Sanitarium

Light flooded the dark cavern of the cargo hold as the giant door slid open. The four people inside squinted against the sudden, harsh glare as two figures stepped into the opening.

“This the new batch?”

“Yep. One Elliot Stevens, one Julia Aleway, one Joshua Brown, and one Sarah Miller.” The figure pointed to each one in turn.

“Bring them out.”

Four men, each clad in matching black jumpsuits and carrying rifles, hopped into the cargo hold and pulled the four roughly to their feet before marching them out the door.

Elliot’s head swam as he staggered out the doorway and onto solid ground. He was vaguely aware of his surroundings: blurry figures were conversing with each other, though he could make out neither faces nor words. He attempted to raise his hand to rub his eyes, but found himself unable to move his arms at all. He looked down to see what the problem was, lost his balance, and fell. A large hand grabbed him by his collar, forcing him back to his feet.

“This one needs more sedatives,” Elliot heard a voice say, and shortly after felt a sharp pain in his side. A sudden wave of nausea overtook him, followed by complete disorientation, then... nothing.

-----TWO HOURS LATER-----

Elliot awoke to the deafening sound of a tolling bell. He was on his back on a cold, tiled floor. Though his mind was clouded, he managed to lift his head and look around at his surroundings: a single, naked light bulb illuminated the room, which consisted of naught but a single mat for furniture. One wall was made of solid cinder blocks; to his left and right were bars separating him from other cells.

The straightjacket he was clad in hindered him, but he eventually dragged himself to the bars on his left, through which he could see another man, also wrapped in a straightjacket, sitting cross-legged.

“Hey,” Elliot’s voice was surprisingly weak to his ears. “Hey you.” The man turned his head. “Where are we?” The man looked at him for a long minute before speaking.

“...Home.”

Days passed. Months passed. Years passed. Each day dragged on the same: Morning meal, confinement, tests, afternoon meal, exercise hour, confinement, evening meal, confinement, sleep. Over and over and over again.

After a year and a half, Elliot was told he would be moving across the facility to a new cell. They drugged him before the trip, as was customary when residents were moved long distances. They were not allowed to see any part of the island outside of the facilities. As such, the transportation was instantaneous to Elliot, who awoke with a start in a new cell. Somehow, he could tell it was different - it was identical to his previous cell, down to the mold dripping off the cinder block wall, and yet... it was new. Different.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.”

Elliot jumped at the sound of the voice. He turned to see a young man with scraggly black hair peering at him from the cell to his right. Like Elliot, the man was clad in a plain white straightjacket, and admittedly looked no different from any other resident. But there was something unusual about him, something that Elliot couldn’t put his finger on.

“I’m Riley,” the man spoke again. “Who’re you?”

“We...” Elliot struggled to find his voice, for it had not been used much in the past year. “We are... not allowed contact...?”

“Ah, forget about that. ‘Sides, the guard’s not here right now anways. Now come on, your name.”

“E... Elliot?”

“Nice to meet ya, Elliot.” A loud clanging signaled the return of the guard, and Riley went quiet until the end of the evening meal, when the guard left again to return the plates. Riley immediately scooted over to the bars separating him and Elliot.

“Hey, Elliot, lemme ask ya something. Ya know why you’re in here?”

“Why...?” Elliot struggled for a moment with his thoughts. Why he was here? It had never occurred to Elliot to question why he was here; they had put him here, that was good enough... wasn’t it? They claimed he was insane. Who was he to question them? He didn’t consider himself to be insane... but then again, they knew best. “Because... I am... I am insane.”

“Or so they tell ya, aye?” Riley’s eyes twinkled. “I bet they tell ya they’re helping you, too. That you’re making progress, aye? But those tests they run - whaddya know about them?”

The tests... Elliot had wondered what exactly they did in there; he couldn’t know himself, of course, for all residents were knocked out before entering the Room. And that was what they called it: The Room. He wondered why they didn’t give it a more descriptive name. ...But maybe they didn’t want the residents knowing what was going on in there. Maybe it was immoral... illegal? But... no. They were here to help, that’s all. They told him so every day. He stared blankly at Riley.

