ellectrical | (no subject)

The first time it stops, she thinks she's dreaming.

Elle almost never remembers her dreams, but she still figures she must have them. Her body aches too much for her to really think about it. There's a concrete floor and four walls like it, a single fluorescent light on the ceiling. Another through an open doorway in front of her. Something metal, the light is reflecting off the wall.

She's on the floor, spread out, set like a stone, every part of her too heavy to lift. Her skin is cold, but she thinks it's because there's no warmth from the concrete beneath her. She can make out white cloth, the light on her bare feet, the hem of her sleeve just over her shoulder. Her thoughts turn dimly to pajamas as she notices the strings of blonde hair that have fallen over her face, her nose, a few inches on the concrete – and stop. Too soon, they could barely brush her shoulders.

It's what shocks her, causes her first jolt of movement, her hand whips out across the floor and painfully collides with something just out of sight. It causes a rattling sound, like something metal skidding over the concrete. Elle stays where she is for a moment, a part of her afraid that if she moves too much, expects too much, this dream will break and she'll be back there. There were no brave faces. She doesn't want to go back.

But she presses both palms down against the floor, and lifts herself, enough to force herself into sitting position, legs tucked beneath her. Now, she can see what she'd accidentally pushed away – a metal tray with a steel cup, and what looked like a thin sandwich sliced diagonally. Something turns in her stomach, and it gives her the same feeling as realizing that here, her hair is cropped again. It's so familiar – it must be a dream.

And since it's a dream, Elle doesn't trouble herself with any other concerns. Her arms and back are still aching, but so is her throat, as though she'd been talking for hours. Pangs of hunger are shooting through her stomach and she takes the food and drinks the water without thinking anything of it. What difference could it make in her own mind.

It's not until twelve minutes later, when she's in the bathroom where the open doorway led, looking at her trimmed hair in the large wall mirror, that she knows it's not a dream. It's when she has to clutch the sink for support, her knees suddenly too weak and her eyes losing focus, until the fluorescent light overhead is too bright and she's back on the concrete, cold and feeling heavy as a stone once more.

Others might wonder if they're dead, if this is what being dead is like, if it's some kind of afterlife punishment. Elle knows, acutely, that she is alive. When she thinks, she wonders why she's alive. She hadn't really figured on it, planned for it – if something like this happened, she'd thought she would have been killed immediately; she'd proven entirely useless alive. And even if there were some reason not to kill her, why keep doing this? Even for those she knew were as sadistic as she, this would have to get dull, especially if they wouldn't even talk to her, sit with her, at least look at her. She didn't know if anyone else was there.

But she couldn't think for very long. She wasn't sure when it was better. When she wasn't screaming, when there was any break in that much electricity and she couldn't do anything more than let her eyes flutter open again, she felt oddly calm. Her mind was clear. There was no confusion: she knew where she was and what was happening. And though through all that clarity there was still a twinge in her mind, that it was a false security, not one she wanted to go back to, she ignored it. She couldn't help herself. It meant when she wasn't screaming, she was quiet, and as close to still as she could be. Elle didn't call out to whoever was there, didn't plead, not out of bravery, but because she knew she was safe.

It was so easy.

She doesn't know how much time has passed – there's no light other than the sparks and the fluorescent bulbs when she's in the Other Room. Her visits to it are how she measures time – she's been to it four times, each time like before, with a tray of drugged food and water and the small restroom to the side. Elle never even considers turning it away. There's no point in putting herself in more pain, feeling weaker, and trying to end it seems almost silly. If he hadn't killed her yet, he wasn't going to let her die either. Maybe worse, with the movements she could manage so weak, or her own will tethered down, she didn't feel up to seeing if she could end it. She didn't want to die, because it wasn't what she was supposed to do.

But after four times, when she's back in the dark and trying again to catch her breath before it starts again, there's a lull. One she isn't used to. Now she has time to sense her surroundings – she's partially submerged in lukewarm water; if she moves her hands and feet the right way, she can feel sloped metal sidings, and knows it's like a tub, though something has been placed in it beneath her, inclining her back upward so her face stays above the surface of the water. Her hands are at her sides, but bound to sides of the tank with what she can feel is some kind of strap; she can't move her feet very far, either, but can't tell what's binding them down below the water. Elle can feel the wet cloth of her white shirt along her collarbone, and her hair slicked down with water just enough that it reaches her shoulders, but she still can't see anything.

It doesn't take long for the silence to make her restless. She moves as much as she can, causing the water to slop and splash around her. But even when she's not in pain, not screaming, she can't count how much time has passed; eventually, she stops moving, except to tap her finger, over and over, into the palm of her hand, even when she's lost track of it, which happens long before she hears a noise in the room that isn't made by her.

It's followed almost immediately by a lamp blinking on above her, making her wince; she gets a clear view of the room before she has to close her eyes against the sudden light. It's very small – maybe only six-by-eight feet, with a low ceiling. She'd imagined it so much larger in the dark. Something had also flared on the wall, and when she opens her eyes again, she can see that it's a long mirror across one stretch of it – though she knows immediately that it's not a mirror at all. There's another sound, what she can now recognize as a door closing and a lock turning, followed by footsteps, before he stood above her, the only way he could be in her line of sight.

There's silence between them for a moment, before –

"I'm surprised."

Elle shifts, making a weak attempt to pull herself into something more like a sitting position, but gives this up quickly, relaxing back into the water. "Surprised by what?" she grumbles, her voice rather hoarse, though her voice is no different than if they were having a simple disagreement.

"This was straightforward enough for your father," he answers, matching her tone. "I didn't expect you to hold out this long."

She tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a hacking cough. "Who's holding out? You didn't tell me what you want."

He's silent for another moment, straightening his suit jacket, then steps away, vanishing from her sight again. A small sense of panic finally twists inside her, and she calls out to him, "What, does this get you off or something?"

His footsteps stop again, but he stays away, so that she can only speak to the white-tiled ceiling. After another stretch of silence, her voice drops, and she asks quietly – "What do you want?"

The footsteps resume, as Arthur Petrelli answers, "Maybe that's something for you to think about."

The door opens, and the light goes out once more.

It's a while before she does any thinking again.