"Mama, Help me, please, I don't want to go!"

A laboured breath escaped his it's mouth, its hands balled into tight fists.

"I want my mama, I just want to go home, please!"

"Streik." The voice demanded. It always demanded. "Nochmal!" It hissed, the tone lowering. The voice was scary when angry, the voice never gave chances.

A series of resonating thuds sounded throughout the room, partnered with the voice demanding, always demanding.

"Stop," It snapped, "You're still below him soldat." The voice addressed the ramrod straight figure, the dim and flickering lighting showing the faint sheen of sweat on its forehead. The voice, its commander; the one who could kill it without a second thought. He turned, addressing two steadily built men, "take it away."

He stiffened before forcing his muscles to relax, it never ended well if he showed resistance. Tilting his chin towards the grimy and cracked floor, he waited until the sound of approaching heavy footsteps were behind him. Folding his hands behind his back, he inwardly winced when a soft click indicated they, once again, cuffed his hands. At least it was better than the collars he's seen others wear. The rough hands shoved at his shoulder, the bone sticking out from obvious malnutrition, guiding him through the hallways, he wished he could just REMEMBER them. They dragged him past other cages rooms, each tenant sitting still, barely blinking, waiting for their instructions. A faint sound filled his ears, he knew what it was instantly, the machine, it was what all of them feared. He couldn't help the memories that flooded his vacant mind of being strapped down, a loud whirring than feeling as if every single atom in his body was being ripped apart, one by one. Goosebumps trailed up his arms, the machine was in the next hallway, 'Please no, not again, I'll behave'.

With a jerk, he was pulled to a halt, the hands on his shoulders and wrists yanking the appendage back, 'which ouch-', before twisting him around to face the familiar, old, rusted door. The whole hallway looked to be at least from the 90's, a thought which struck some sort of unused emotion within the mutant. With another click and a harsher than needed shove, he was tossed into his 'room.' 'Classy' he thought with a silent snort before freezing. He never thought, he was never allowed to think, let alone think like... that. Why was his chest constricting? 'Don't close the door, don't leave me in the dark!'

"Mama, I'm scared, I don't like the dark."

The slam behind him startled him out of his... thoughts? He wasn't too sure what to call it, his mind was never not empty, it felt out of place, foreign, fake, familiar, and that... that is what scared him. With a sharp shake of his head, he turned his attention to the box-like room. There were no windows, the only way out was the heavy door behind him. He couldn't hear outside and the only light source was from the blinking red light from what he just knew was a camera. Shuffling backwards, he finally allowed himself to release the insistent tenseness in his back, noting his inflamed and throbbing back from his training. They put him against another experiment, one that happened to burn whoever it touched, trying to mould him into the worlds strongest being. Straightening out, he twisted his torso and cracked his back, wincing as his smouldered back and hip strained. It would heal, he knew this much. Sliding down the concrete wall to the ground, he turned his body towards the door, ready to stand to attention if anyone came through that door. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, the war of his thoughts inside his increasingly hurting brain quieted, though one stamped right over the gentle hum. 'I don't want to lose this, the only thing in the silence, I cannot let them know, freaks don't get to think,' before an artificial thought came to him as his consciousness slipped away, 'Wolf Spider at the ready.'

"Please, have you seen my son? I- I can't find him!" the woman was frantic, her long brown hair frazzled as she held onto the sleeve of a businessman. "He- He's four, this tall, he has brown hair; curly brown hair and brown eyes like mine. He was next to me, right there, I turn for- for not even a second and he was just-" she cut herself off with a choked sob, one hand releasing the important-looking man to cover her mouth. She could hear her husband further on, asking more pedestrians the same question. The man, to her shock, shrugged her off roughly, turning his nose up to the hysterical woman and strutting away, the names 'psycho' and 'lunatic' being thrown back at her.

With tears thoroughly streaming down her face, she turned rapidly to the flocking crowd, "Anyone, please! My son, his name was Peter, he's gone, I can't find him, help me, someone. Anyone!" she blubbered, reaching her hand out to anyone who was willing to come near her, which now that she noticed it, was no-one. Citizens formed a wide circle around her, they thought she was crazy. "I'm not crazy, please," she spotted a young mother pushing a pram a few meters away, sprinting over, she blocked her path, "Ma'am, please, my son, he's only four, he's gone! Help- help me, this is him, please!" she cried out, shoving her phone forward. Her home screen flashing a poorly taken photo of her, a man with black hair and glasses and a small boy, his front teeth missing, his unruly hair ruffled around his face and large brown eyes. The photo had been taken just minutes before her son went missing. Looking back up, the woman, Mary, noticed that the mother was scurrying across the street. Feeling her vision blur, she collapsed to her knees, a loud and heartbroken wail wrenching from her throat, her phone with the open picture being cradled to her chest, unaware of the pleads for his mama across the town.