“Nothing, right?” Elliot paused for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“Ever occurred to ya that maybe... just maybe... those tests aren’t helping us? I dunno about you, but I don’t exactly feel insane, they just tell me I am.” Elliot frowned. Of course they told Riley he was insane. They were all insane. That’s why they were here. It made perfect sense.

“Listen,” Riley said quickly, for the guard was due back any minute, “I know ya don’t understand me now, but give it a few days. I’ll talk to ya every chance I get. You’ll see.”

-----ONE MONTH LATER-----

“You cannot have a plan. I have been to all the same areas you have, there is no way out. They watch us... all the time.”

“Trust me.”

Elliot’s mind spun. Could Riley really have figured a way out of this place? It didn’t seem possible - it couldn’t be. The only times they weren’t confined in straightjackets were for meals and exercise hour, and then they were heavily watched over.

“So... are you going to explain further?”

“Not right now; you'll find out in due time. The less everyone knows, the better.”

“...Everyone? I thought... you and me?”

“Nah, you kidding? There’s plenty of others. And soon, we’re all getting outta here.”


Name:
Age:
Years Incarcerated: (This will seriously impact your character's personality. Note how Elliot's speech is still rough and stumbling, even after a month of "rehab".)
Appearance:
Background: (Life before the Facility. After you send me your character sheet, I will tell you how your character came to be locked up.)

BSmith
Name: Elliot Stevens
Age: 26
Years Incarcerated: 1.6
Appearance: Light brown hair rests lightly atop Elliot's head. Having not had his yearly haircut this year, it currently hangs down almost to his shoulders. Long bangs obscure his deep brown eyes, once full of life, now sunken into his skull. His front right tooth is chipped from a collision with the ice during a hockey game; a broken nose adorns his face from a similar injury. His six foot frame is still physically fit, though his time in the Facility has weakened him, and his mind is nowhere near as sharp as it once was.
Background: Elliot enjoyed a happy childhood, growing up in downtown Manhattan. His mother was a schoolteacher and not around much during the school year, while his father worked two jobs to support them. Elliot, therefore, quickly learned how to fend for himself. He grew extremely fond of sports, and through High School and college, he became a star hockey player. Though many said he could've been drafted, he instead chose to go into Engineering, and worked for a short while as an intern in an architecture firm in upstate New York. He was driving home from work one night in a terrible rainstorm when his car skidded off the road, crashing into a ditch. He awoke in the hospital a week later. The doctor told him his brain had received a serious shock from the impact of the crash, and that he was to be transported to a special facility for tests...

Nissadex
Name: Samwise Carter (Sam)
Age: 26
Years Incarcerated: 1, at most. He's still relitively social and talkitive.
Appearance: Tall, appears chubby, though there is little fat on him. Muscular. His hair is short, messy, and two shades darker than sand. He has dark green eyes. He has a round face, and freckle-scattered cheeks. His hands used to be calloused, before he was taken away. His lips are a dark rose color, and his features are very boyish, despite his age.
Background: Sam worked as a medical apprentice as he went to school for the second time to get his doctorate to be a surgeon. He was always fairly bright, but his intellegence wasn't all the much above normal. All through school he worked especially hard so that he would be able to accomplish his dream of being a highly respected doctor. He has a little sister named Mary, who is six years younger than him. His mother and father died when he was 20 from a car accident. Mary has been living with their Aunt. He is incredibly empathetic, but has been shown to not collapse under stress, and can be a valuable friend as well as a powerful ally. It was during one of his regular visits with Mary that a man came to the door, asking for Sam. Sam left with the man, who claimed to be from a government service, and woke up behind bars...

