~~~
01. Taken.

     You don't know why they grabbed you specifically.  In your terror, you
remember offering to give them a list of people whose parents actually made money,
but they said, no, you'd do, and you've spent the rest of your life wondering why.

~~~

     You're kidnapped after your shift at Disney, which just makes the whole
fucking day that much worse.  Happy to finally be free from your dead end job, you're
pressed face first into the pavement and dragged into a van.  It's one of those shitty
things that only happens to you.  

     And you're scared, though you don't fucking want to admit it because the
people are scary, and if you're weak at all, you think they'll cut off your toes and mail
them to your mom.  You're really worried about that, about what they're going to tell
her, and if it's your ear she's going to have fall out into her palm when she opens that
package, which you know is going to drive her into that looney bin she says you're
putting her in.

     You express your concerns, and they laugh at you.  

     You do feel better, though.

~~~

     It's a fucking lousy three days, when you're left wondering if you're going to
live or die.

~~~

     By the time they finally let you out of that van and lead you blind-folded into a
building that smells like cleaning products, that glides smooth like ice beneath your
sneakers, and is cold as sin against your arms, well, by the time that rolls around
you've lost it.  

     "Calm down, kid, you ain't here to be hurt," one of those men who took you
whispers, and you nod, tears beading along your eyelids.  You don't really believe him. 
You really didn't deserve this, and you miss your life already.  You know you're not
getting it back.  The twisted feeling in your belly makes that clear.

     When you're allowed to see again, the room is small and white and barely lit at
all, but there's a bed and a toilet, and that's all you need.  You've been pissing into
cans for days, and your bowels are a twisted knot.  It's not taking much to make you
happy right now.

     The door is tightly locked and throwing your body against it isn't helping you
find freedom.

     You don't stop.

~~~

     Your belief in God is strong enough to make you realise you probably deserve
this, and you're guilty, you can't help it, even though you know you've been as good
as you possibly can be in your life, and you're a nice guy, people like you.  You pray
for awhile, to see how it feels, but it's lonely, and you give up.  You're a fucking lousy
Catholic and you know it.  

     They bring you books and tell you to be patient, they're making space for you,
and then you'll be feeling a lot better.  You take the novels numbly, thinking you really
haven't read for fun in years and you might as well start now.  Sleeping and shitting
really aren't enough to keep you interested and sane.

     At night, there are sounds in the hall, and they frighten you.  

     You miss your family so much you cry yourself to sleep.

~~~

     Everything is so white, so bleak.  It's shitty because you love colour.  Your
hair is bright red because you love it so much, and you look like a splot of paint
against the wall because of it.  Sometimes, you stare at your hands against the room
and appreciate the contrast.

     You spend a lot of time jerking off, though it's hard and you think you might
be impotent.  It's hard to get aroused when you're terrified, but sometimes, it's the
only thing that makes the time fly by.  You are, after all, only twenty-four, and it's
your right as a man to get yourself off anywhere you please if it's going to save your
mind.

     But it's really just a whole lot of white that you don't need to see.

~~~

     It's the military, you learn later on in the weekend.  You were taken by your
own government, which just confirms every X-Files episode you've ever watched, and
that sucks because you actually voted this year.  You're sure, in a roundabout way,
you did this to yourself.

     The experiments they do on your aren't painful so much as they're annoying,
poking stuff down your throat and measuring your ribcage every five minutes like it's
changing when everything's stagnant and still.  You aren't changing, and you're
ticklish.

     You're told to hum loudly, and you do it, if only because you're still convinced
they're going to kill you, and your mother always told you to go along with demands
when they were life-threatening.  They poke, and they prod, and that anal probe you're
expecting never actually comes, and you thank God for small favours.  

     The doctors get mad at you for joking every three sentences, but you admit
you can't help it.  If you don't try and make yourself happy, you're gonna cry, and
your dad always said never to cry in front of people who are in the position to kick
your ass.

     They stab you with needles for the next hour.  

     You shut up.

~~~

     The way you figure it, you've been locked up for almost two weeks.  Your
throat is raw, but you're still stocky and big.  They feed you well, and you appreciate
it.  You miss your dad's cooking and hope someday he'll make you spaghetti again.  

     The thing is, time is flying, and you don't understand why.  You don't do
anything but read and sleep and masturbate, which is really the life, you realise, if you
weren't so scared most of the time.  One of the guards is nice and sometimes comes to
talk, but he always leaves, and you wonder how much longer they're going to do this
to you.

     When they come to move you someplace else, you actually fight it.

     You don't want go.

~~~
02. Pixie Man.

     The first face you see is a new one.  You groan and rub your head because
fuck, your head hurts, and you're feeling like you're going to puke.  You remember
screaming and clutching at your door while they tried to drag you out, then a stab of a
needle in your thigh, and you mostly recall hitting your head on the doorjamb as you
fell.  It hurt like a motherfuck.

     This new face is older than you and very pale.  The blur on top of his head
looks black, and his eyes are big and dark, pretty crazy under a shady brow.  Your
eyes are snapped open, and he's staring at you while you stare back, sometimes
looking at the ceiling instead.

     "You speak?"  He asks, and you nod but don't say anything.  "Drugged?"

     "Think so," you manage to drool out, your lips moving in six directions at
once.  Your tongue waggles, and the man smiles at you, trying not to laugh.  "Really
not funny," you mutter, your mouth flopping about stupidly.  "Sucks."

     "Let's get you standing," he says and attempts to haul you to your feet.  Your
legs buckle, but he's pretty strong for how short he is, and you stay upright, shaking,
but barely.  "Room's not too big, but we can walk around a bit, work this out of your
system."

     You know you shouldn't trust this guy.  For the past week, you've been
jerked around by everyone, given hope then stripped of it, touched in ways no one
should be touching you, but he doesn't look like the rest of them.  He looks pretty
insane.

     You feel pretty much how he looks.

~~~

     It's later that he lets you sit against the wall, your face in your hands, and you
may or may not be actually crying while he watches you from the bed, his fingers on
his lips.  He's staring, but then he's been staring from the beginning, and you cry
harder, but muffle it in your knees, scared and tired and wanting your mommy.

     "Listen," he finally says, "it's not so bad here."

     "Yes, it is," you sob and feel like such a goddamn girl.

     "You'll get used to it," he adds, "like, it'll stop hurting in a couple weeks, and
they treat us good, feed us and dress us and keep us sorta happy."  The pixie man
leans forward, balancing tediously on the edge of the bed, his legs crossed.  "You'll
like the other guys, too.  They're cool.  Just. stop crying."

     You sniff loudly and wipe your nose on your arm, which is disgusting, you
know, but you don't really have anything else.  You dab at your eyes with your fingers
and try to calm down even though you're two steps from hysterical.  

     This whole situation is so fucking shitty; you can't believe your luck.

~~~

     Your eyes snap open, and surprise, the room's white but it's dark now. 
You've been sleeping, but you're pretty sure you fell asleep on the floor and now
you're on the bed.  You think you're alone, but he's on the ground, watching you.
staring.

     "Why are you here?"  You ask, and it's the first calm thing you've said in
weeks.

     "Helping you get settled," he replies, "making sure you don't off yourself. 
And well, I live here, too.  We're roomies.  But mostly, it's so you don't go crazy
before your time."

     "Oh," and that's kind of nice, means they're looking out for you.  "I'm Joey."

     "Chris," he says, and offers his hand.  You shake it firmly, even though it's
cold and slimy, and his nails, bitten roughly across, scratch your skin.  "nice to meet
you."

     "Yeah," you say, "wish the circumstances were better."

     He doesn't say anything.  You didn't think he would.

~~~

     When he does say something, it isn't what you expect.  Really, not at all what
you expect.  You expect him to ask how you're doing or to tell you to fall the fuck
back asleep or make small chit-chat.  But he says, "I can suck your dick, if you're into
that sort of thing."

     And you stupidly ask, "why?"

     "You're freaking," he says, "and I want you to calm down."

     "Isn't there a better way?"  You ask when inside you're saying let him suck
your goddamn cock because your hand is just not a viable option anymore.  "I mean, I
don't know you.  You could. you could bite it off or something."

     "Good point."  He looks at you.  "So that's a no?"

     "Um, yeah.  A no."

     But fuck, you actually considered it for a minute there.

~~~

     The better way, he insists, is climbing into bed with you and pressing against
your back.  You're tense and tight and not at all relaxed, so he thumps you in the gut
with his fists and tells you to "calm the fuck down, kid.  I'm not gonna rape you.  I
shouldn't have even said anything."

     "This is so goddamn shitty," you reiterate.  "I suck so fucking badly."

     "It seems fucked up now," he says, "but it isn't so bad.  All you'd ever need
they'll give you, you just gotta ask, and you don't do anything fancy for it.  It's not
like they're really asking you to do all that much.  You'll have everything you need,
man."

     "I need freedom."

     His arms tightens over your chest, and he whispers, "well, everything but that."

     And that just blows, you decide, and you don't open your mouth again. 
Instead, you press your eyes together and hope that when you finally snap out of this
fucking acid trip that you're back home in Orlando, getting ready for work.

~~~
03.  Lance.

     The door, you find out the next morning, isn't even locked, but there's a guard
there, who says, "fifteen minutes."  You walk with stiff legs to the bathroom, resisting
the urge to run even though you're going to piss yourself in a moment if you don't get
there soon.  When your bladder's being emptied, you look up and realise you're not
alone.

     "Hey," he says, a new face with a quiet voice, and you smile crookedly.  "Do
you speak?"

     "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"  When only two people have asked
you, but they're the only two people you've seen, save for the guard you pretend you
don't, so they're automatically your entire world.  "Yes, I speak.  I spell well, actually. 
I'm an actor."

     "Oh," he says, a sort of whisper, "aspirations of Broadway, then."

     You frown.  You didn't want to be reminded of that.  "Who are you?"

     "Lance," he says, "and you're Joey.  Chris says you're in denial."

     "I'm not in denial," you snap, "I just want to go home."

     Lance smiles sadly.  "If you say so, Joey."  Lance folds up his towel and walks
past you, stopping to say, "the shower is down the hall.  If you want to take one, you
should go now.  Your fifteen minutes are almost up."

     "Where is it?"  You ask, "I didn't see anything."

     "I'll take you to it," Lance says, so you follow him.  

     You really don't like how he smiles at you, though.

~~~

     You shower quickly.  It's only you in there, and of course, there's Lance, who
stands there and watches.  Just, looks at everyone, even you.  He doesn't hide what
he's looking at either, and you glare at him.  He doesn't turn away.

     Back in your room, Chris is sitting on the bed and staring at the wall.  

     You say, "I met some guy named Lance."

     "Ah," Chris says, "Lance."

     "Is he gay?"  You ask, "because he was looking at me."

     Chris laughs loudly then presses his hand to his mouth and looks stunned for a
minute before shaking his head clear, a smirk on his lips though you can tell he's trying
to be serious.  "Lance is nothing, Joey.  Just let him look."

     "He was staring," you reiterate, "at me. naked."

     Chris's eyes cloud over, and he's that crazy sort of angry that you can feel
constantly gnawing at your belly.  "And I said, let him.  It's all he has anymore.  Just
let him look, all right?  Just, let the poor kid look.  Please."

     You nod dumbly.  You don't understand, but whatever, really.

     You don't understand anything anymore.

~~~

     A day later, you're told you can have your shower at ten, and you're desperate
to leave because Chris isn't speaking to you, just sleeps a lot and disappears for hours
at a time.  Whenever he comes back, he looks years older.  He frightens you.

     Lance is there, standing on the outside of the showers and watching you.  His
eyes settle on you, and he smiles, like it's no big thing.  What surprises you is that you
smile back, taking off your white pants and folding them neatly.  

     His eyes follow you into the water, and you try not to act like it bothers you,
don't attempt to cover up your dick or anything.  It's not like he's eyeing you, really,
just watching you shower, his lips a straight line across his face.  

