Caged (Prologue)

Perca was shoved onto a bus, not the familiar yellow behemoth of school, but a smaller, stark white vehicle, devoid of windows along its flanks, more akin to a featureless van. He stumbled on the high step, propelled forward by rough hands, landing hard on the first of many bench seats that ran the length of the interior. These benches offered no back support, just bare, unforgiving surfaces in a space that felt instantly cold and sterile.

They forced him further back, deeper into the bus's belly, pushing him down onto a bench already occupied by another figure, a boy who looked, from a fleeting glance, to be scarcely older than Perca himself.

Then, the Retrieval Handlers descended, their movements brutally efficient. His hands were yanked behind his back, a bruising force that made him gasp. Rough hands dragged his wrists together, cold metal biting into his skin as handcuffs snapped shut. 

Zip ties followed, cinching the cuffs tighter, digging into his flesh. Finally, heavy chains were looped around the restraints, each link clanking ominously, anchoring him to the bus floor, tethering him to this rolling cage. The same brutal process was repeated on his ankles, leaving him immobile, bound, and utterly helpless.

With grim satisfaction, the men stepped back, their task complete. They dispersed, each assuming a strategic position of control. The dark-skinned Handler moved to the rear, a heavy rifle materializing in his hands, held with casual lethality, the muzzle a dark eye leveled at the bus's occupants. 

The pale one settled midway, mirroring his comrade, gun held with the same chilling intent, the same absence of remorse in his pale eyes. The hulking Handler, the largest and most imposing of the three, positioned himself at the front, a silent sentinel facing back towards the assembled captives. 

A moment of tense stillness hung in the air, then the bus shuddered, metal groaning, engine roaring to life, vibrations thrumming through the floor and into Perca's bones.

In the brief, chaotic clamor of the engine's ignition, the boy beside Perca leaned close, a whispered question cutting through the mechanical din. "Hey, I'm Koldrune. What's your name?"

"Perca." He answered back, his voice barely a breath, a tremor running through him, betraying the fear he fought to suppress.

He risked a quick glance at Koldrune, catching himself just before a blatant double take. The boy's skin was unsettlingly pale, almost translucent, tinged with a faint, bluish hue, like someone battling hypothermia. 

A shock of white hair, startling against the blue undertones of his skin, stood up in fluffy disarray, tangled and unkempt. But it was Koldrune's eyes that truly arrested Perca's attention: a striking, vivid blue, yet one was marred by a grotesque swelling, a massive shiner blooming purple and black, obscuring half his face.

Koldrune's voice dropped to a careful whisper, conspiratorial. "You a criminal's kid too?"

Perca's eyes widened, startled, turning fully towards Koldrune, confusion warring with a burgeoning sense of shared misfortune. "Your parents… are criminals?"

Koldrune grinned, a lopsided, slightly rueful expression that didn't quite reach his bruised eye. "Guessing that's a no, then." 

A shrug, a gesture of bleak resignation. "Yeah, dad's a villain. Figures, right? Lot of us on this bus are in that kind of situation. The kids, see, they're the ones whose folks are criminals. CPS, they were trying to find a place for us, foster homes, group homes, you know? Then they figured out… we were freaks. Metas. Sent us packing to the Retrieval Handlers instead. Adults in the back, they're the real deal, actual criminals, arrested and all that. So, that's not you?"

Perca shook his head slowly, another whispered confession lost in the rumble of the engine. "No. My… my parents just found out I was a metahuman. They had the doctor call the Retrieval Handler."

Koldrune's mouth opened, a silent question forming on his lips, but his unspoken words were cut short. A sudden, brutal impact slammed into the back of Perca's head, a crushing force that sent his skull ringing. He was thrown violently forward, pain exploding behind his eyes, the raw scrape of the handcuffs against his wrists a distant echo compared to the fire blooming at the base of his skull. 

He gasped, breath hitching in his throat, eyes squeezed shut against the sudden agony. Blood, warm and sticky, trickled through his hair, soaking into the thin hospital gown, a stark red bloom against the sterile white fabric. 

"No talking!" The pale Handler barked, his voice sharp and cold, laced with a chilling menace.

Thankfully, Koldrune remained silent, but Perca saw, in the periphery of his vision, a subtle shift in the boy beside him. Koldrune's pale skin grew frostier, the bluish tinge deepening to an almost glacial hue. 

A visible ripple ran across his skin, a shimmering distortion, then tendrils of frost began to creep outwards, spider-webbing across the bench seat, icing over the worn fabric. Perca gasped, a sharp intake of breath, startled by the sudden, intense cold radiating from Koldrune, eyes widening in involuntary alarm.

The sudden chill, the visible manifestation of power, didn't go unnoticed. The other two Handlers reacted instantly, their focus snapping to Koldrune, weapons raised. 

