Midnight

Well, other than the little snafu starting out this morning, today is going quite well. Starla and I are slicing through the parts list at a torrid pace, and she's found her niche fetching me tools from my bag. Up next, a center console from a Chevy Caprice. I work on the driver's side, while Starla stands on the passenger side looking on through the open door with my toolbag sitting on the floor.

"Prybar, please. One that looks like a screwdriver," I request.

"I... huh?" As I turn to look at Starla, her eyes are wide with bewilderment at my request as she tries to process what I mean.

"Ah, it's a really lame joke, don't worry about it," I say, dismissing any concerns she might have with a chuckle. "I just need a flat-blade screwdriver."

In a flash, Starla nods and dives into my toolbag, rummaging around for a moment before rising back up with a decent-sized screwdriver clenched between her teeth. Even though I try to clean up my tools on a regular basis, Starla still has a hint of grime on her snout – having been my tool caddy for the last several cars now.

"You really sure that doesn't bother you? You know, fetching tools with your... um—"

"Oh stop – how many times are you gonna ask me that today?" Starla sasses back as I take the tool from her.

"Sorry – I just don't think I would be able to do it without dry-heaving. Also, you do have a little..." I trail off, motioning to my own nose.

Starla rolls her eyes but nonetheless chuckles as she uses a foreleg to try wiping away the dirt. "Grease, grime, and cobwebs haven't stopped you from rummaging through cars today. I'm surprised that's what bothers you," she comments.

"Yeah, but I'm not putting that stuff In my mouth, you know? I don't really like getting it in my fur or my hair, either. It's just the nature of the beast doing this sort of work day in and day out. I don't really bat an eye."

"Well, I don't have many options in picking smaller items up. Maybe I've just been doing it for so long, I don't think about it – sorta the same thing you're describing to me."

"Hm. You make a good point."

I'm certain I've gotten all the fasteners out of the floor, yet this console does not want to release from the carpeting. I set down the screwdriver and start ogling every square inch in the hopes I missed one tricky screw somewhere around here...

"You didn't always have your levitation, though. Don't you remember what it was like before you could pick things up like that?" Starla asks.

Hmm... I really don't remember being without my electromagnetism. There are huge chunks of time from... well, whenever I was born, I guess, up until hightailing it from the lab. I've really not given it much thought until now...

Before I open my eyes, I regret even becoming conscious again. Through the darkness, my head throbs with a dull pain, like the inside of my skull is under pressure. This isn't a particularly foreign experience. More often than not, it means I've once again been an unwitting participant in some sort of new experiment. I have yet to figure out if it's something they put in the slop they serve me for food or if they're pumping gas in my room to knock me out ahead of time – and it frustrates me that this remains a mystery.

I suppose even if I did know the process they used to knock me out, it wouldn't matter – even if I could find a way to convert their tactics, they would come up with something new. Perhaps even worse.

....I'm nervous to even open up my eyes right now to take in the world. I still remember the eye experiment, waking up with no vision...

Can anything really top that horror? I don't know. Frankly, I'm scared to consider it. But just laying here doesn't do me any good, so I brace myself for the fluorescent lighting that will likely assault me...

And it does. It's relieving as much as it is irritating to grimace and squint while my eyes adjust to the artificial light. It certainly doesn't help the headache I'm fighting, but everything comes into focus soon enough.

The bigger issue is what I'm finding amiss. For one, I feel... weighty. My neck feels like it has to throw more muscle around just to raise my head from the mattress – and as I do that, I catch sight of something dangling from my head, out of my periphery.

Wires.

A sense of renewed dread fills me as I fight to get up and onto my hooves. Every muscle in my body feels stiff and uncoordinated, resisting me in protest. Who knows how long I've been out of it and laying here – and who knows what all was done in that time.

I have no mirror in my room, but the glass door will serve well enough to give me a glimpse at the newest wart on this horror show I'm becoming over time. Coincidentally, there's a bundled mass of wires that run toward my destination, before disappearing underneath the rubber seal at the threshold.

The faint reflection that greets me sends a shudder through me accompanied by a heavy wave of nausea. Multiple areas on my head have been shaved clean of fur – only to be supplanted by sensors and wires stuck on with some sort of adhesive patches. If that wasn't concerning enough, there are heavier gauge wires that appear to somehow be hooked up to my horn, before streaming over my head and down the back of my head. Suddenly, this foreign weight all makes sense – yet it doesn't make me feel any better.