     Afterwards, he smiles, and says, "thank you."

     You smile and say, "you're welcome."

     You're such a fucking gentleman.

~~~

     The next time you shower, Chris comes with you, probably to make sure
you're being nice to Lance, even though you said you were.  When you get there, a
tall man with long, dark hair has Lance cornered, and you can see Lance is scared.

     "Leave him the fuck alone, Richardson," Chris hisses and grabs the guy by the
dick and twists, like it's fucking nothing at all.  You visibly cringe as the guy drops to
the floor, a loud thump against ceramic tile.  "I'll kill you, if you touch him."

     "Fucking freak," the guy mutters, "you fucking freak," but he crawls out of the
bathroom on his hands and knees and doesn't push it further.  Chris turns to Lance and
touches his hair, strokes it gently until Lance looks up and smiles shyly.

     "You all right?"  Chris asks, and Lance nods.  "Good."

     "Are you taking a shower?"  Lance asks.  

     "Yep," Chris says and gets undressed, doing it slowly while Lance watches,
and you're fucking blown away.  You think you missed a fucking memo or something,
especially when Chris tugs on Lance's pants and says, "you, too.  No one here but
Joey and me, and Joey's cool."

     "I like him," Lance says, "okay," and gingerly slides off his pants, the same thin
white ones you wear.  Like you, he folds them carefully and smiles at Chris, especially
when Chris takes Lance's hand and pulls him into the water.

     For some reason, this scene scares you.

~~~

     Where Chris is bitting and abrupt with you, he is kind and patient with Lance,
who is meek and happy while Chris showers in front of him.  You watch how Chris is
careful of him, how Chris lets Lance put his hands on his body, and you're shocked at
how Lance touches him.  It's not sexual; it's a form of worship.

     When the fifteen minutes is up, Chris towels himself dry and waits for you. 
You move slowly, like you're suddenly a lot older, and you think it must be the
confusion.  You don't understand what's up with Lance; you only know that you're
glad it's not you.  

~~~
04.  Double J.

     "Joey, Joey, wake up," Chris says, and you think he's been whispering for a
long time because he's touching you, and he hasn't really touched you since that first
night.  You blink at the harsh light, and Chris makes you sit.  "They're coming for you,
all right?"

     That gets your attention, and you freeze, tremble hard.  "Who?"

     "Them," he says, like it means everything, and you just wish someone would
sit you down and explain.  You're in a state of constant confusion.  You've never felt
so stupid in your entire life.  "Just do what they say, and you'll be all right.  Don't be
an ass."

     "Okay," you say numbly, and feel like crying when they come to take you
away.

~~~

     They make you sing for awhile by yourself, aided by a record that always skips,
but you recognise the songs because they're old and your dad used to sing stuff like
that to you.  Your eyes burn while you force out the words.  You miss him a lot.  

     When your voice is ready, they bring you into a room with a microphone
hanging from the ceiling and two men, though one is mostly still a boy, standing
against the wall.  They look up when the door locks behind you, and you turn around,
wanting out.  

     "Hey," the young one says, "we're JustinandJC."

     "You're. um.  Who?"  You ask, because it came at you kind of fast, and you
were kind of expecting to be beaten up or something, kind of like how that dark-haired
guy tried to get Lance yesterday.  You think you've been marked by associating with
Chris.  

     "JustinandJC," the kid repeats, "we haven't seen you here before, man.  You
new?"

     You nod mutely.  This terror in your belly is becoming a constant presence in
your life.

     "You look it," he says, eyeing you.  "We guess you're with us, then.  You
rooming with Chris?"  You nod again, wondering if this is actually the part where you
get punched, but he merely hums, "then you're definitely with us.  That's cool.  We
needed more sound."

     The silent guy with him nods, and you finally look at him.  He's really pretty,
you think first, and skinny, like a goddamn stick.  He catches your eyes and smiles
shyly, and waves a bit, a flutter of thin fingers.  He's so strange.  

     "What's your name?"  You ask, and he blinks at you, smiles but doesn't laugh,
though you think he might because whatever you've said is obviously hilarious.  The
younger guy is laughing hard, holding his stomach.  "What?  What?  I don't get it."

     "We're JustinandJC," the kid repeats, "we told you that."

     "But you're two people," you say stupidly.  

     "We know," he says, grinning, "we're JustinandJC."

     It's a mindfuck, so you shut up and say nothing more until they come into the
room with clipboards and stools, arranging you around the microphone and giving you
notes to hit.  They aren't songs so much as they're pure music, but you can handle it. 
Your voice has always been your weapon, and you love making noise.

     Then the quiet one opens his mouth.

~~~

     "Keep singing," one of the men barks at you, and you do, even though you're
pretty sure your pants are wet and you can't stop shaking.  The young one touches
your arm while you sing, holds onto you, and it's comforting almost, even though
you're still crying.

     When it's over, the quiet guy is vomiting into a silver pail, and there's blood all
over him, huge globs of red streaking down his chest, and you're led away from the
scene, pulled away because you're so scared you can't move.  You just need someone
to explain something, anything to you, and if they would, things would be fine.  This
silence is killing you.  

     When they throw you back in your room, you climb into the bed and sob when
Chris gets too close.

     He leaves you alone.

~~~

     In the morning, you run to the showers and wash the scent of blood off your
skin.  Lance is there, like he always is, and you hate him a lot more that morning that
you have recently.  You were almost used to him until now, and you yell at him.

     "Go away!  Get the fuck away from me!"

     His eyes go wide, and he leaves the room.  You feel like shit for a second or
two, like you kicked a wounded puppy or something really mean like that, but then
you remember the blood, and how you can practically taste it, the scent on you is still
so strong.  

     You return to Chris with burned skin.

~~~

     "Justin says it doesn't hurt him," Chris says later, "like, JC probably doesn't
even feel it."

     You look up from where you have your head buried in your arms, your knees
pulled to your chest and your back flush against the wall.  "What're you talking
about?"  You mumble, and your mouth feels like cotton, all dry and rough.  "Shut up."

     "The blood," Chris says mildly, "JC doesn't really feel it much.  It's, like,
fucking gory, and I freaked too, the first time I saw it.  But it's just a thing, you know? 
A side effect.  We all have them, eventually.  You will, I'm sure."

     "I don't understand at all," you confess.

     Chris blinks.  "What?"

     "This," you sniffle loudly, and fuck it, but you're crying again.  It doesn't
matter though, you don't give a shit anymore.  "All of it.  Like," you gesture wildly,
blindly, trying to make him understand how much you don't know, "I don't get it, all
right?"

     "They didn't tell you," Chris says, "shit.  I thought you knew."

     You crumble at that, pressing your fists into your eyes.  "I want to die.  I hate
this place."

     "No!  No," Chris says, and he's there, all over you and clutching your
shoulders, shaking you firmly.  You keep your eyes closed; you don't want to see the
insanity in his eyes anymore, "no, Joey!  You don't die!  I'll tell you, I'll explain it. 
Just. don't die, please."
     
     But you think you might be dead already, deep inside.

~~~
05.  Explanation.

     The key point in all this is sound.  That celebrated part of you that your parents
praised and the girls loved, your voice, this is what did this to you.  You can sing, and
it's this reason that you're here now.  For the first time ever, you hate the fact you can
carry a note.

     "They're trying to make," Chris tries to explain, really thinking on his words,
and his brow wrinkles deeply.  He's already explained once, but you said it sounded
like a bad Sci-Fi flick and you couldn't possibly believe it.  "All right.  Okay. 
Subliminal messages.  You believe in them?"

     "No," you say flatly.  

     "It works, you know.  It's.  It actually works, and like."  Chris rubs at his face,
and his eyes are darting around while he struggles to make this work in your head. 
"You remember the new Mickey Mouse Club?  All those kids singing and dancing and
shit?"

     You nod.  "I went to school with them.  I sat in the audience a couple times,
too," and remembering that brings a smile to your face.  That was a great time in your
life, and you're clinging to it because things are so fucking crappy now.  

     "Do you remember Justin and JC?"  Chris asks, and he's looking at you.  His
dark eyes are still and deadly serious.  You think about it but shake your head slowly. 
You've never seen either of them before in your entire life.  "JC was on that show for
four years."

     "But I don't."  You falter.  "I don't remember him."

     "That's the point.  You're not supposed to remember him because he doesn't
exist anymore.  You, Joey, don't exist anymore.  Your family is living their life, not
realising you're missing, because you were never there to begin with.  It's not our
experiment, I mean, we do something else, but that guy in the shower, Richardson? 
It's his and his group."

     "You're not making sense," you whisper, and you feel raw, numb.

     "They used sound to erase you.  They used sound to erase JC and Justin.  Me,
Lance, no one remembers us anymore.  It's subliminal.  JC and Justin were edited out
of their lives.  This is all about sound and the things they want it to do."

     "So I'm.  I don't exist anymore?"  You ask slowly, trying to wrap your mind
around this because this shouldn't work.  You've heard about things like this, like
learning to speak French in your sleep, but it's not supposed to work.  

     "Only in here," Chris says, "in here, you're real."

     But you don't feel real anymore.

~~~

     He gives you an hour to think that over, and you believe him.  You'll pretty
much believe anything now, you realise.  You've been here for at least a month now,
maybe more, and you can't believe you wouldn't have been found yet, unless no one
was looking for you.  You're never going to taste your dad's spaghetti again.  He's
not your dad anymore, and you're not his son.

     "How do they do it?"

     Chris looks up at you.  "Radio.  Television.  Movies, background noise in
malls, televangelists, anything, everything.  Right now, they're only using it for small
things.  Who to vote for, who to forget, but someday."

     You blink hard, keeping your eyes closed.  "How long have you been here,
Chris?"

     "What year is it?"  He asks.

     "Two thousand."

     Chris presses his lips together, and you know the answer isn't going to be one
you want to hear.  "About ten, I think.  They took me when I was twenty, I remember. 
I didn't even get to finish my semester at school.  I was the first."

     "Who was second?"

     "No one you'd know," Chris says, and it's abrupt, and you think if you were to
push it further, Chris would punch you or something, do something mean like that
because he is mean like that, except to you and Lance.

     So, of course, you're not stupid enough to pursue that line, of course you
aren't because Chris is all you have and you know it, so you go on, desperate to know
everything, anything.  "Third?" You ask, hesitant.  "Who was next?"

     "Lance," Chris says, and it's sad how he says it.  "He was.  Two years, I think,
later.  Fourteen, just a kid, really.  Just a fucking baby.  Justin and JC showed up about
six years ago. There's others, another experiment, but I don't really. know them." 
Chris scratches his arm, scritch scritch scritch over dry skin.  "They're even more
fucked up than us."

     "I'm not fucked up," you say, but Chris laughs sadly and says,

     "Yeah, Joey, you are."

~~~

     Chris paces for awhile after you eat dinner, a whole chicken between the two
of you, and baked potatoes and veggies, with chocolate cake for dessert and two
beers.  So you aren't starving, and you appreciate that.  You wish Chris would sit
down, though.

     "So what do we do?"  You finally ask, "why do they make me sing?"

     Chris turns to look at you and sits at the small table pressed into the corner, the
wall on two sides, you on the other.  You serve him the drumsticks of the chicken
because he likes them, and he pokes at the food.  "They're trying to make a weapon."

     Your stomach drops.  "What?"

     "Like, germ warfare, you know, but with sound.  They want a sound that can
kill," Chris mutters, bringing a piece of chicken to his mouth and chewing on it,
gnawing at it, before putting it back.  He wipes his greasy fingers on his pants, leaving
stains.  "and that's kinda shitty."

     "It is," you agree and eat your dinner, or try to because you feel really gross
right now, really sick to your stomach.  "That's.  I don't have a say, right?  So I
shouldn't feel guilty or anything, right?  Because. um."  Your life is really fucking
awful right now.  You regret thinking getting dumped by Kelly was the end of
everything.