Alle
Name: Willow Thayer
Age: 20
Years Incarcerated: 2
Appearance: Willow was once a vibrant and healthy young woman, with a full frame and a sweet smile. After two years of imprisonment, she has been reduced to a wan echo of her former youth. Her skin is sallow and bruised, pulled tight across a bony frame that has lost its plumpness. Her lips and cheeks are dry and chapped. Her hair, which was once a rich chestnut, falling in natural waves to the middle of her back, is cut around her ears. A tattoo, a remnant from her "free life", is still present on the small of her back - a tribal sun and moon, done in shades of red and indigo. Her shoulders and arms are peppered with a variety of scars collected from her first few months in the Facility, which she spent screaming: yelling, crying, singing, anything she could muster to make a sound. Sometimes she called for her parents, for freedom, and other times just to hear herself, to make sure she was still alive. Her ravings angered one too many guards (resulting in the scars), and the Facility responded, whisking Willow away to another wing of the Sanitarium. It was a month before she returned, and when she did, she was thin and silent. Though she no longer screams for freedom, her eyes are not glassy with defeat. They remain their dazzling gray, desperate, fervent - and wishful.
Background: Born the first and only child, Willow had a comfortable childhood living at the Inn owned and operated by her parents. Willow spent half of her childhood sitting in the dining room, chin in hand, listening to guests share stories of their travels. The other half was spent out of doors, her energy and fostered sense of adventure luring her into the woods and lake on the Inn grounds. In middle school she became immersed in art, especially sketching. She was talented, claimed her teachers, and had a knack for capturing emotion in her medium. This knack gained her admittance to an acclaimed art college, and it was her dream to one day teach art to others. It was her eighteenth birthday when she got her acceptance letter. And it was on her eighteenth birthday that she drove away from the Inn, heading downtown to an impromptu celebration she would never reach. A driver, stranded on the side of the road, flagged her down. As she stopped to help, her car was rear-ended by a drunk driver, and she woke up in the hospital, where she was told she was going to need "special" attention...

Tiger of Wu
Name: Andre Welfair
Age: 19
Years Incarcerated: 3.1
Appearance: Andre has a dark brown skin tone of Indian heritage; at a glance it could be mistaken for what is commonly known as black. Once a rather chubby teenager (fat would be an overstatement) he is now reduced to mere skin and bones. His face is adorned with what could be considered an impressive black beard, the allowance for it to grow free making it full of body, and his head has long, ragged black hair falling down from it. To an ignorant and judgemental eye he would appear to be a religious extremist locked away for plotting typical schemes of punishing infidels. As would be expected considering his time in the Sanitarium, Andre's eyes are completely devoid of any emotion or hope. Truth be told there wasn't much of the latter beforehand anyway.
Background: Andre was born into a large family having three brothers and a sister which accompanied thirteen cousins, twelve aunts and uncles (collectively) and a myriad of 'distant' family, the term being rather ironic since he saw them as frequently as he saw his immediate family. With a father stressed by work and a mother busy with the rest of the family he was always pushed back, only ever really getting attention on odd-occasions. This turned him into quite the recluse, adding to his loneliness a great deal. At the age of thirteen he followed the advice of a great many people (some would say wisely; others, foolishly) and accepted Jesus Christ as his personal lord and saviour. However, a year later he gave up on religion as a whole, overwhelmed by the feeling that if something or someone was in fact there it had given up on him a long time ago. After this Andre merely drifted through life in a constant depression, going from day to day with no goals or ambitions, what was left of his life wasting away before him. "Procrastinating in his spare time" his father would say. Returning from school one day, he found his parents sitting with a strange, official-looking man. His father informed him that the man was going to help, and Andre, amidst protests, was whisked away...

Rust
Name: Marco Pizzolorusso
Age: 19
Years Incarcerated: 0.7
Appearance: Just a common man, not much to look at. He has a common shade of brown hair and eyes, hair cut to about three inches. His face (and general body shape over all) is more roundish than slim. Just a plain man, nothing special except for what's on the inside.
Background: Straight A student, happy family life, nothing really wrong has happened to him in his nineteen years. One could say he's spoiled, but not a brat. He's always worked hard to get the things he has; good grades, a manager's position at a local jewelry store, a happy relationship with a girl named Jennifer. One could call him very motivated. He has applications for several top colleges throughout the States as well as a couple out over seas. One night, a burglar broke into Marco's jewelry store, and during the ensuing struggle, Marco hit his head on the counter. When he came to, the police had responded. One officer took Marco aside, telling him he would need to have his head examined...