The monstrous figure in the back, one of the adult metahumans, Perca realized with a jolt, started snarling, a low, guttural growl rising in pitch, chains rattling as he strained against his restraints. "Leave them alone!" He howled, voice raw, pain-filled. "They're just kids!"

Panic, cold and clammy, settled beneath Perca's skin. The adult meta's protest was met with brutal efficiency. The dark-skinned Handler swung his rifle, the butt slamming into the man's face with sickening force, silencing his howl with a choked grunt.

The other two Handlers converged on Koldrune, their movements swift, menacing, attempting to suppress the burgeoning ice, to quell the visible manifestation of his power. But the frost spread rapidly, encasing the bench, tendrils reaching towards the floor, a creeping, icy defiance.

Finally, the hulking Handler, his face a mask of cold fury, shook his head, a gesture of grim resignation. He stepped back, creating distance, and leveled his rifle, the muzzle now pointed directly at Koldrune's chest. 

Eyes wide, breath fluttering in his constricted chest, time seemed to warp, stretching, slowing, distorting. He saw the bullet ejected, brass casing glinting, saw it leave the chamber, suspended, impossibly slow, in the air before him. 

Perca knew, with a sickening certainty that settled deep in his gut, that if his hands were free, unbound by these cruel restraints, he could pluck that bullet from the air, catch it, stop it, with impossible ease. But his hands were chained, useless.

He could only watch, a helpless spectator in his own unfolding nightmare, as the bullet crawled, agonizingly slow, through the air, unerringly towards his unsuspecting seatmate, towards the boy who, moments ago, had offered a hesitant kindness, a shared word in the face of terrifying uncertainty.

No. 

A sharp, decisive shake of his head, clearing the paralyzing fog of fear, resolve hardening in his chest. He didn't have to simply watch. He could do something. Ignoring the raw, chafing agony of the zip ties biting into his wrists, the brutal scrape of metal against bone, Perca strained against his bonds, muscles screaming in protest, pulling, twisting, contorting his small frame, leaning precariously towards Koldrune. 

He felt something tear, a sickening pop in his right shoulder, a jolt of white-hot pain that nearly buckled him, but he bit back a cry, teeth gritted against the agony. Finally, impossibly, he reached far enough, his fingers brushing Koldrune's arm, a desperate, frantic shove. It wouldn't be gentle. It would hurt. But it wouldn't be a bullet through the chest.

A scream tore from his throat then, raw, involuntary, as the bullet ripped through his flesh, tearing muscle, lodging deep in his shoulder, a searing brand of agony that sent him slumping sideways, limp, broken. Only the chains, biting cruelly into his raw wrists, the agonizing pull of his dislocated shoulder, kept him upright, tethered to the bench, suspended between pain and oblivion.

Koldrune screamed too, a high, piercing cry of terror and confusion, as time snapped back, hurtling forward, reality slamming back into place with brutal force. Blood blossomed on Perca's shoulder, a dark stain spreading rapidly across the thin hospital gown, splattering Koldrune's hand, hot and slick against his icy skin. 

The ice receded, melting away from Koldrune's skin as quickly as it had formed, leaving him shivering, human once more, face contorted in horrified disbelief. The adult metahumans in the back erupted, a chorus of panicked shouts, pounding against their restraints, desperate to intervene, to protect, a primal chorus of caged fury.

Criminals, yes, perhaps monsters in the eyes of the world, but even they recoiled at the sight of a child being shot, a child sacrificing himself for another.

The pale Handler, his face tight with barely suppressed fury, barked an order at the driver. "Stop the bus! Now!" The vehicle lurched violently, brakes screeching, tires spitting gravel as it skidded to a halt, throwing the restrained occupants forward against their bonds.

Gasping for breath, Perca sagged against the chains, each shallow inhalation a ragged rasp in his burning lungs. Pain throbbed in his shoulder, a relentless, sickening pulse that radiated outwards, yet, strangely, it was… muted. Distant. Not the all-consuming fire he'd expected. Not as agonizing as the lightning had been. Not… spectacular.

The dark-skinned Handler, his voice regaining a semblance of icy control, barked orders, demanding order, demanding silence. His words were lost in the cacophony of panicked shouts, the frantic rattling of chains, the raw, untamed fear echoing through the bus. It wasn't working. The restrained metahumans continued to thrash against their bonds, a desperate, chaotic ballet of caged fury.

Finally, the hulking Handler, his face contorted in a mask of cold rage, unleashed a roar that silenced the bus instantly, a primal bellow that cut through the panic, leaving a vacuum of absolute quiet. Every breath hitched, every movement froze. The bus became a tomb of terrified stillness, every eye fixed on the monstrous figure looming at the front.

Once absolute silence descended, heavy and suffocating, the huge Handler snarled, his voice a low, menacing rumble that resonated through the metal shell of the bus. "Obviously," he spat, each word a venomous barb, "we didn't explain ourselves clearly enough." He stalked down the aisle, his heavy boots thudding on the metal floor, each step a deliberate threat. 