After all, I still don't know what the point of it all is, or what exactly they've done with me. Are all of these wires supposed to monitor something? I'm used to seeing electrodes for equipment like that, but none of this looks familiar, particularly the wires that run to my horn.

I shift my focus from my reflection in the glass to what lies beyond the confines of my room – and now I realize I'm not alone. Sitting in a chair beside some sort of large gizmo is the boss's right-hand man. Judging by his slumped position that shows off his mop of brown hair upon his head, I can only assume he's fallen asleep.

That 'hippie hairdo' is his defining feature – if only because the bald-headed asshole in charge berates him for it on a regular basis. That's hardly an isolated incident, for he seems to enjoy being miserable to everyone. Hell, it's why he keeps going through personal assistants.

Yet somehow, this guy has managed to tolerate it and stay for a while. It doesn't make much sense to me – he's always seemed too soft to me, from what was apparently his first day, when I awoke without eyesight. That was the first time anyone seemed to show any sort of concern for my well-being...

Not that I believe him. A lot of newbies start out a little meek and uncertain. This guy might just be even more toward that extreme. If he doesn't quit, he'll harden up and treat me like an object, just like everyone else.

Whatever, I'm used to it at this point. Now, I can either sit here and do nothing or at least find out what the hell they've done this time. I rap on the glass twice with my hoof.

With a jolt and an expression bordering on terror, the man wakes up and darts his head around in all directions. Once realizing no one else is around, he sighs – only to realize I'm looking at him through the glass door. "Oh, you're awake," he mentions.

"Astute observation – no wonder they hired you," I sarcastically comment. "What the hell are you doing, and what the hell is all of this shit that's hooked up to me?"

He rubs his eyes, blinking a few times before he's apparently able to offer me an explanation. "It's... ah, it's another experiment," he offers in a tone of uncertainty.

"Well no shit, Sherlock. I gathered that much already," I bark back at him, irritated by such an inane comment. My renewed ire only serves to send a fresh wave of nausea as my headache briefly intensifies, making me grimace. "Ngh... the only reason I exist is for experiments. What's this one supposed to be? And why is it making my head hurt like hell?"

"Is our little princess awake?!" The shout from down the hall instantly sets me and my temporary keeper on edge. He stands up and turns as footsteps hurriedly make their way toward us.

It's hard to not recognize that voice, harder still to miss the derisive nickname used toward me more often than not. As expected, the bald, beady-eyed bastard of a boss himself appears from around a corner, clad in his customary grey lab coat – as if he needs separation from the lowly white labcoat commoners.

There's nothing else remarkable about him – I refuse to remember his name or take in any other defining features. He doesn't deserve accommodation in my memory. He's the sole reason I keep having to wake up every day as a punching bag for science.

"I told you to let me know when she woke up, Johnson," Baldy growls, taking just a moment to glance in my direction before frowning at his assistant.

"Yes – she just woke up, sir. Sorry," Johnson quickly concedes, almost cowering under the leer his superior is feeding him.

"I didn't get shit for an answer so I guess I'll ask you," I interrupt, making sure to growl my displeasure toward him. "What the hell is all of this electronic shit?"

Bald boy turns to face me properly, taking a step closer to my door. "Part of an experiment," he says, finishing off with a flash of a cheeky grin before his normally dour expression returns.

I didn't expect much, but his answer and sarcasm pisses me off even more. "Fuck you."

Johnson looks on with unease during the terse back-and-forth but perks up as Baldy turns to ignore me again. "Sir, she mentioned that she's suffering from a bit of pain in her head waking up—"

"She's fine," Baldy interjects, putting up a hand to silence his subordinate. "We had her skull popped open rearranging and adding some things – of course there's going to be some pain."

"Right, I understand, sir," Johnson replies, wringing his hand. "I just thought I should mention what she told me."

The comment doesn't appear to sit well with the boss, who puffs his chest out and crosses his arms, hardening his gaze. "You are here as my assistant, not hers," he lectures unhappily. "I'm not concerned about how our creations feel – they wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for people like me."

"Yeah. Lucky us," I remark, throwing in a short, bitter chuckle.

"Shut the fuck up," Baldy snaps, his temper making an appearance as he turns and points a finger at me with a complementary cross expression. "You aren't involved in the conversation here, Princess. I don't need comments from the fucking peanut gallery."