Amano Murokumone
Name: Autumn Turner
Age: 20
Years Incarcerated: 4.5
Appearance: Autumn is a thin young man who’s hair is a pale yellow. If he was to ever actually stand his height, one would measure him at 5’9”. His eyes never look forward, and instead seem to lazily balance their hazel-iris attention to that which is around him. Autumn’s skin is fair and seems to repress much pigment beyond a hint of off-white. A birthmark in the shape oh a near perfect triangle permanents at the back of his neck.
Background: Autumn grew up in a suburb to a capital city, and didn't have a very remarkable life. He had few friends and hated the close-quarters environment he lived in. He hated even seeing his surroundings. Instead, he watched the skies and did his best to try and understand them. One day, a man approached Autumn, offering him an "escape" from existence...

Fear of living on....

Natives getting restless now....

Mutiny in the air....

All day the next day, Elliot watched Riley for some clue as to what was going on, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He supposed that should have occurred to him; anything too apart from the norm would have alerted the guards. Though he could have sworn he saw Riley share a smirk with a fair-haired man during exercise hour, but the fleeting expression was gone in an instant.

It was two nights later, as the guard was changing, that Riley sidled over to the bars separating him from Elliot.

"Elliot man," Riley whispered, "Ya ready?"

"Yes. Are you going to... to tell me now?"

"Ya don't need to know anything."

"But..."

"Listen, ya want outta here?"

"Yes, but I..."

"Then you'll do as I say and don't question anything, ya hear?"

"I... understand." Elliot consented begrudgingly.

"Good. Now I want ya to go to sleep."

".........What? But..."

"Go to sleep; you'll see." With that, Riley slipped back into the middle of his small cell.

"Riley," Elliot whispered, "Riley, you... you..."

"No talking!" The guard was back. Elliot glared at him. The guard glared back. This standoff lasted a few seconds before the guard slammed the bars with his hand and turned away. Elliot looked back at Riley, who was staring at the one stone wall of his cage, a blank expression adorning his face. Sighing, Elliot dragged himself to the mat that served as his bed and threw himself down upon it. He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep, his mind racing.

What was Riley planning? And how was going to sleep going to help? Why wouldn't Riley tell him anything? Would it happen tonight? What was "it"? And... again... how was going to sleep going to help? These thoughts looped themselves over and over in Elliot's head, preventing his mind from shutting down enough to go to sleep. But slowly, ever so slowly, he felt his eyelids droop, and he drifted off to the land of nightmares.

For that was what sleep was for Elliot: a constant barrage of ghastly images and torturous dreams. He couldn't remember a time when the nightmares didn't exist, though he knew they had only started the first week in the Facility. He never truly remembered the dreams the morning after; all he was left with was a severe sense of dread and terror. Images, sounds, smells, all flashed across his mind in an indeterminate jumble, and though he could pinpoint neither their origin nor their meaning, they terrified him to no end. Sometimes he dreamed of escaping - these often ended in a horrific end for himself, though, usually just as he was about to make it off the island. Sleep was no longer a peaceful time for Elliot; he dreaded the nights almost as much as he dreaded the daytime in the Facility.

Elliot was awoken that morning by the sound of the great tolling bell, as usual. He dragged himself up off his mat and looked around, bleary-eyed. Something was different, but he couldn't quite tell what. The bell still rang in the distance, echoing across the Facility.... the bell still rang? That was odd. The bell tolled six times every morning; that was more than enough to awaken the residents (though how a belltower situated in the center of the large Facility could reverberate so loudly puzzled Elliot a little). This morning, however, it had already rung nine times and was still continuing.

As Elliot's eyes adjusted to the dark of his cell, he noticed something was amiss: the door to his cage was... open. Then another realization hit him - his eyes were adjusting to the dark. There was no sunlight pouring in through the tiny slits that ran along the top of the walls and functioned as windows. It was the dead of night... and the bell was still ringing.

"Riley?" Elliot called, shuffling over to the bars. No response. ".....Riley?" He was greeted with silence.

Cautiously, Elliot stepped over to the door of his cell, wide open, slightly askew on its hinges. He peered out into the corridor and saw a few heads of other residents doing the same. Apparently all the doors along the short hallway had suffered the same fate as his, which squeaked a little as he opened it farther and stepped out of his cage on his own for the first time in well over a year.