     Chris looks at you.  "Just, don't think about it, all right?"

     "I'll try," you promise.  

     It's never going to go away, though.

~~~

     That night, you can't sleep.  You feel scared, so fucking scared all the time,
and you're trying to be a man about it, trying to do it without whimpering like a
fucking child whenever the cold descends on you, but it's really hard.  If you didn't
have Chris, you'd probably have hung yourself by now.  

     You toss and turn then stare at Chris sleeping a few feet away, fucking buck
naked like usual and snoring softly.  When he goes quiet, you know he's awake.  If
eyes are on him, he knows it, but he doesn't say anything.  

     "Um," you say but aren't quite sure how to ask.  You aren't sure if you just
want to hear his voice or maybe ask him for a hug or whatever, even if it makes you
seem like this scaredy-ass girl.  "Could you. uh.  Chris?"

     The thing with Chris is he's kinda small, and he moves fast, so he's next you
before you really know it.  He's breathing on you, he's so close, and he peers at you,
his features exaggerated in this dim half-light.  He's given you your explanation, now
you have to give him his.  

     "Uh," you say, and there's no good way to say it.  For all you know, some
night soon, this crazy guy who's your whole goddamn life is going to kill you in your
sleep, but he's all you have, and you fucking know it.  "I can't sleep.  Can you. um. 
With me?"

     Chris nods and climbs over you, sliding under the covers, slipping between you
and the wall, and okay, yeah, you knew he was naked, and maybe you should have
specified he should put on fucking pants or something beforehand, but it's too late
now.  

     "Need anything else?"  Chris asks, and you fucking know what he means, you
don't even have to ask for explanations or clarifications or anything, and you can't
even pretend you don't get it.  It's fucking tempting, so you don't say anything at all. 
"Do you do that?"

     "I guess," you say, "in theory.  Never really have," and it's like code, you
realise.  You're not even sure if that's what he's talking about, but you think you're
right because his hand is on your belly, and he's so fucking naked and hot against your
back.  "Why?"

     "Don't do it with straight guys," Chris murmurs in your ear, and his leg is bent
and folded over your thigh.  "especially not here.  It fucks them up even more, and
you're gonna need all your head to deal with this, you know?"

     "The theory is," you whisper, "I'm not a straight guy."

     "Yeah," Chris says, "so go to sleep, and maybe later, you know?  Someday. 
And be nicer to Lance, all right?  You made him cry today, and that was shitty of you,
man.  It doesn't matter how fucked up you are, you leave him be, all right?"

     You forgot to ask what the deal with Lance is, but Chris is already asleep, and
you figure you probably have years left to ask anyway.  Chris snores in your ear, and
you fall asleep to it, gone from your head, if only for a little while.

~~~
06.  Song.

     So you're pretty close to handling this situation, okay?.  You're waking up,
and you're all right, and fuck, but you aren't all right now, getting the shit beaten out
of you by two guys, both different shades of blond, and one's really mean looking,
while the other is just short.

     In your defense, though you've never been a fighter, you do get some good
hits in, but they fucking waited until you were all soaped up before hitting you, and
you're fucking slippery.  Your soap is long dropped, and fuck, but this kicking in your
ribs thing kinda really hurts.

     Lance, the little fucker, runs off the minute the shit starts going down, and now
you're bleeding all over the place, trying to fight back, and pretty much just getting hit
harder for you efforts.  Your instinct says to lay down and play dead, but the stupid
part of you that controls you way too often thinks defending yourself is smart.

     You hear him first before you see him, then he's just this blur of pale skin and
dark hair, but the sound, you cringe.  Chris is high-pitched, you know this, but
whatever's coming out of his mouth isn't human.  You hurt a lot, though, so it's
almost inconsequential, and you feel Lance's hands on you, pulling you out of the
showers.  

     "Are you okay?"  Lance asks, and you nod even though you're so fucking not
at all.  "Okay, um.  Stay there, okay?  Chris is. I think Chris might kill them," Lance
confesses, patting your head helplessly, and he disappears again.

     You still have all your teeth, which is a little thing you're happy for, but you're
already bruising, and your nose is just gushing blood.  This is so not fucking good at
all; you've only been here a goddamn month and a half.  You really can't have enemies
already.  

     The mean one runs by you, his arm hanging limply at his side, and the short
one emerges right after, covered in blood.  You cringe, you can't fucking help it,
because you really would rather not be pounded to a pulp again, but you no longer
matter, it seems.  

     "C'mon," Chris says and pulls you to your feet.  You teeter unsteadily, pretty
sure you're going to pass out or something, but Chris tightens his hold on you, and
Lance is there, too, helping you stand.  "You look like shit, Joey."

     Like you hadn't figured that out already.

~~~

     When you wake up, Lance is sitting next to you, his face at your level because
he's on the floor and you're on the bed, feeling like warm shit.  He's stroking your
hair, and he smiles when you blink at him, tasting blood in your mouth still.

     "Ugh," you manage to moan, and you cough, trying to sit up, but fuck, you're
dizzy, and you think you might pass out again.  You breathe deep and burrow into the
pillow.  If your mom was here, she'd have ice and kind words.  Lance just plays with
your hair.

     Your ribs are aching where they kicked you, and you feel short of breath. 
Maybe something's broken, but you don't want to tell anyone if it is.  You know
Lance and Chris are your friends, but the others, the guards, those guys in the shower
who seem to have it out for you and Lance, you don't trust any of them, and you think
if you leave this room walking wounded, you might not come back.

     "Chris is trying to get you something, so you feel better," Lance whispers,
stroking his fingers across your forehead, and it's nice, you realise, to be comforted
like this.  "Does it really hurt?  Are you in a lot of pain?"

     "A bit," you confess, and it comes out forced, like you have to squeeze it out.

     Lance looks at you, and his eyes are so strangely green.  "I can talk to you,
Joey.  I can sing, if you think that would help," he murmurs, peering at you, and you
stare at him, back to not knowing things again, back to not really understanding this
world you're in.  "Joey?"

     "Whatever, man," you say, "whatever you want."

     "Okay," he says, and you start in the bed, tense.  His fingers on your face firm,
fold over your cheek and hold you down.  "Shh," he breathes, "just relax, okay?"  And
it's fucking weird because you're shivering, but you're hot.  His voice isn't quite a
whisper anymore, it's getting louder, and you realise you thought the murmur was
normal.  "A little bit at a time."

     "What are you," you say then stop, a warmth spreading through your belly.

     "I'm talking to you," Lance says, and it comes out strong, like a normal voice
and not this plaintive little mew, not like you're used to him sounding.  It's strangely
different from his raspy whisper, but it's real, at least.  You bit your lip, your face
contorting -- your ears are tingling, and it's kinda scary for you.  "Do you want me to
sing for you?"

     "Anything," you gasp out, twisting your hands in the sheets.  It does feel good,
erases the pain like he promised, but it feels almost. sublime. sensual, like pleasure you
can't pinpoint but can feel in every living cell of your body.  

     Whatever song he's singing, you don't recognise it, but his voice is actually
bass, deeper than you imagined it would be, and it rumbles through you.  You're hard,
grinding into the bed, and you lie there, still, as if waiting for another attack, but Lance
just strokes your hair and sings to you, like this is normal, like he expected you to do
this.  

     His voice is a weapon, you finally understand, because you're already half-
conscious from the pleasure, and you can't think, can't reason, can only feel, and he
knows it.  Touches your chest, and it hurts you in a sensual way, digs under your skin.

     The pain fades.

~~~
07.  Four.

     You come to a couple days later, and Chris is sitting at the foot of your bed,
his back to you, a line of pale skin.  Moan, and he looks at you, peers over his
shoulder.  The relief is visible, and he grabs you, digs his fingers into your back and
fucking hugs you.

     "Ow," you finally say, and he lets go, lays you back down gently.  "I feel
strange."

     "I know.  The guards got me some drugs, to make you feel better, but they
were kinda strong, knocked you out for, like, ever.  I thought I killed you," he
mutters, and his eyes meet yours, dark and dangerous.  He's hiding something, isn't
telling you everything, but it all comes out in time, and you have the time to wait for it.

     "Lance helped," you say.

     Chris looks surprised.  "He didn't tell me that."  Chris plays with your hair,
flattens it across your forehead, and you let him.  "So he.  I mean, you heard, then? 
How he sounds, normally, or abnormally, whatever."

     "It was really. um.  His voice is," and stumble because what can you say,
really?  His voice was like having sex except nothing really happened, and he only
touched your chest.  "It's.  Is that his thing, that he does?  His sound?"

     Chris nods.  "Yeah.  He's kind of embarrassed about it.  He wasn't, well, he
didn't used to be that bad.  Like, he was deep, but they've fucked around with him,
used drugs and shit.  Wrecked his body, but his voice, his voice is something else."

     "His body?"

     "Yeah," Chris says, "he doesn't.  Well, he doesn't work like that, anymore. 
You were right when you thought he was gay.  He is.  When he first came here, he
was, totally virginal but knew he was into guys.  But, like, by the time he was sixteen,
all those fucking chemicals they pumped him with just. His mind is still so alive, but his
body is just gone."

     "Oh," you whisper, and feel sick.  "Is that why he. I mean, is that why he
watches?"

     "It's all he has left," Chris says, "he's fucking docile now, harmless really, just
likes to look, but the other experiment, Four, hates him.  And me," Chris adds and
laughs a bit, like it's too serious suddenly, and he's not sure how to cope.  You're
shaking.  This is kinda terrible to think about.  "And well, you, too."

     "The guys who beat the shit out of me, you mean?"

     "Experiment IV.  Nick and Brian were the guys who got you.  Kevin was the
asshole who tried to get Lance.  There's a fourth guy, AJ, who I don't see too much. 
He's all right," Chris says, "he won't, like, try to kill you in the showers or anything."

     "Maybe I won't shower alone anymore."

     "Yeah," Chris agrees, "maybe you won't."

~~~

     Later on, it could be hours or minutes or maybe even a whole day, you're
never quite sure, sirens start going off, and you jump up, shaking.  Chris folds his hand
over your shoulder, squeezes, and you look at him.  

     "Probably just some shit going down," Chris says, and his hand moves down
your back, pressing deep into your skin.  It's calming, makes you calm, but you wish
the lights would come on and let you see.  When he moves behind you, though, you
don't stop him, and he leans against your back, his legs lining your own.  

     "I don't like this fucking place," you say, like it needs to be said, and Chris
nods against your back, the wiry mess of facial hair scratching into your skin.  It
stings, and maybe you'll admit it isn't all that pleasant, but you don't mind him being
close, not when you're fucking trembling.

     There's a pitter-patter of noise against the door then it opens.  Lance peers
inside with wide eyes, and Chris waves him over.  Lance is warm when he settles next
to you, tucked against your side while Chris touches the back of his neck.  Lance
flinches, whimpers a bit, and Chris takes a harsh breath behind you.  

     "Are you hurt?"  Chris asks, and Lance nods against your chest, and the
wetness you feel dripping down your skin, that's probably blood.  Poor kid, you think,
even though he's so much older than you in every way but age.  "Jesus fuck.  Let me
look at you."

     "I'm all right," Lance says, "doesn't really hurt all that much.  And I helped,"
Lance looks up at you and smiles, and he isn't harmless, despite what Chris says about
him.  "For awhile.  Then Nick punched me in the face."

     Chris studies Lance, and you study Lance, and it's true.  His lip is split pretty
deeply, and you can't really believe it doesn't at least sting, but Lance doesn't seem
bothered by it, not even when Chris pokes at it with his fingers.  It's times like this
when you remember why you thought they were both insane at first.  

     They pretty much are.

~~~

     When it's quiet again, and you can finally think, though it's still hard because
your ears are ringing and you know you should be sleeping but aren't really tired
anymore, Chris says, "so what's the deal, Scoop?  What went down?"

