Midnight

I don't think I will ever get used to these... things. It's been miserable getting used to them – their weight, the sensations I can feel through them, and their movements. These wings are a burden I find utterly humiliating to endure. As usual, I wasn't forewarned, I wasn't asked my opinion. One day, I just fell asleep... and the next memory is waking up with a new set of limbs to figure out.

I suppose this is still a mild inconvenience compared to the experiment with my eyes... but that's little consolation.

No, the most humiliating thing about these stupid masses of feathers attached to me now is their origin. Granted, it's quite vain and absurd to think I would have rather had a custom set of wings created and slapped on me, but knowing that these damn things were pulled out of the scrap heap, dyed a color that was 'good enough'...

Somehow, that just makes it all worse.

Figuring out how they work has been hell for... however long it's been since the procedure. They twitched, spasmed, and flared out at random – almost from the day I awoke with them, making recovery a painful and agonizing process. I don't know how they work or how they were... integrated into me. But I know what little sleep I had been getting before was being interrupted by these damn things having a mind of their own at the most inopportune time.

They don't feel particularly heavy, but having to adjust to a new, foreign weight forever tied to my back has been a trial in itself. Even beyond the surgery, my back and joints have been cracked by aches and pains, fighting to make sense of this sudden addition. It's only been recently that such fatigue has finally begun to fade away.

But even as I've figured out some semblance of control over them, how muscle and nerves have somehow melded with wires and actuators and become functional...

I'm a legitimate freak now. I feel like my mere existence now is an affront to the natural world. It wasn't my choice – as it never is – but just a look at my reflection with these cursed things is almost enough to make me dry heave. I want nothing more than to rip them off and be free of them – but that's not going to happen.

After all, 'new plans' are afoot down here in regards to me; it doesn't take a rocket scientist to determine the end goal is flight. But that hardly seems like a major breakthrough considering the ponybots – including the one whose wings I now possess – are already capable of flight.

Part of me wants to say it's just for the fun of torturing me; that may not be too far-fetched. I'm well aware that at this point, the project manager wants to be rid of me. But from bits and pieces of what I have heard, the higher-ups are impressed by what he's put me through and accomplished.

His 'brilliance' makes him a hot commodity – but moving him off of my project, now? Not an option – who would carry on with the ingenious ideas and experiments he's cooked up? No, moving up isn't an option for the boss down here, not while I'm still a viable test subject...

With that in mind, I don't understand why he doesn't just 'accidentally' kill me. It would be simple enough for a procedure to go wrong, wouldn't it? It frees both of us from misery.

This isn't a life worth living. I wake up every day as a specimen in a fish tank. I don't have any free will here. My existence is pain, recovery, tests, and repeat.

How is that something worth fighting for? How is that worth prolonging? I'm just... tired.

I don't want this. I never wanted any of this. But it was never an offer put forth with a yes or no answer. Just by existing, I guess I agree to it.

But... well, I don't want death, either. I want something... something more. I don't know what that 'something' is, but I guarantee there's more outside these walls that have held me captive for so long. I have a vague idea of what lies beyond in large part due to the computer chips they stuffed inside my head. But nothing... nothing I can really process into something that makes sense.

From the bed where I lay, footsteps begin to echo from down the hall, beyond the door that sits opposite where I am in my room. With not much else to do down here, I've gotten good at hearing and determining who – or at the very least, how many – guests I can expect to receive when they finally manifest in front of my door.

It's two sets of footsteps, with one set quick and heavy – undoubtedly the head jackass, whose name I've forcibly forgotten.

The other set is familiar as well, though not ingrained into my head like Baldy's impatient tempo. No, the other set is more like a shuffling light footstep, almost reluctant to even be heading this way. Baldy's trusted lackey that somehow hasn't quit, despite seeming to just be a pushover of a verbal punching bag when the boss is in a bad mood.

I happen to look up at the door just in time to see my assumptions are correct – there's bald boy and his mop-head assistant.

"How are we getting around today?" Dickhead asks in his usual uncaring tone.

"Fucking lovely as always. What do you want?" I drone back, equally as uninterested.

"How are the wing movements coming alone?" Baldy doesn't bat an eye at my response today; sometimes, just to look for a reason to argue, he'll take exception to the language that I've gleaned from him.

But I'm feeling combative – if only out of pure boredom. "I've got them folded away neatly at my sides," I answer with sarcasm, motioning to the appendages at my sides. "What else do you expect?"

Baldy puts his hands on his hips as if demonstrating his disappointment at my choice of tone is going to make a difference. "I'm not here for attitude, I'm here for answers and results," he shoots back.

While the asshole and I exchange 'pleasantries', his assistant...uh, Johnson – he scribbles down a few items on his clipboard, occasionally glancing up at me. While I'd expect he would be used to this kind of shit, he still appears uneasy and nervous.

Again, I really don't understand why he hasn't fucked off from this place.

"Open your wings," Baldy commands.

Ugh. I hate hearing him try to direct me like a stupid animal, but I also know the sooner I oblige, the sooner I'll be rid of him again – if only for a while. I get up out of bed and walk to the center of the room, keenly aware of how large these damn things are. However, I still have to think...

Movement still doesn't come naturally as raising a leg or turning my head. It takes a bit of focus to sort of... pinpoint the area – and remember how I folded them up in the first place. But after a second or two, I snap them open, the span wide enough for the feathers on the tips to nearly brush the walls on either side of me.