"We are Retrieval Handlers. You are among the first group of metahumans being collected for the camps. You will not use your powers. You will not speak unless spoken to. And, as a word of advice, deeply consider this: do not ever, not ever, try to stand up for someone else. You will only be hurt worse. And they? They will be hurt too."

To punctuate his chilling decree, he stopped beside Koldrune's slumped form. He kicked the boy's ribs, a brutal, casual strike that elicited a choked groan, a cough that splattered blood on the grimy floor. 

Then, with deliberate, sickening force, he smashed the butt of his rifle into Koldrune's mouth, a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. Koldrune crumpled, collapsing sideways against the bench, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, blood weeping from the fresh wounds, mingling with the old. Unconscious. Broken.

The hulking Handler turned then, his shadow falling over Perca, looming, immense, terrifying. He gripped Perca's hair again, fingers tangling in the blood-matted strands, yanking his head back, ignoring the whimper that escaped Perca's lips. He probed at the back of Perca's head, fingers surprisingly gentle amidst the brutal display of violence, a grotesque parody of concern. 

"No wonder they flagged you, kid." A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, devoid of humor, laced with something far more sinister. "Impressive healing ability you've got there. Barely a scratch left where I hit you. Just dried blood. You're going to be real useful."

Perca flinched against the rough grip, a tremor running through his small body, each twitch a fresh lance of pain from his wounded shoulder, his dislocated joint. The huge man smiled, a predatory baring of teeth, wicked and cruel. He reached for a first aid kit, the Velcro ripping open with a sound that echoed unnaturally loud in the sudden, oppressive silence of the bus.

The rustle of plastic, the clink of instruments, each sound amplified, distorted, grating on Perca's raw nerves. He wiped his massive fingers meticulously with an alcohol wipe, a sterile ritual performed before plunging those same fingers, now clean, now somehow even more menacing, into Perca's bullet wound. 

Perca screamed, a strangled cry that dissolved into pained moans, whimpers swallowed by the vast emptiness inside him, the gaping void where hope had once resided. The man probed deeper, fingers twisting, exploring, inflicting fresh agony with calculated precision. 

"Now, now," the Handler murmured, his voice almost gentle, a terrifyingly incongruous tone. "We don't want to leave the bullet in there, do we?"

Finally, with a sharp, brutal tug, the man's fingers emerged, slick with blood, a mangled bullet clutched between them, a trophy of casual cruelty. Perca gasped, body slumping against the unyielding chains, strength draining away, leaving him hollow, emptied.

He couldn't even summon a whimper as the huge hand, now smeared with his own blood, grasped his chin, fingers digging in, forcing the eight-year-old to look the huge man right in the eyes. The man stared down at him, a long, silent appraisal, a chilling calculation in his gaze, then a smirk twisted his lips, a cruel parody of amusement.

He released Perca's chin abruptly, shoving his head away with casual disdain. Towering over Perca's small, broken form, the Handler's gaze swept over the silent, terrified occupants of the bus, a predatory survey of his captive flock.

"I'm sure," he drawled, his voice laced with mocking condescension, "you've all been hearing stories. Whispers about how we're bringing you to these camps to… cure you. To protect you. Lies. All lies."

His laughter rumbled, a deep, guttural sound devoid of humor, laced with chilling malice. 

"We're bringing you here to experiment on you. To make you work. It's the least you freaks can do to make up for existing. Some of you," a dismissive gesture towards the adult metahumans in the back, "you'll be used primarily for brute force. Occasional experiments, of course. And some of you," his gaze lingered on Perca, cold, assessing, predatory, "some of you, like this little hero, you'll be used primarily for experiments.

This one," a tap to Perca's bloodied shoulder, "he recovers fast. Real fast. Perfect for… a lot of experiments." 

Perca shivered, a violent tremor racking his small frame, the casual cruelty of the man's words colder than any ice, more brutal than any blow. 

The Handler's gaze swept over them all one last time, a silent, chilling promise. "There will be no escape. And let me assure you, the punishment for escape attempts… it will be far, far worse than something as simple as death."

He turned then, his heavy tread echoing in the suffocating silence, moving back towards the front of the bus. A curt nod to the driver, barely a flicker of movement. "Drive." He casually wiped the blood from his hands with another alcohol wipe, a gesture of utter indifference, tossing the bloodied rag onto the floor, a discarded scrap of Perca's broken innocence.

Perca shook, a violent tremor wracking his small body, a physical manifestation of the raw terror, the adrenaline's dying surge, the throbbing, relentless pain. And something else, something deeper, colder, more profound: loneliness. A vast, aching emptiness that stretched out before him, an endless, desolate landscape of despair.

He shook against the injustice, the monstrous unfairness of it all. He shook against the dawning, suffocating certainty that this… this rolling cage, this sterile white bus, these brutal men, this cold, indifferent world… this was about to become his life.