     "JC was attacked," Lance says, and his voice is this ominous whisper.  "By
Four.  Well, not by AJ, but I saw him in the hallway.  He looked at me and smiled,"
Lance explains, and you wish you could laugh at how he says it, but it's not especially
funny.  "He was in the shower by himself, Chris.  Justin is really sick again."

     "Fuck," Chris swears, "fucking Four.  Goddamn fucking bastards!  Can't they
just let the damn thing go!  Fuck.  Fuck!"  And Chris just roars it, hops off the bed and
kicks the wall with bare feet.  You know it hurts, you see him curse under his breath,
so he moves onto hurling fists, just pounding drywall.

     "I'm so fucking sorry," Chris murmurs, and Lance scampers to him, just as he
collapses in the corner and presses his fingers to his eyes, whimpering, and he's crying,
you realise with horror, your rock is crying.  "I'm so goddamn sorry about all of it."

     You look away.  It's too sad.

~~~
08.  Hierarchy.

     "Experiment I," you say, and Lance grins at you, shaking his head, and you'd
want to strangle him if he wasn't so fucking harmless most of the time, like a goddamn
puppy.  "C'mon, Lance.  Chris isn't around.  You can tell me this shit, all right?  I'm
Five.  You're."

     "Five," Lance says, "and Chris, too.  And Justin and JC."

     "All right.  And those bastards, Kevin and Nick and AJ and.  That other guy."

     "Brian," Lance says helpfully.  "They're Four."

     "Yet, we're the only ones here, right?  There's no one else?"

     Lance shakes his head.  "Nope.  Just the ten of us."

     All right, you failed math, okay?  A couple times in your life you weren't so
great with numbers, and you admit it, but you can fucking add, and you know Lance
knows he's screwed up because he slaps his hands over his mouth and looks horrified. 
"Ten, Lance?"

     "I gotta go," he whispers, "please, please, don't tell Chris, okay?  I gotta go."

     Lance scurries out of the room, and you wish you could follow him, chase him
down, but the guards won't let you.  Lance roams, Lance is harmless, but you're big
and hunted and pretty close to crazy these days.  You aren't allowed to leave.

     You stare at the wall and wait for dinner to arrive.

~~~

     Chris still isn't back and it's been a whole day, and you're so fucking worried,
you think you're going to make yourself sick.  You're already shitting liquid and
unable to eat, and Lance isn't coming back, either.  You think you probably scared
him, which is a stupid move on your part.  Lance seems to be the only one in the know
around here.  He'd be able to tell you where Chris went.  

     The guard you like the most, you think his name is Lonnie but you're not sure
and too scared to ask, brings you breakfast and JC, who he holds by the upper arm. 
JC blinks at you, and he looks really fucked up.  His face is all swollen, and he's
jumpy, kind of dancing in place.  He's so skinny, too, with his crazy ass hair standing
up everywhere and his blue eyes darting around.  

     "Hey, JC," you say, and you try and make it sound nice because you like him,
even if he bleeds when he makes noise, and that's kinda screwy in a really awful way. 
You can't hold it against him, of course, it's just one of those things about this place.  

     Shyly, JC waves at you a bit and looks around.  

     JC isn't too great for company, you know, the speaking thing kinda makes
conversation difficult, but eventually, he climbs onto your bed and curls up against
you, pressing his lips together, and it's comforting, even if you really don't know him
for shit, but this place makes quick friends of people.

     And even faster enemies.  

~~~

     "Do I know you?"  You ask suddenly, mostly just to crack the silence.  JC
barely even breathes, and he's squirming, like he's not comfortable or anything, but
he's not moving away, and you don't understand what's going on in his head. He
stops, though, when you ask that, and he looks up at you.  You aren't horribly
surprised when he nods.  

     "Were we friends?"  

     And he nods again.

     You think maybe, if you asked him some things, that maybe he'd answer.  You
think he's pretty honest, so you add, "if I ask you some things, will you, like, try to
give me answers, maybe?"  JC studies your face, and his head moves again, up and
down.  "Okay.  Um.  Experiment I.  It was one guy, right?"  JC's head bounces. 
"Who?"

     JC lifts his hand and curls his index finger and his thumb into each other,
making a C.  "Chris," you breathe, and he nods.  "Experiment II.  Chris and Lance?" 
But JC shakes his head, his eyes looking away from your face, and you obviously
haven't found the pattern.  "Chris and Lance were Experiment III, then?"

     JC looks back at you and nods, slowly, like maybe he doesn't want to, and he
can't give you that missing name, that missing person, because he can't speak.  Or
rather, he can, and you just don't want to make him bleed, not for the simple fact that
you're curious and Chris avoids talking about it.

     It's not really a big deal, you think, and you sit back, tucked into the corner,
and JC looks at you and presses his fingers against your lips.  "I won't tell Chris you
told," you say quietly, like you need to whisper in this empty room, and JC smiles
crookedly.  You gather him into your lap, not minding the sharp angles or bony points,
and you breathe deeply, the scent of him pervading the room.

     It's only later that you realise he smells like blood.

     You think maybe he screamed when they hurt him.

~~~

     If you were to speak to your parents right now, what would you say?  Would
you tell them what you've become, or would you lie about it?  Are you ashamed that
your country is using your voice as a weapon, or are you a patriot and give yourself
freely?

     Do you even know the answer to any of that?

     Or are you lost?

~~~

     You wake up and you realise you are a slave.  JC sighs in his sleep, and there's
blood on your chest, where his mouth has been open against you while he dreams. 
That's his side effect, and you've begun to wonder: what's yours?  

     Are you gonna bleed from the inside, too?

~~~
09.  White Noise.

     JC is gone by the time you wake up, and you feel cold and empty.  Chris isn't
back, and when you go to the shower, Lance isn't there, either.  Maybe they're all
gone, you think, maybe no one's coming back.

     Maybe this is the nightmare you've always thought it might be.  Or maybe, you
realise, maybe you're in the hospital, and you're dying of something, like Anthrax or
mad cow disease, and maybe you're hallucinating.  You like the idea of that, and you
humour it for awhile.

     Maybe none of this really ever happened, and maybe your mom is taking care
of you, and you're still her son, and she knows your face.  God, you love your mom,
but you're not sure you ever told her that.  You must be the worst son in the whole
world.  

     You wish you weren't so alone right now.

~~~

     "Get up, kid," the guard says, and you stand, unfold yourself from your place
against the wall and blink at him.  He grabs you by the arm, fingers digging into your
armpit, and pulls you along.  You can walk, but you don't wanna.  

     You're brought into a glass room, and god, it's small, or maybe you're big, but
whatever. There's not a lot of space, but there's a stool, and you sit down.  Lifting
your eyes from your fascinating feet, you jump, but JC's crazy face smiles, and he
flops his hand around waving.

     "Jesus," you breathe and look around.  Justin is folded over JC, his arms
draped over his shoulders, and he opens his eyes and just stares.  Yeah, he's sick, you
can tell immediately, because his skin is mostly green and his eyes shine.  JC pats his
forearm, and he closes his eyes again, resting against JC's back.

     To your right is Lance, who's tapping on the glass and watching Chris.  Chris
is, well, you're not sure what he's doing, but it looks like he's screaming or something. 
But he certainly doesn't look happy at all, and when he looks at you, you actually step
back and hit the glass door.

     This is you in your glass wonderland.  

~~~

     A fat guy, who knows your name and looks at you like you are just a thing in
his experiment (and well, you mostly are, but so what?  You're still a person.  You're
still Joey), comes in and fucking shoves a needle in your neck, and it fucking. hurts.  

     "Why're you," you start then stop because well, you know, it's not like you
can remember why it's such a big deal anymore.  You grin a bit and falter on your
stool then fall completely off.  Fat Man is yelling at you, but you know what?  It's not
like your legs are listening to you or anything, it's not like you can actually peel
yourself off this glass floor.  

     "I can cancel you," the fat man says, and you look up at him, seeing colours
everywhere, blurring streaks in the air.  It's pretty and terrifying, and you think you
can almost see through him.  "You're just a test.  I can cancel you."

     You look over, and Lance is on his knees, peering at you, and he looks frantic,
looks almost normal in the way he's freaking out.  Lance is always so calm, so seeing
him like this, it makes you the opposite of him.  Not sure if you can, you drag yourself
upwards, all of your weight teetering on an unsteady stool, and you murmur, "I'm,"
take a big gasp of air, just to get it into your lungs, "fine."  

     But you're not at all, not with the blood racing through your ears and the
sudden drop of paint into your life.  It's so fucking beautiful, but you know it means
you're one step closer to the others, and you think, that by the time this day ends,
you're going to be just like them.

~~~

     It only stops when JC passes out from blood loss, crumpling onto the floor
while Justin bangs on the glass.  The swirls of colour are still everywhere, and you
think the shock of red on white pants it really quite inspiring.  It almost makes you
want to sing.  

     The sounds you made, they're still pumping through your veins, and you are in
love with your voice, your skin, your neck.  If you can feel like this, all those hours of
wanting to die and wanting to go home and wanting your life back, those don't mean
anything at all.  

     Just so long as you can feel happy for a second, you're fine.

~~~

     Lance whispers, "be careful," when they lock -- turn the key, and trap you
inside with Chris -- the door.  You're still high, still shaking, but coming down,
crashing almost.  It feels like a moment after bad sex, when you're so fucking ashamed
of what you've done that you ache with it.  You're sore inside, and you feel almost
dead.  Your throat hurts.  

     Chris's voice is raw and mostly gone, and while you collapse on the bed,
panting, he's pacing, running, a bundle of energy that you suspect even he doesn't
know how to deal with.  You catch his leg when he passes, and he stares at you for a
long, long time.

     You don't know why you think this is going to help, you're pretty sure it never
solves anything, but you're feeling ugly, and you're seeing ugly, and you just want to
feel something better than that, see something gorgeous.  So you take off your shirt.

     "Joey," he whispers, a rough scratch of sound, and maybe it's a protest, and
maybe it's not, but you don't care, so you slide down your pants, try not to be
embarrassed.  This is a guy, and you really haven't ever thought about it, but fuck it,
you know?  "Joey."

     "Shut up," you say, "just. Shut up."

     "Very romantic, you fucking sweet-talker," Chris rasps, "so what?  What do
you want?"

     "You," and it's a whisper, all right?  It's quiet and scared and maybe it looks
like you don't know why you're doing this, but you know, and you know you're
telling the truth.  It is him.  "I just.  Want you, okay?  Just. shut up and stop pacing."

     "You don't know what you're doing," Chris says, "what you're getting into."

     But it's a chance you're willing to take.  

     You miss the beauty.

~~~
10.  Shining Happy.

     You lost your virginity when you were sixteen years old, to a girlfriend you
had for nine months.  She was a good Catholic girl, and you were a good Catholic
boy, but you did it anyway.  You remember how she bled, whimpering while you tried
to be gentle.  

     You wonder, will you bleed, too?

~~~

     You don't speak, and neither does he.  

     It's the silence that makes it comfortable, that lets you stay perfectly still as he
moves towards you, taking careful steps, those eyes cutting you to the core.  You're
not hard, not at all, which isn't good, because you need to be.  

     He presses his thumb against your chin and drags it, slow, so slow, down your
neck, the dip in your chest, down your clenched belly, and you stretch into it, held up
by two straight arms, trying not to shake.  

     How strange it is that you can still hear song in your head.

~~~

     Under his white shirt, the skin is pale, like it hasn't seen sun for a decade, but
the hair on his chest (that oh so fucking manly chest) is black, like coal, like the eyes in
his head, which are sometimes yellow in light, but disappear in dark.  

     The skin of his hip looks soft, hairless, not like the rest of him.  The pants,
always too big on him, slip away like a smooth breath, and he stands there, like he
expects you to turn away, but you don't, don't think you want to.

     Between your legs, desire stirs.