Suddenly there were footsteps behind him, and Elliot, thinking it was a guard, began to duck back into his cell. He felt a hand close around the neck of his straightjacket and jumped. He turned to see Riley, panicked and out of breath.

"Come on!" he called, frantically untying Elliot's straightjacket. "It went wrong, we gotta get out of here now!" With that, he took off running and Elliot heard him saying similar things to a few more people in cells down the corridor before turning and running back past Elliot. "This way!"

Elliot and the other residents, savoring the feeling of their free arms, followed him blindly. They burst through a door Elliot had never been through. The bell still tolled in the distance, and suddenly a siren joined it, rending the air.

"Shit!" Elliot heard Riley exclaim as they took a hard right, entering what looked like a kitchen. They crashed through a pair of double doors only to stop short as they came face to face with a group of men wearing all-black jumpsuits and carrying what looked like rifles. One swung the butt of his gun upwards and it connected with Riley's jaw, sending him flailing to the ground. Another turned and leveled his gun at Elliot. There was a flash and a bang and Elliot felt a sharp pain erupt in his side. He clutched his hand to the wound as he fell. He hit the ground hard and looked down at his bare hip, expecting the worst. But all that was there was a minor bruise. They were stun guns.

With a great effort, Elliot brought himself to his feet and retreated through the double doors into the kitchen, sliding behind a counter with a few others as the guards followed, leaving Riley's motionless form behind them. Elliot looked at the figure next to him, the sandy-haired man that he had seen Riley exchange a grin with days before. The man narrowed his eyes and spoke in a surprisingly strong voice.

"We must get out of here. Do NOT let them catch you."

Samwise kept running.

He was certain that dark-haired fellow had been right behind him just a bit ago, but he was nowhere to be found and that meaty thump from earlier sounded distressingly like someone falling forward onto the ground... He gulped down spittle and tried to forget his almost-friend. It was frightening to be out of his cell. Exhilarating, but horrifying. All around him earlier, people had been scrambling for freedom, running from guards… a few had been taken out early on by what appeared to be stun guns held by the guards, but others like Sam had gotten a good running start, and seemed to be ahead of the competition. Then again, someone had to make the dark-haired guy behind him collapse like he did…
Samwise kept running.

Suddenly, a trashcan reached out viciously and swallowed his ankle. He stumbled forward and landed on his face with a thud, only now able to hear the footfalls of someone less frantic than he over his heavy, fast breathing and clumsy, loud running. He flipped over onto his back, just in time to see a blunt, black nightstick coming at him frightfully quick with a guard attached to the other end of it. Sam jerked himself out of the way and stumbled clumsily to his feet, expecting the bludgeoning pain of the nightstick to come and steal his consciousness away from him at any second. On his feet, he spun, dodged out of the way of the guard's next swing, and surprised himself by bringing his arm down over the guard's as he swung. The guard, shocked, dropped the nightstick and gasped in pain.

Sam reacted.

He reached down and picked up the nightstick before the guard knew what was happening.

He swung.

With a sickening crunch, the nightstick cracked open the guard’s skull like an eggshell. For a horrifying moment, the corpse was perfectly still. Then, it began to sway sickeningly from side to side. Loosing it’s balance completely, it collapsed in a heap on the ground. To his utmost terror, Sam saw that the guard’s eyes were still open. He panicked. He hadn’t meant to kill anyone. Oh God. He’d just killed someone. He was about to break down, but the sound of a man sprinting down the hallway behind him drew his thoughts away from the dead man. He tried to pull the nightstick out from the coagulating mass of fat and blood that used to be someone’s brain, but as some sort of sick revenge it wouldn’t budge. A shadow passed behind him. Another guard. A big one. Already in the air, too late to counter, too late to dodge. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late to say anything. What does someone say at a time like that, anyways?