"Sir, I only mentioned it because... ah, the longevity of the program," Johnson speaks up, running a hand through his thick brown hair. "It would be a waste of time and resources if she expired before we could test her, after all."

"Johnson, if you have a bleeding heart, you may as well quit and find somewhere else to work. It's not going to do you any good here."

Johnson's shoulders slump as he hangs his head in defeat. A silent nod displays his acquiescence to the boss.

Baldy frees his arms from their confinement and claps his hands together. "Good. Now turn this thing on and let's get the ball rolling here."

Johnson moves his chair over in order to take a seat in front of a small console beside the gizmo Baldy is starting to fiddle with. No words are spoken between them – their movements and ministrations are practiced and calculated.

"I'll shout into the void again – what is this test? What are you trying to do with that thing?" I demand, stomping a hoof down in frustration.

"It's to get you charged up," Baldy drones, his focus not straying away from the processes in front of him. "I'd suggest you go lie down within the next ten or fifteen seconds."

"Right, because I'm eager to take advice from you. And what the hell do you mean 'charged up'? That doesn't tell me anyt—"

Everything goes white as a surge of violent pins and needles starts to course through my head. Nothing else exists now – I can't feel my limbs, my body, my orientation in the world...

It's an endless void of searing pain that makes it hard to even conjure coherent thoughts aside from agony.

"Sir, I thought we were doing a slow charge!"

"It's not going to hurt her – we're just speeding things up. If we did everything right and the idea works, it's the only time she's going through this anyway."

"But look at her! This is a lot to be doing all—"

"You can keep the machine going or you can find another job! Your choice!"

Through the deluge of agony, I suddenly feel... something. Someone patting me on the shoulder. "Hey..." It's a meek voice calling out to me... Johnson? No, that's a hoof patting—

The junkyard. Starla. It all suddenly flashes back to me as the pain evaporates at once, and I can see again. I'm inside the interior of a Caprice, standing over a center console, looking down at what I should be working on. Starla continues to gently pat me with a hoof, as she's now standing inside the car with me, albeit on the passenger side from what I can see of her hooves. Looking up for the first time since... who knows, Starla's wide-eyed expression tells me all I need to know.

I've been zoned out for a while. A frightening amount of time for her. It probably doesn't help her anxiety about me with my realization that I'm quivering at the moment.

That was... I've always tried to repress a lot of memories regarding what was done to me, and how they went about it. That's a memory I wish had been left forgotten. I've never had something feel so intense and real.

Well, reliving something so intense and real.

"I... I'm good, I think," I manage to sputter out in hopes of easing my friend's troubled expression. That's easier said than done – but at least she blinks and takes a deep breath.

"What happened?" she gasps, barely above a whisper. "You were working on the console and then you just... stopped. It was like you completely left."

I really don't know how to answer her at this point. I try to get a better handle on my bearings in the meantime, sitting on my haunches and focusing on calming my nerves.

"Should I get John?"

"No, I'll be fine, Starla. Just... give me a second here."

While she looks ready to split at a moment's notice to fetch John, Starla gives me the time I need to recollect my thoughts and temporarily compartmentalize them into something understandable.

"Your question just got me thinking about the laboratory – where I came from," I start slowly, keeping my eyes glued to the floor as I reluctantly speak just above a murmur. "Remembering how they... I guess how they got the gizmos in my head up and running, starting with the... they said 'charging,' but I don't feel like that's quite right. Probably calibrations of some sort, too – but it involved sending electrical current through my head. And I was reliving that, I guess."

I expect to get some sort of physical consolation or verbal response from Starla, but nothing happens. I look up to find her in the same position I was, trying to bore holes through the carpeted floor under her hooves.

"Are you okay?"

"I am – I'm just trying to wrap my head around what you just said," she mumbles. "I believed you when you said the before times were miserable... but I didn't think it was actual torture."

"It's— yeah, it was awful. But it wasn't mindless torture on their part. But now I'm wondering if— if I made it more miserable for myself."

"What?" Starla's eyes leap back up to me.

I can't even begin to explain my thoughts right now. I purposely forgot the past and the people around me, and I've put it all behind me now for the most part. Yet now I've unwittingly dug something back up – and there's a name and a face. A name and the face of a man who didn't seem so thrilled with what was transpiring.

I always figured I might have gotten a bit of aid with my escape. Was it more significant than I thought? Do I know who was behind it with this overwhelming flashback?

I don't want to revisit the past. Yet at the same time, now I'm a bit curious about what I buried.