and turns his back.

[formersurgeon]

He turns away, and Joan takes a step back, looking at him with a sad wariness, fighting back a twist of hurt at the rejection. She's powerless here. She knows it. He knows it.

"Take care of yourself," she says softly, before turning as well and heading for the door.