Then, they were tumbling, Sam, guard, Sam, guard, over and over each other down the hall like some demented wheel of carnage. The guard seemed blinded by rage, as if on a personal vendetta for the other guard who had been killed. He had Sam’s neck in a death grip between his hands, and things were starting to go fuzzy for Samwise Carter. What a shitty way to go. Sam would have laughed to himself if he’d had the oxygen. Killed by a man for unintentionally killing his friend. He hadn’t even wanted to kill the guy, he thought pathetically. He was going to die right after his first murder.
Sam would have continued with this line of self pity had it not suddenly gotten dark around his field of vision. His choked whimpers and the rage-filled shrieks of the guard muffled like cotton in his ears, and Sam’s will faltered, sputtered, and died.

OOC: Someone save Sam, please. >:

Andre's straight jacket had been neglected making running more of a chore; he assumed it was hard for most of them anyway, as even with exercise time having to actually navigate between people whilst going so fast, as opposed to being led by guards whilst blindfolded, proved difficult. 'Perhaps that's just me.' He thought, rounding a corner before stopping abruptly and jumping back behind the wall's cover when he saw what was happening.

The inmate being choked was a vague glimpse in his memory but Andre was certain she was a female, a rather beautiful one as well. He had to act soon. Roaring in rage he flexed his muscles and the straight jacket was torn off him completely, his huge biceps pulsating as he jumped into the corridor. Seeing the Hercules of an inmate the guard left the woman and ran towards him, pulling out a short sword like that used by Roman gladiators. With a smile Andre held out his hand and, from his palm, shot a beam of purple energy that took the head of the guard completely off. Screaming her thanks the woman, tall and slender with the face of a beauty queen, jumped up and ran at Andre, lathering him in kisses. Soon after he shot a hole in the wall and they flew away.

With his foolproof plan in mind Andre flexed, sufficed to say, to no affect. Believing he could still just save the girl and fly them to safety he jumped out anyway and began running. Angrily the guard left Sam with the little life he had left and charged with his nightstick, intending on finishing both inmates in little time. Not noticing the body of the previous guard the hairy inmate tripped on him not far from the charging would-be murderer, the top of his head connecting directly with the guard's crotch. He fell back instantly, hitting his head on the floor and becoming highly disorientated, possibly even brain damaged. On more then one occasion he asked if Woggy could have another cookie.

Hoping to now receive the fair maiden's prize and sprout wings Andre tried to get up, stumbled, fell, tried again and succeeded. After walking towards the choking figure the shocking realisation hit him; he couldn't sprout wings. He had tried before but it didn't work. 'I'm an idiot.' He thought, standing over the woman. Her long, black, silk-like hair and amazing face were beyond description, not to mention her perfect body-shape; he was sure the goddess of beauty herself looked down in envy. As Samwise came back into consciousness he looked up at Andre, who at that point closely resembled a neanderthal, and heard the first things he had said for over a year in a voice that seriously needed hydration.

"Are... are you o-... okay... miss?"

OOC: Quick and crappy, but I promised Rust.

BIC:

A bewildered Elliot ran. That was all he knew; he was running. From the guards, from his cell, from his life, from everything. He had made it out of the kitchen thanks to the sandy-haired man pushing him out the door as he blocked the guards. He had no clue where he was, or where he was going, or what he was going to do when he got there. All he knew was, he was running.

He suddenly found himself alone for a moment as he rounded a corner, and Elliot took the opportunity to take a short rest. He was winded; his time in the Facility had sapped the strength out of him. As he stood to run again, a crash sounded to his right, and a body skidded through a pair of double doors, colliding hard with the wall on the other side of the hallway. The man attempted to scramble to his feet, hampered by his straightjacket, as a guard followed him through the doors, gun in hand. The guard pointed the stun gun at the man's stomach, and fired...

...Just as Elliot tackled him. The rubber bullet went wild, bouncing off the wall behind the resident's back and off down the hallway.

Elliot and the guard were locked in a struggle for control of the gun, but Elliot could quickly feel his strength leaving him. The guard was slowly gaining the upper hand, and finally managed to shove Elliot off of him, swinging the gun around and leveling it, not at his torso, but at his head. Elliot could do nothing but stare down the barrel of the faux rifle as the guard squeezed the trigger.

OOC2: Your move, Rust.