~~~

     You wonder, will you be a girl if you ask him to kiss you?  Or is it better to
take it, grab him and force those lips to open.  It seems strange to you, to not have him
at least pretend you're doing this because you met at some improv show, laughed over
beers, then went home together, without pretense, without fear.

     "Chris," you say, and really hope you won't have to beg, and he looks at you,
leans forward and breathes into your mouth, lets his tongue stretch out and touch your
lips.  Your fingers tighten on his arms, and you lean up, afraid to let him push you to
the bed.  

     But when his weight settles over you, you lie back.

~~~

     That first touch makes you jump, and you breath deep and think about ripping
his fingers away from your dick, because fuck, you thought you were straight, and
he's so fucking insane, and maybe you don't want this after all.

     But you're hard, leaking over his fingers, as he sits over you, playing with your
cock, and you know, you can tell, he's done this before, knows the male body, knows
you.  He keeps one hand curled against your chest, and you breathe, keep breathing,
and try not to let your eyes roll back.

     And you sure as fuck don't make a sound.

     You don't want him to know how much you like this.

     How beautiful it is.

~~~

     You hold his jaw while he blows you, feel it roll in your palm, and you look at
him, watch his eyes.  Your fingers brush his neck, settle over the swallow of his throat,
and his hands pinch your hips, his eyes narrow.  You touch his hand, twine your
fingers with his and squeeze.  When he pulls back, his lips are shining, and that's you.  

     You're shining happy people.  holding hands.

     Ha.

~~~

     When he kisses you, something in your chest jumps, and you grab at him, suck
at him, moan at him.  It hurts, so fucking bad, to make sound, but there's this way that
his tongue works against the roof of your mouth that makes you think about groaning
loud.  

     But you don't.  You simply open yourself wide and let him in until he won't fit
anymore.

     And then you make room.

~~~

     Somewhere along the line, you stop feeling like an experiment.  This is you,
you understand, with a male lover, in a room that is your home.  It might not be the
home you wanted, but it's yours, and so is he.  

     You say, "Chris, I almost feel normal."

     And he laughs, and kisses your neck.  

~~~

     So yeah, it fucking hurts a lot when he's topping you, but you actually argued
over this with him and demanded it be you, like you have something to prove and
maybe you do.  You can take it, though, you're strong enough to take it.

     It's nice when he fits, when you relax and let him in there, and you're just a
great big fucking puzzle, a couple pieces of a huge whole, and there's you, and there's
him, and you're fucking on your bed, joined at the hips.  

     You breathe his name into his ear, and when he smiles, he looks almost normal.

     Sane.

~~~
11.  Murder.

     You thought you were safe with Chris, you thought there was safety in
numbers, but you were wrong.  In the early morning, covered in jism and sticky,
stinky, you and he wander off to the showers, laughing at yourselves.  

     You didn't expect them to be awake that early.  

     Didn't expect them to be waiting.  

     Ready to kill you.

~~~

     They go after Chris first because he's the fighter and you're not, but then it's
you, your moment in the spotlight.  Nick is pounding his fists into your face, while
Brian and Kevin hold Chris against the ground and wail on him.  AJ smokes, watching,
and he kneels by your flailing arms and presses the stub into your flesh.
     You scream because you don't know what else to do, and you choke on your
own blood, gagging with your mouth open and bleeding, and you wait, you wait for it
to be over, or for you to die, hoping the scar isn't too deep, hoping it won't hurt that
much.

     It takes a long time for anything to happen.

~~~

     When you were thirteen, you got pretty badly beat up by this kid on your
street, who didn't like the fact you were into drama.  He always assumed you were
gay, and you weren't then, aren't now, but.  He hit you, a lot, and broke your nose
and you wrist.  

     Remembering that, you're pretty sure something's broken now, when they
finally stop and move back, talking to each other and giving Chris one last kick to the
balls before leaving you in the spray of water.  Around you, the sea is red and angry.

     Reaching out, you take Chris's hand.

     It's warm.

     You hope that means he's alive.

~~~

     "Jesus, Lance, help us."

     You open your eyes, and you notice it's dry, but you're still on the cold tile,
still holding onto Chris's hand.  Lance peers at you, pokes at your face, and you moan
loudly to tell him that fucking hurts and could he not do that again, please?  The crazy
fuck.

     "We'll take him back to our room, that's what we'll do.  Right.  And fuck,
Lance.  Help us.  We can't carry them both.  They're too heavy for us."

     "I can walk," you mutter and crawl your way up the wall, your legs bowing
under the pressure.  "Just. gotta take a shower and shit."  And Lance turns on the
water, always so fucking helpful, and you fold over him, convinced you're going to
fall.

     You don't stay conscious much longer after that. 

     It kinda fucking hurts again.

~~~

     "We can kill them," Justin is saying, and you hear him, close, like he's got your
head in his lap and is stroking your hair, like your mom would do when you felt like
shit, but you're in a bed, pressed next to Chris, and feeling terrible.  "Do it first, so
then they can't hurt us.  There aren't important, anyway, not like we are."

     "Murder is wrong," Lance says, "it's in the bible."

     "Fuck the bible, Lance.  They're going to murder us, you know they will. 
We're tired of living scared, Lance, and we don't want to do it anymore.  We'll fight
back, if you won't."

     "They're right to be angry," Lance whispers, "I understand why they're mad. 
Chris."

     "Chris only did what Howie asked, you know that, we know that."

     "But it doesn't make it right," Lance mutters, "it doesn't make it right."

     You close your eyes, and breathe.

~~~

     You wake up to JC petting you softly, his lips twisted in a crooked line while
he feels your face, and he smiles at you when you blink, moving his fingers to Chris's
hair, humming in his throat.  His lips are ruby red with the sound of it.  

     "Joey?"  You look at Justin, and nod.  Why, yes, that's your name he's saying. 
"Thank god.  We weren't sure you'd be all right.  They totally broke your nose, man,
but we think it'll heal okay.  Chris woke up this morning, too.  You're going to be
fine."

     "Why do they. they want me dead?"  You gasp, because it hurts, a stinging
pain in your ribs, and you wonder if they checked for that, for cracked bones.  It really
fucking burns, somewhere deep inside.  "What did. did Chris do?"

     "It isn't our place to tell you," Justin says.  "Chris should."

     "Chris won't," you breathe.  "I asked, and he won't."

     "I killed him," Chris says beside you, cutting Justin off, and you jump, because
you forgot he was there, was alive and listening to you.  "the guy before you.  I killed
him."

     You blood cools and you shiver.  "Why?"

     "Because he asked," Chris mutters, putting his hands over his face, like it'll
erase him, like you won't be able to see him, and he takes this deep, ragged, painful
breath.  "because I owed him too much to say no."

     "You stopped me," you say, not understanding, but not surprised, either.  It
explains everything, and all you ever wanted was to know, be in the know.  It doesn't
make sense to you, though.  "when I said I wanted to die, you said no."

     Chris looks grim.  "I learned my lesson."

~~~
12.  Houdini.

     "We can run," Justin says, "we can get out of here and run away."

     "Don't be stupid, kid," Chris replies, "it's impossible."

     Justin steps forward, but JC grabs him by the hand, holding him back.  Your
fingers do the same thing to Chris's wrist, cling.  Justin sits back on the bed, and JC
folds over him, curled in his lap. "Nothing's impossible.  We won't know until we try."

     "I know," Chris says, and it's dark, deep and angry, "because I've tried."

     "With Howie?"

     "At the very beginning," Chris admits, "before it drove us mad."

     You can't remember the beginning anymore.

~~~

     When the lights flicker off in the hallway, one by one by one, and it's
nighttime, you lie there, waiting for something to change.  Justin is whispering to JC,
speaking to him in a conversation you can't hear.  Chris lies next to you, stiff. 
Somewhere, Lance is sleeping, exhausted from all the excitement.  He reminds you of
a dog, sometimes.

     The room is bigger than the one you usually live in, with three beds, and you
understand this must be where Lance comes from, too.  You look around,
understanding that the dark changes things, and Chris puts his hand over your
stomach.

     "I'm not a scary type of insane," Chris whispers. "Not all the time."

     "I know," you say, "nothing is changed by me knowing."

     Chris doesn't say anything.

     You turn onto your side and tuck your thigh between Chris's legs, ignoring the
sting in your chest from the bruises.  It hurts, but you want to look at him, watch his
face, while you ask questions.  "Did you love him?"

     "Yeah," Chris says, sniffing, and you touch your fingers to his hip, rubbing.
"The drugs they gave him, to change his voice."  Chris bows his head and closes his
eyes, but you still watch him.  "His side effect was the worst.  It was eating him alive
from the inside, like a cancer.  They would bring him back after a session, and he
would just be half-dead, delirious from the pain.  He didn't want to live like that."

     You nod and understand why.  No one should have to live a life of pain if they
don't want to, you always supported that notion, and it's why you're still alive now. 
You aren't in pain, so there's no reason you can't cope, but you know Chris, for all his
guilt, would do the same for anybody, even you, to save them from suffering.  He's
just that type of guy.

     "Do you know what yours is, yet?"  Chris asks quietly, afraid.

     "Um.  Colours, I think," you say slowly.  "Like, when I sing, it's like. colours,
everywhere.  It's a trip, kinda nauseating, really fucking terrible to come down from,
but okay.  Could be worse," you add, shrugging.  "It's okay.  I think I got off all
right."

     "It might get worse as time passes," Chris warns, touching his hands flat
against your chest, bare skin against bare skin.  "I was never this crazy or violent, back
when it first started.  I think you would have liked me, before I lost it."

     "I like you now."

     Chris smiles.

~~~

     It's a little bit later when you become aware that JC and Justin are fucking in
one of the other beds.  Chris is touching all over your chest, careful of where you're
bruised, and even when there is pain, it still feels good.  Sometimes, he kisses you,
tenderly, like a lover.

     You lift your head, and Chris grins.  

     "Are they. together?"

     Chris nods.  "Obviously, Joey."

     "Huh," you murmur, loudly enough to be heard, but they don't stop, and you
can see them, kinda, where the dim light coming in from the window hits naked,
sweaty flesh.  It definitely seals one thing in your mind, though.  You obviously aren't
and have never been straight, and you don't know who you thought you were fooling.  

     You find it very beautiful.

~~~

     "We have to get out of here," Chris whispers later, still not asleep, and you
realise, he rarely sleeps.  It's just luck that you're awake with him, listening to him
talk.  His fingers are moving over your back, easing the pain in a tiny way.  "But I
don't know how."

     You don't know what to say to that, so you don't say anything at all.  Silence
is an answer in itself, and Chris nods, like he understands, like he knows what you
mean.  It's true.  You'll all die if you don't escape, and you'll all die if you do.  

     The question is, which death is worth it?

~~~

     You sleep a lot for the next few days, with Chris against you, mostly awake,
but you open your eyes three times to find him unconscious, breathing into your ear. 
You like to think that if this was the real world, and you still existed, this would be
your life.  Chris would make a pretty good boyfriend, in the way that he would fight to
the death for you and is extremely talented in bed.  

     In your perfect life, you would have a wonderful job in a Broadway play, and
would be famous, but not too famous, just recognisable.  Chris would do something
strange, like DJ in local clubs at night and design clothes the rest of the time.  You
would live in a barren apartment, with a bed and a couch, surviving on pasta and
takeout.  

     You would probably be happy.

~~~

     Justin and by default JC plot ways to escape, and you realise he's smart for a
kid.  He isn't more than twenty, but he seems to understand things.  Every suggestion,
Chris shoots down, but Justin isn't giving up.  You can tell he's stubborn.  He'll come
up with something.

     It can't be that hard to disappear.

     You've all done it once before.

~~~
13.  Time Passing Slowly.

     In the meanwhile, they make you sing, together and apart.  Sometimes, you
sing with Justin, other times with JC.  Sometimes, you sing on your own.  Whatever
they are trying to find, they haven't found it yet, and you hope they never do.