"Is there any pain accompanying the movement like that?" Johnson asks, looking up from his notations.

"Don't worry about that now," Baldy grumbles. "Wait for questions until after we see what she can do. Now, close your wings."

"They were closed when you came in here," I protest, befuddled by the request.

"Are we really going to have to argue about everything today?"

"Yes, it's my personal entertainment – if only because it makes you seethe. Best way to give you a small taste of what I go through."

"Oh right – poor you. Living in your own little room, given the best medicine and treatments—"

"Which I wouldn't need if you just left me the fuck alone," I coldly interrupt him.

"Just fold your goddamn wings so we can move on!" he barks.

I'm not going to win this little pissing contest, but at least I got him to have a little hissy fit. Nonetheless, as I follow his directions and tuck away my wings, I make sure to sneer at him.

"Good. Have you tried flapping them at all?"

"Oh, all the time. Just overjoyed to have these things and looking forward to my first attempt at flight!" I sass, pouring on the sarcasm as I plaster on a wide smile to boot.

"Is that a no, you haven't tried? Or you can't?" Baldy challenges.

Bull-fucking-shit I can't – I've passed every one of these stupid little tests and exams this asshole has put me through. Every stupid little experiment has an end goal, and not a single one of them has ended in failure.

Yet I know he wants me to fail. It would be a strike against me, getting closer to closing down this disgusting little program he's been forced to continue.

But I'm not a failure. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Once again, I unfurl my wings wide. Giving them a few pulses in a flapping rhythm sends out a few twinges of pain on either of my sides, but I grit my teeth and continue to display I'm fully capable of what he asks.

"Well, it actually looks surprisingly similar to how we engineered the bots," Baldy idly comments to his assistant. "That's a promising sign."

"Yeah – guess she's a quick learner, huh?" Johnson suggests.

"I wouldn't go that far. There's probably some leftover idea of how wings work from those personality chips in her head. Just sort of naturally comes back to the surface once presented with the appendages."

"Fuck you. Maybe I'm just determined to piss you off any chance I get," I growl, irritated by his dismissive comment.

"Pissing me off?" Baldy questions, scoffing at the idea. "By making me look good? Sounds like you have some wires crossed in there, princess."

Even as he laughs at his own joke, I can see it. The way his hand suddenly clenches into the fist at his side. That slight narrowing of his eyes at me. He knows what I meant by that.

I'm going to continue being a 'success story' – just to extend his misery of being tied to me.

For now, having completed the directive and having no follow-ups while Johnson takes more notes, I fold away my wings again. They're beginning to ache even more now after the quick burst of exercise; that is the first time I've ever flapped them with any sort of vigor, and my body is making sure I know about it.

I need to start working on them more – but preferably in private, not while I have an audience at the foot of my room. Every little bit of agonizing progress I make with these stupid wings means I'm dragging on the project for that much longer.

Will I be able to fly? I don't know – and I really don't care too much for the idea. But I'm gonna be damn sure to do everything in my power to make it happen, just to be a thorn in everyone's side.

"Are you feeling any sort of pain or discomfort while doing that?" Johnson's meek inquiry snaps me out of my thoughts with a renewed bit of irritation brewing in me.

"Nothing that I can't deal with – doesn't matter," I dismiss him.

"Can you tell me where you're feeling—"

"I said it's nothing – I'm not a bitch," I cut him off. I turn away and head back to my bed for comfort now that the pain I'm enduring is starting to eat away at my strength a bit more. "It's fine. I can tolerate a little bit of pain."

"That's why I don't bother with niceties toward her anymore, Johnson," Baldy mutters under his breath. "Not gonna get you anywhere with her."

I doubt he was trying very hard to keep that from me; I heard that as clear as day, and it ignites a flame within me. "You never tried being nice, you lying fuck!" I belt out.

"Language..." he trails off in an ominous tone, eyeing me warily.

"You mean the language I got from you, you double-standard piece of shit?"

Baldy slams a fist on the door as his anger finally reaches a flashpoint – if only momentarily. He clenches his jaw and glares at me, allowing himself a bit of time to compose himself rather than lash out into a verbal tirade of obscenities. "I think you need some time alone until you can drop that fucking attitude," he growls, unable to prevent a single f-bomb from popping through.

But that's as much as he's willing to dole out now, preferring to spin on his heels and turn his back to me. "Come on, Johnson. We'll get back to her later."

As Baldy stomps his way down the hall, Johnson takes a look at me one more time. It's a brief look of pity, but he has nothing to say before forcing himself to follow in the footsteps of his boss.

Fuck him.

I don't need his pity – I can handle myself. But now he gets to see more of the despicable sack of shit that hides within the boss. Just in case he doesn't see it enough. Maybe he can get a taste of it too, now that I've put king dick in a bad mood.

I'm so sick of this shit. All of it. But what do I do? It's not like I'm going to be set free for good behavior...

Not willingly, anyway. I don't know what lies outside these walls, but anything has to be better, right?

...maybe I should start to consider what all I'm capable of now. See what else I can learn; after all, I can manipulate metal objects to some degree, maybe I can develop that? Turn that into something more than a parlor trick, and figure out a sort of fine motor control with it...

After all, the door to my room has some metal components... I wonder how the internals work...?