     Chris and Lance are woven into the melodies, high and low, but you sometimes
hear them on their own.  It doesn't really affect you to hear them, not like it does to
those outside the experiment, but they bring in people, drifters, and keep them in a
room where you can see them.  You watch as they hear the sound, grotesquely
fascinated as they fall apart.

     Chris makes them shake and feel like animals, and they want to kill, punch their
hand through glass and see how long they bleed.  Chris makes them want to feel pain,
while Lance forces them to feel pleasure.  JC presses his hands to his ears when Lance
is audible, and Justin looks ill, and you, you just sit there, watching those nameless
people writhe on the ground, alive between their legs, insane with the need to feel
gratification, unable to think, just mad with it.

     Of you all, Chris and Lance do the most damage.

     You wonder how they can stand it.

~~~

     You stay in the room with Justin and JC and Lance.  Slowly, your body heals,
and you feel alive again, warm against Chris, who still doesn't sleep and seems distant
at times, like he's gone from his head to some place better.  You want to ask if you
can join him.

     It sometime later when Chris touches you at night, slides a semi-cold hand
under the waistband of your pants and cups your dick.  You still, aware of the others
in the room, and Chris peers at you, asking permission.  It's not like Justin and JC
don't screw in your presence, but it seems strange to you, like it shouldn't be shared
yet has to be.

     You let him peel off your pants, leaving you naked and cold, then he strips
down, quickly, darting under the covers and lying over you.  You relax immediately,
this familiar press of body something you remember from the week before, when you
weren't wounded and trying to think of methods of escape.

     Silence is your friend, and you try to keep it near you, barely making a sound
when he slides against you, cock hard and wet against your stomach.  You lifts your
arms over your head when he runs his palms up your sides, extending the trip, and you
arch your back, grinding against him and loving how he throws back his head.  

     They must be able to see you, and if they can't, you feel like announcing it. 
You feel so unseen these days, so forgotten, that you want them to see you when you
feel alive and real, like a person again and not just a voice.  You don't mind that
maybe they'd stare at your big body or thick cock or desperate arms.  You just want
to be seen.

     "Hey," Chris says, and you open your eyes, though you didn't know they'd
shut, and Lance is standing there, hovering over you, watching.  There's a look in his
eyes, and it seems almost sad, but you don't understand how he'd know what he's
missing, being fourteen and all when he showed up, unless. 

     "Um.  Chris?"  

     And Chris looks at you, and you glance at Lance then back at him, thinking
Chris wouldn't, but maybe he would, because what would it matter, with nothing to
lose, especially when Lance was going to lose everything?    

     "You and Lance?"  You venture quietly, though Lance can hear you and looks
away.  

     Chris nods, unapologetic, but he would do that for him, would sleep with a guy
at fourteen to make sure he didn't miss out on anything in life.  The side effects start
small, you know that, so maybe Chris knew what Lance was going to lose early on.  

     Chris would have been twenty-two, younger than you.

     Lance was just a baby when they took him.

~~~

     Chris is still straddled over your hips, and Lance is now kneeling, looking
away, but you touch your hand to his face and draw it back.  Gently, you take his hand
and put it on your belly.  His hands tightens, his fingers spread, and Chris leans down
to kiss you.  

     "Thank you," Chris says in your ear, the softest whisper, and you kiss his neck,
aware of his hands in your hair, and Lance's hands on your stomach, your sides, your
hips.  It's weird, but it's Lance, and somehow, to you, that makes it all right.  

     "Hey," Chris says, quiet, "get up here and lie next to Joe."  And Lance does as
told, always does what Chris asks, and slides warm and soft against your arm, smiling
his sad, sad smile.  You wish, suddenly, that this would make him happy, but you
know it can't.  

     You don't think you could live without pleasure.

     Some days, it's all you think you have left.

~~~

     Chris mixes pleasure and pain, and you don't think he can tell the difference
because he sits on you, sinks onto you, without any preparation, without that hand
cream he uses with you.   It hurts him, but he never lets on that it does.  You wish, just
once, he would take the pleasure on its own, like you want him to have.

     Lance lies next to you, face tucked against your neck, and he's sleeping,
oblivious to the fact you're fucking Chris, inside him, where it's hot and tight and
strange.  Justin and JC must know, must listen to you like you listen to them.  

     You are overly conscious of who knows and who doesn't.  

     You hope that those other guys never find out because you understand Chris is
your death sentence, and by not being stronger and letting him get this far under your
skin, this love you have for him will give them permission to hate you.  

     You wish your life was normal.

     You'll do anything to escape.

~~~

     You begin to wait for time to pass, eat, sleep and fuck, and wait for the time to
slowly tick away and for Justin to come up with some way of escape that Chris just
can't find.  You shower in large groups, all five of you huddled together, stronger as
one.  AJ is sometimes there, smoking, and you find yourself touching the scar on your
arm where he burned you.  You hope, in the end, he gets what's coming to him.

     And if he doesn't, you'll make sure it happens.  

~~~
14.  A Secret Place Inside.

     You wake up one morning to find JC cradling Justin in his arms, and you stand
up, cautiously approaching them, terrified that Justin might be dead.  JC looks up at
you, the space between his eyebrows furrowed, and you reach out to touch Justin's
skin, nearly shitting your pants when you realise he's hot, too hot.

     "Jesus," you mutter, pulling your hand back, scalded.  His skin is burning and
wet, and his eyes seem half open, even if there's nothing in them.  Sick, you realise
stupidly, very, very sick.  "Should I get someone?  The doctor guy?"

     JC shakes his head and holds up his hand, curving his fingers inward.  Chris.

     "Chris, Chris," you whisper in his ear, shaking him awake even though he
hasn't slept in days and really needs the rest.  Chris jumps, barely stopping himself
from getting you in the gut, and you keep your hand on his shoulder.  "Justin's sick."

     "Fuck," and Chris is rolling out of bed, naked but not seeming to care, and you
step back as he urges JC out from under Justin.  You watch as JC frantically shakes his
head, and Chris turns to you.  "Joe. help me here, will you?"

     You're not sure what Chris wants you to do, but you grab JC by one arm and
haul him upwards, off the bed.  He looks distressed and tries to climb back to Justin,
who's moaning quietly and almost white, but JC's long and thin, and you hold him
tightly, pulling him off the ground and onto your bed.  He sprawls, defeated.

     "I hate this, Joey, " JC whispers, "I hate this so much."

     You stare at him, and he stares back.

     There's blood dripping down his chin.

~~~

     Lance comes back with a bucket and a couple towels, and Chris starts wiping
Justin down, keeping him cool with water.  You suggest, once, that maybe you should
find a doctor, but Chris shakes his head, saying if you're not careful, they might realise
Justin's more trouble than he's worth.  This is the second time in two weeks that he's
been sick.  

     You steal one of the towels and clean up JC, who's curled on his side, lying on
your bed.  Those nine words have made him bleed for twenty minutes, and it looks like
he's stopped for the time being.  You don't know how he lives with it.

     Justin is delirious by the time supper is served, and when Lonnie asks if he's
okay, you mumble something about meditation and eastern religions.  Lonnie looks
suspicious, but he steps back into the hall without tattling.  You think he might be an
ally.

     If Justin gets any worse, you'll ask for him help.

~~~

     But they take you in the middle of the night, and you make such a fuss that
they don't notice Justin's writhing on the bed, muttering about death and JC and
songs.  Chris folds himself over Justin, tries to make it look like they're fucking, while
you pull at the guards, saying, "no, no, no."

     They throw you into a white room, and the Fat Man is there, hovering over
you, poking you with his shoe while he says, "you're failing the experiment, I
shouldn't keep you around, you can be replaced," and you beg him to give you
another chance, that you can make the sounds he wants, he needs.  

     They stick needles in your neck.  
     
     It isn't quite as pretty this time around.

~~~

     You're lying on your back in that white room, singing to yourself and high as a
goddamn kite, worrying about what your mother would think (even though she isn't
your mother anymore, but you find you can't accept that, because it's not fair) and if
Justin is okay.  

     Fat Man is recording your sounds, like they're any different, but he's wearing
earplugs and doesn't seem to hear when you call him names, like motherfucking goat-
fucker or ugly son of a motherfucking snake.  It pretty much comes down to you
saying, "motherfucker, motherfucker," over and over and over again.

     This is your ode to your mom, who isn't your mom, because you were never
born, and you don't exist.

     So.  You don't need a mother anymore.

     Right.

~~~

     "How long have I been here?"  You ask the Fat Man's assistant, and the
Assistant looks at you with dark eyes and a scribble of moustache over a thin lip.  He
reminds you of somebody, but you can't remember who.  "Days?  Years?  Am I just
dreaming?  Fuck," you add, clutching your head, "it's all so fucking colourful all the
fucking time.  It feels like a dream."

     "Just a couple days," he says, not looking at you.  "You're going back soon."

     "Are my takes okay?  Am I perfect yet?"

     He looks down at you and says, "almost."

~~~

     In your head, in the middle of your eyes, there's a secret place that's still same
and normal and Joseph Anthony Fatone, Jr.  In that space, you're still trying to be a
famous Broadway actor, who sings and dances and acts, and is fucking good at what
he does.  Your parents are proud of you, and you're happy to be alive.

     In that space, you have a boyfriend named Chris, who is better than Kelly, who
you loved but not enough to keep her around, and you're proud of him, introduce him
to your family and aren't ashamed of your alternative lifestyle.

     In that space, you don't wake up afraid, and you don't see things that aren't
there, and you aren't high on colours that swirl around the room and make you think
you're dreaming.  You're a happy, well-adjusted twenty-four-year-old.  

     That space is very, very small these days.

~~~
15.  Homeward.

     They drag your sorry ass back to the room and toss you inside, not minding
that you're floppy like spaghetti and can't do anything to stop it when your head
cracks against the cold tile of the floor.  The door slams, and you stare at the wall. 
You remember it being white.  It's silver now, like jagged metal, with splashes of
pastel pink.

     "Joey?"

     And you scream at first because Chris is all purple and swirly, but his eyes are
still the same, and you cling to him, blubbering because you're all fucked up in the
head and can't seem to remember how to speak.  The only thing in your brain is a
bunch of useless show tunes you used to have dreams about singing.  

     Chris is nice enough to drag you to the bed, and tucks you in.

     You giggle.  

     His fingers are neon green, glowing on your face.

~~~

     "Dude, he's all pupil."

     You blink at Justin, who seems to be doing better, what with his haggard
appearance and shivering under four blankets.  This coming down from the drugs they
give you, well, it isn't fun.  Drugs are bad, you decide.  This is your brain on drugs. 
You are fried.

     You're sorry you used to smoke up every Friday.

~~~

     "Holy shit," you mutter a few mornings later, when you're finally down and
thinking straight again.  Chris is no longer purple, and the green of Lance's eyes,
which you tried to kill him over not twelve hours ago, no longer drives you insane.  

     "You feeling all right?"  Chris asks warily.  

     "Like crap," you admit, "but. an okay crap.  And uh, Lance," and Lance looks
at you, his face half hidden by Chris's shoulder.  "Sorry about the, uh, me trying to kill
you thing.  The colours were kinda messing with my head.  I'm better now."

     "It's okay," Lance whispers and smiles.  "Sometimes, people try to do that to
me.  It's okay."

     You drag yourself upwards, leaning on Chris when he makes you, feeling like
JustinandJC, this complete entity in the way that your arms snake around his waist and
your head rests on his shoulder.  It's like you're one person.  You find that thought
comforting.

     You want to crawl inside him, curl up and die.

~~~

     "You're different," Chris says later, under his breath, speaking only to you.  

     "I feel different," you admit, because you do, like, you really do.  Your skin
doesn't fit right anymore, and your eyes are fucked up, seeing darts of sparkling purple
where there's nothing, and even deeper, inside, you know you're not the same.

     Chris takes your hand, squeezes it.  "It was worse this time, wasn't it?"

     And you nod, because yeah, it was, and it scares you because you didn't lose
just hours, but days.  If they try it again, you're afraid it's going to be weeks, then
months, then years.  Isn't it enough you lost yourself the day they took you?  You
don't understand why they need to take more.  

     "Justin has an idea," Chris murmurs, kissing the back of your hand, and you
think, maybe, he's in love with you, "about getting out of here, but it's gory.  People
are going to die if we do what he says.  We might even die.  It's all half-chance and
luck."

     "I want to go home," you whisper, pressing your eyes shut in the hopes that
everything but Chris will disappear, and you'll open your eyes to see him sitting there,
with your hand against his mouth.  You do look, and he's there, but so's everything
else.  "I'm not afraid of dying."

     Chris nods.  "Me neither.  Just afraid of being left behind."

     And you think, you know him a little better now, then you think, I love him,
too.  

     And that's nice.

~~~

     In the calm before the storm, you make love.  Lance sits to the side, watching
quietly like he does, and you know he'll be asleep in minutes, lulled by the slide of
flesh against flesh.  You touch him a bit, stroke his soft skin with your fingers while he
lies against Chris, smiling sweetly.

     It's different tonight, though, and you know it.  Chris is the one under you,
which is the first time because, though he lets you inside, he doesn't let you over, and
the scratch of his nails over your back reminds you that he's giving you this, trusting
you with something sacred.

     You think, maybe, he expects to die, and you think, maybe, you do, too.  You
think, that you'll be here for hours, having sex, fucking, making love.  Anal
intercourse.  Fellatio.  The words twist in your mind, and you wonder why, why you
never thought to look at men, never wondered what it would feel like to touch a body
like yours.

     You think, somehow, you knew, and were waiting for Chris.

~~~

     It's later, when you're tired but unable to sleep, and you're pressed against
Chris, with Lance on the other side of him, curled away from you, that you say, "I love
you," just in case he doesn't know, just in case you never get another chance to tell
anyone you love them.  

     Chris looks at you, nods. and says it back, quietly, a soft whisper.  "I love
you." 

     At least you told him, you think right before you fall unconscious, and at least,
you won't regret if you wake up tomorrow and realise you'll never be a part of his life
again.  You hope, if you should disappear, that he'll remember.

     You're so tired of being forgotten.

~~~
16.  Run, run.

     "Can you do that, Lance?"

     Lance is sitting in your lap, tucked under your arm, and he nods, just a tiny bit,
so you look at Chris and nod bigger, better, so everyone can see.  Lance isn't talking
to Chris because Chris is the one who asked him, and you understand that Lance might
see it as a betrayal.

     "People will die," Lance whispers to you later, arms wrapped around you neck,
breathing hot bursts of air into your ear, "more people.  I feel so bad about them, Joey,
they'll probably hurt when they die, and when I die, what if God hates me?"

     "He won't hate you," you murmur.  

     Lance hums and nods, and you know it's all right.

~~~

     Lance is gone for hours, and you worry about him, hope he's as smart as Chris
says he is, pray he doesn't get caught.  It might not even work, you understand, who's
to say what they've been making here, what they've actually done?  Maybe they've
done nothing.  Maybe a computer will turn off, and they'll just turn it back on in the
morning.  

     Maybe nothing will happen.

     So you wait, for Lance to come back, for something to change, with Chris
sitting against you, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb, looking small,
guilty.  When Lance returns, he'll come back different, altered, because you asked him
to kill.  

     What Chris gave so long ago, Lance is giving now.  

     A little bit of their soul to replace the little bit lost.

~~~

     When Lance slinks back into the room, he simply nods and goes to sit on his
bed, eyes mostly closed, like he doesn't want to see or believe.  Chris doesn't try to
speak with him, and Lance just curls his knees to his chest, face buried in his pillow.

     You just sit there and wait some more, and hope something, anything,
everything happens.

     Justin coughs.

~~~

     It's well into the night when you hear gunshots echo down the hall and people
yelling then nothing again for a long, long time.  It's getting colder, like hell is settling
in, and you stand up, walking to the door and peering through the small rectangular
window.  It's dark.  Lonnie isn't at his post.  Nobody's there.

     "Everyone all packed?"  Chris asks, which is kind of funny because you have
nothing at all, will have even less once, if you step outside these walls.  You're all
gone, never existed at all, and you think about living and if you can do it with nothing.  

     Lance lifts his head.  "Chris?"

     "Yeah, man?"  Chris says, and his voice is even, calm.

     "I think Justin's sick again."

~~~

     "We're fine," Justin insists, blankets wrapped around his shoulders, shivering
and pale.  JC is moulded against his back, holding him tightly, and just keeps nodding
his head, like he believes it, too.  "We're just tired.  Chris, come on, man.  We
promise.  We're okay."

     "Joe?"

     You look up.   "Yeah?"

     "Can you carry him, if you have to?"  Chris asks, tapping his foot, nervous,
against the cold, white tile.  You forget what grass looks like.  "I can take him for
awhile, but not the whole way.  We'll have to switch off or something."

     You look at Justin and say, "no problem."

~~~

     It becomes obvious something's terribly wrong in another hour, when Chris
peeks his head into the hall and no one comes running.  Heaving Justin to his feet, you
hook your arm around his waist, keep him standing, as Chris turns back to you.  

     "If you can't keep up, you tell us," Chris says to Justin, and Justin nods.  "And
you two," he points at Lance and JC, and JC is already nodding, eyes on Justin.  "you
stick close to me.  You get separated, and you're dead."

     Chris peers back into the hall.  "Ready?"

     "Ready," you say and start to walk.

~~~

     "This way," Lance says, pointing down a dark and narrow hallway, and you
follow him, supporting Justin, who's sweating and mumbling to himself.  He's getting
worse, but if he's not going to give up, neither are you.

     You find the first guard when JC trips over him and goes sprawling gracelessly
over the floor, taking Chris down with him.  Lance squeaks and turns his head away,
fingers pressed to his mouth, and you stare at the body.  

     You don't think you've ever seen a dead person this close.  His dark skin is
split in places, dried trickles of blood frozen in time, and his ears are still oozing, a
waterfall of glimmering blackness.  Colour is erased in the night, but you imagine it to
be deep red, gorily beautiful.

     "Keep going," Chris mutters, "can't stop now."

     You step over the body and get blood on your pant leg.

~~~

     You're not more than a few more feet down the hall before you hear screams
again, and Chris starts moving faster, offering to take Justin, but you shake your head,
knowing he won't be able to hold the kid.  Chris is nearly six inches shorter than you
are.

     "People are dying," Lance says, "run, run."

~~~
17.  Banshee.

     Chris sees it first, and he stops so abruptly that Lance, then JC, bump into him. 
They stand there, frozen in place, as you and Justin limp up, Justin walking half-dead
beside you, but his eyes widen when you see it.  At first, you can't even guess what it
is.  It looks like a cloud, or a ghost, or the Aurora Borealis, which you saw once on a
camping trip in Canada with your dad. 

     "It's us," Lance says. "Can you hear it?  It's us."

     "Shit," Chris mutters, "shit.  Turn around.  Joe, pick up Justin, and turn
around."

     You heave Justin over your shoulder, your legs buckling until you find your
place and hold it, breathing deep.  If Chris asks you to run, you don't think you can,
but you start to move away from it.  Away from that thing.

     Away from yourself.

~~~
     
     "Where are we Lance?"

     Lance looks around, eyes wide, before biting his lower lip.  "I don't know,
Chris."

     "Fuck," Chris swears, "fuck," and he hits the wall, loudly.  He winces, and you
think he might have hurt his hand, but you also know he won't say anything if he did. 
"All right, where did you lose the way, Lance?  Where's the last place you
recognised?"

     Lance looks at his feet.  "Near that. near where we saw. where we saw."

     Chris looks at you, and you stare at him. 

     "Then back that way.  Come on."

     You follow him down the hall, Justin hanging limply over your shoulder, barely
moving, and you aren't even sure he's still alive at all.  If he isn't, you aren't going to
tell a soul.  It'll be your secret, and you won't tell a soul, not until this is all over.

     You don't believe in death, anyway.

~~~

     It's not where you left it, but there are three bodies in the hall, and you
recognise them.  Nick, and Brian, and Kevin.  Their skin is wrinkled and bloody, their
ears exploded outwards with guts and glory.  It's disgusting, but a tiny, angry part of
you think it's what they deserved.

     "Fuckers," you hear, and you turn around.  AJ is standing there, in the
doorway, "you did this, you fucking killed us."  Ducking his head, he tries to light a
smoke and can't.  His fingers look like they're broken.  "It'll get you, too.  You don't
know what you released."

     "A monster," Lance whispers as you set Justin down on the ground, desperate
for a rest.  "I'm sorry."

     AJ laughs harshly and falls to the ground, his back pressed against the wall as
he grins wide and crazy.  He's still fumbling for a smoke.  "Funny, isn't it?  You
fuckers.  Think you'll get out of here.  Think you'll take back what they took.  There's
no life for you out there anyway."

     There's a pool of blood around him where he sat down, and it's spreading, like
it's alive and searching, wanting to be free.  You step away from it, afraid it'll touch
you, taint you.  AJ laughs another deep laugh and mutters, "gimme a light, will you?"

     Chris kneels by him, in the blood, though you want to stop him and say no.  He
lifts his arms and lights the cigarette for AJ, his hands shaking, and says to him, "I only
did what he asked me to do, AJ."

     "I know that," AJ says, closing his eyes.  "You think that's why they hated
you?  No, they hated you because you took our place.  You were just a failed
experiment, Kirkpatrick, failed four times before those fuckers took our fifth guy and
gave him to you and yours, when we got demoted to Four, to nothing.  They hated
you because you were better than us, nothing more."

     "I took Howie from you," Chris whispers.

     "And that's why I hated you," AJ mutters, "now fuck off, and let me die in
peace.  He was happier with you, anyway, I knew that.  I take peace, Kirkpatrick, in
the fact that I'm gonna see him first.  Maybe it's my turn to have him again."

     "Maybe it is," Chris agrees and stands up, pants drenched in blood, and he
stares at you for half a minute before turning back to AJ, who's slouched to the
ground, eyes wide open, cigarette between his lips and already gone.  "Bye, AJ."

     You hoist Justin back over your shoulder, panting hard, and you stand there,
tall, determined for freedom, afraid of what you'll see, of what lurks in the shadows. 
JC puts his hand in the small of your back and pushes.  

     For a minute there, you were scared out of your mind.

     But you're better now.

~~~
18.  Right Through It.

     Lance knows where he's going again, and you only hope that soon you can get
on the outside, before Justin dies or you collapse or something.  He's so fucking heavy
and slippery because his pants are soaked through from sweat and piss.  It's not his
fault he's so sick, so you don't hold it against him.

     When Chris sees you slipping behind, he makes you all stop for a moment or
two, and you lean against the wall, knowing if you put Justin down, you won't be able
to pick him up again.  JC is behind you, kissing Justin's face, and you think, not for the
first time, that it's like masturbation.  You doubt the one could exist without the
other.  

     Also, this must mean Justin is still alive after all.

     JC would notice, you hope, if he wasn't.

~~~

     Lance gets lost again, a little bit later, and Chris waits patiently for him to
remember the look of the halls he used to roam, back before Four kept trying to kill
him.  Lance looks bleak, like he doesn't want to admit he can't recall the way out,
before pointing down another darkened hall, where you can see two slivers of white
lying down.  More dead people.

     "That way," Lance murmurs, and you hoist Justin higher on your shoulder,
nearly crying with relief when he groans.  JC hugs you from behind then helps you
start walking when your legs buckle and don't want to work anymore.  

     You won't be able to hold him much longer.

     You don't want to tell Chris that.

~~~

     You see it again, moving through the hallway.  Lance stops and points, and
Chris grits his teeth because that's the way out, Lance says he knows it is.  Chris stares
at his feet for a long, long time before looking up, eyes dark and bleak.

     "I guess," he says slowly, "I guess we run right through it."

     "Is that safe?"  You ask, and Chris snaps back,

     "How the fuck should I know?"  You frown, and Chris looks apologetic,
pressing a hand to his face.  "I don't know, okay?  I don't even know what that is.  I
mean, come on, I can only fucking suspend my disbelief about this whole fucking
situation for so long."

     "You've done it for ten years," you point out calmly.  

     Chris's face twists and he sighs.  "Okay.  Here's what I'm going to do.  I'll go,
and if it doesn't work, you turn around and find another way out.  Lance says there's
another exit on the other side of the building, and it might take you awhile to get to it,
but if you can be fast, you might be able to make it before they send reinforcements to
deal with this. with this mess."

     "I think we should all go," you say quickly, your voice hitching, and you really
mean to say, please don't leave me alone.  Chris touches your face and shakes his
head.  "Chris, please.  There's no. Chris, please," you repeat, serious.

     "Joey," he says, "It won't."

     "I'm not going to be able to carry Justin," you admit, ignoring the way JC's
face crumbles.  "I can't.  I'm barely holding him now," and you think that might be
obvious from the way you can't dare to let go and the way you hunch forward, the
burn in your legs almost too much to bear.  "If it doesn't work, we're dead anyway.  It
won't leave us alone, and I.  I'm just not strong enough, Chris.  I'm sorry."

     Beside you, JC nods and kisses your arm.

     "We don't split up," Lance mutters, eyes wide and clear.  "We go together."

     "You fuckers," Chris says but doesn't fight it. doesn't bother.

     You're all in this together, an experiment in friendship, and love.

~~~

     You don't think they planned this.  Lance never tells you how he did it, and
you don't want to ask, just trusting that he did and in trying to open the experiment,
released this thing in the hallway, this thing that looks like a ghost.  You just thought it
would blow up and burn the place down.  You see now why they wanted this weapon. 
It's terrifying.

     "Be quiet," Lance mutters beside you, glaring at it, and fuck, why does he have
to be so crazy all the time, you know?  He's scaring you, the way he's looking at it,
like one glance is going to make it leave. or let you through, or something.  

     "I can carry him," Chris says, fingers on your back, and you look at him and
say,

     "No, you can't."

     And he doesn't fight that, either.

~~~

     Chris counts down from five, a hand spread behind his back and each digit
folding down one by one as the seconds pass.  You stare at that hand, know it's been
over you and in you, and you think, if you die right now, at least you'll die loved, and
that, maybe, is all you ever needed in the end.

     The experiment moves when Chris's thumbs bends down, and he takes the first
step forward, with JC and Lance hot on his heels.  The noise increases, and it's painful,
but in a dull way, like a headache after drinking, when the sun is bright and you've had
two hours of sleep.  It looks like it has a face and a body, hovering there, screeching
and singing.  You think you can hear your voice, somewhere, and you hope to God,
that this doesn't kill you.

     Jumping through it, your life flashes before your eyes, and you go down,
screaming.

     It feels like an end.

~~~

     Inside, you hear things like the great mysteries of life and the sighs Chris makes
when he comes.  Somewhere, you're sure that's JC talking about his life as child in
Maryland, and Justin's beatboxing.  That hum, you know it's Lance, and it's what hits
you at the bottom of your spine.  

     Inside, it's foggy and white, swirling shots of vibrant pinks all over the place,
and it's like flying through a cloud, and you can't see at all.  You feel Justin against
your back, your arms just barely keeping their hold on his legs, and then he's gone.

     Inside, it's just you with your body strumming and your nose bleeding thick
and hard into your mouth.  You hit something solid, and there's a flash of blinding
pain behind your eyes as you go sprawling, and then you can see everything clearly,
even as you're hitting the ground.  

     This place is really, really white.

~~~
19.  Standing Here Without You.

     "Come on, come on," Lance says, pulling at your arm, and you try to stand up,
but your knee's twisted and you stumble.  Chris glances at you, and you try to pretend
you're fine, even try to walk, and you do, but just barely, fingers scrabbling at the wall
for support.  

     You glance back and the experiment seems frozen, but it's red now, just on the
edges, and you wonder, does that mean it's mad?  Can it be mad?  Is it a thing like
that, that can feel and get pissed about its lot in life?  Its failures?  

     You got through alive.  You don't think you were supposed to.

     You go to grab Justin, get your arms around his waist, but in trying to get him
back to his perch, you go tumbling down.  Deep in your belly, a darkness grows, and
you try again, but your knee just isn't holding him.  "Fuck," you say, "fuck."

     Chris pushes you aside and tries to prove he can, but you don't even have to
watch him to know he can't.  You can just tell in the way he hisses under his breath
and kicks the wall.  The monster's scream changes pitch again, and you stare at it,
willing it stay still.  

     It moves an inch.

     Oh, boy.  It's coming to get you.

     "Go," JC whispers, shoving you and Chris away with a slender arm.  He folds
himself against Justin, holding the kid to his chest, and pushes again with one out-
stretched arm when you try just once more.  "Please go.  Please, please, just go. 
Please."

     "JC, don't," Chris says then can't say anything more, just stares at his feet.

     "Sometimes," JC says, "these things just don't work out.  It'll be okay," and
JC smiles a little bit, kissing his blood-red lips to Justin's forehead.  "I have him.  It's
okay."  JC coughs and blood splatters over Justin's ashen skin, a scarlet web.  "Just
go.  Please."

     Chris turns away first, wrapping his fingers around Lance's wrist and pulling
him hard, and Lance reels against him, trying to get away, but you shove him forward,
using all your weight.  Out of the corner of your eye, the experiment moves again, and
you push harder, with Lance screaming -- "no! no! no!" -- in your ear, reaching for
them.  

     "It's the only way," you hiss, already pretending you never knew JustinandJC,
never saw them, never sang with them and suffered with them, and you think, with
enough might, you'll forget all about them, so they never existed at all.

     JC whispers, "we love you," and closes his eyes, holding Justin in his arms,
loving him so hard, and it's fucking beautiful, you can't bear to think about it.  You
just want to forget it.

     You are such a Judas.

     You will rot in hell for this.

~~~

     Outside, it's cold, but you limp into it willingly, wearing nothing but baggy,
thin pants.  Chris is dragging Lance by the arm, with Lance's heels dug into the solid
ground, still trying to go back, mewling deep in his throat.  You aren't sure, after all
you've asked him to do, if it's right to force him to come with you, when you and
Chris are all that he'll have in this world.

     "Stop it," Chris says sharply, running into the night, and you can hear the cut
of choppers through the air in the distance.  There are trees, though, and it's dark, so
you're safe until they find your frozen bodies, starved to death, somewhere in the
middle of nowhere.  You try not to think about that.  "Lance, if you don't fucking stop
this shit, I'll kill you myself."

     And hearing how he says that, you aren't all too convinced he's telling a lie.

     You think that just maybe he's not kidding at all.

     Lance stops pulling.

~~~

     When the sun starts to rise, Chris finally stops, and Lance yanks his wrist away,
bringing it to his mouth.  It's swollen and purple, and you look around, at the pale blue
sky, the deep green trees, the dark brown of the earth.  So this is the outside.  You'd
almost forgotten.

     Chris stands there for a long, long time with his back to you.  When his
shoulders hunch forward, and he presses a hand to his face, your breath catches. 
When he falls to his knees and this noise comes out of him that's as much anguish and
suffering that sound can be, you run to him and fold yourself against his back.

     It takes awhile, but he leans into you, letting you wrap your arms around his
chest, holding him while he sobs raggedly, painfully, holding Lance when he throws
himself against Chris, petting his chest, kissing his neck, apologising for making it so
hard.

     And it's later when you sleep a little bit, basking in the sun.  Later still when
you talk about what you're supposed to do now and how far you think you have to
run until you blend in again, hide from the government and try to live with yourselves. 
People died for you to be free, but it's not like they ever asked your permission,
anyway.  It's not like you chose this life.

     You don't ever want to go back.

~~~
20.  In The End.

     The sidewalk in New York City is hot by midday, and you're hungry, but
you're always hungry.  You're skinny, mostly from that week you spent sick, throwing
up everything you touched as the drugs they gave you left your system.  Since then,
you don't see the colour red, but that's all right.  You see everything else.  

     Chris sits next to you, strumming a guitar he stole from someone's backyard
somewhere along the way, singing, and you harmonise with his voice, bringing him
down.  On his other side, Lance sits cross-legged, grounding you all, tapping his
fingers on his knees, setting the pace.  People walk by and every tenth tosses a dollar
bill into the grungy old hat.

     You nod your thanks and keep singing.

     Gotta use your voice for something.

~~~

     One day, you see your mom, and when she stops, you think maybe she
remembers you, but she leaves you a twenty and gives you a big smile.  Later, she
comes back with wrapped sandwiches and six bottles of juice.  You remember she
used to do stuff like that for complete strangers.  She's such a good person.  You love
her so much.

     "Thanks, ma'am," you say, and take the gifts without question, and Chris asks,
once she's left,

     "Was that your mom?"  And you nod, giving Chris and Lance their fair shares. 
"Small world," Chris mumbles, unwrapping his sandwich.  "Probably should have
guessed you weren't really from Orlando.  Totally New York, man."

     "Nothing now, really," you mumble and bit into your lunch.

     It tastes like nothing, too.

~~~

     But it's not bad, this life.  You're free, and you know now just what that really
means.  You're safe because Chris can take down a guy twice his size with just a crazy
grin.  You're in love, even though it's hard to be intimate, but he's yours and you
remember that every morning when you wake up.  You eat enough to keep you alive,
if not full, and you still love singing.  

     Lance is different, though, and some days, you wake up and just worry about
him.  It's like he's seen too much and knows how much it changed him.  His body,
even after the withdrawal, doesn't work, so he's still painfully different from everyone
else.  At least now he can use his voice at full volume without side effects.  You still
remember, though, that time.

     Chris is different, too, but in a better way.  He doesn't seem so crazy, and he
goes out of his way to save pigeons from getting terrorised, not so violent anymore
unless someone goes after you or Lance, and then he's all over them, teeth bared.

     But it's not bad.  

     You just miss them sometimes.  

     Those ones you hoped you'd forget.  

     And you haven't.

~~~

     It's a rainy day, and you're not getting any money, so Chris suggests you just
pack it up and go find some shelter.  You're putting away his guitar when a hand folds
over your shoulder, and you turn, fists raised, ready for a fight.

     It's really good you never forgot, or else you wouldn't believe it.

     "Oh my God," you breathe and then Justin's in your arms, laughing loudly,
while JC jumps all over Chris and Lance, grinning as they hug him back, dancing
around like fools in the street.  You reach for JC, trading off and crying all over him
like some girl while he moves against you, so alive.  "How?  How did you find us? 
How did you survive?"

     "Lonnie," JC whispers, showing off his voice, and he doesn't bleed, for once,
just coughs a lot and sounds quiet, but he's beaming because it means someday he'll
be able to shout and holler and sing.  

     Justin takes over, looking healthy.  "He said Lance warned him about
something, but he didn't believe it.  He came up, running, and just grabbed us both and
ran like hell.  By then, the fucking government was all over the place, going down like
flies, and that thing, it didn't want us."

     "God," Chris mutters into Justin's shoulder, "thank fucking god."

     "How did you get here?"  Lance asks quietly, wrapped around Justin from
behind.  "We're hiding, you know.  Nobody's supposed to find us."

     Justin grins.  "We have no idea.  It just felt right, you know, to go north, then
when we hit New York, it all just felt, like, even more right.  We don't know.  It just
worked.  After everything, we're not even going to question."

     "It's so good to see you," you repeat, breathing in JC, and he giggles as you all
lump together, standing in the middle of this huge city, hugging like mad, like you
thought you'd never see each other again, and you didn't think you would.

     But here you are, in another experiment, and you know you're finally alive.

 Fin.