Nonconformity | Henry Creel

He Hated Her

Sometimes Henry wondered if he should just kill Sixteen.

When they first met, he toyed with the idea as though it were his favorite game. It wouldn't be an easy task, of course. He'd have to finesse his way past the cameras and their piercing metal glares without Sixteen raising an eyebrow. She was smart, though, far smarter than he'd like to admit. She wouldn't make the task easy. Not to mention the actual act of killing her. Months ago, he found it quite stimulating to image how he'd do it. Not with any sort of gun, of course. He wanted it to be personal; for both of them to feel every moment of it. Perhaps he'd wrap his hands around her throat and watch her lips turn blue.

That was before, though.

Now, he knew he couldn't do that. If he ever wanted to leave the lab, he'd need her. The thought made him ill. It was an unsettling feeling to need someone-- foreign, especially to him.

His fingertips ghosted over the protrusion in his neck. One would think after so many years, he'd adjust to it. Henry wished it was that easy. He felt the chip like deadweight strapped to his person at all times. It pulled at each and every muscle in his body, ceaseless in its intensity. He remembered what it was like being a young boy, able to do as he pleased without the ever-present nuisance. That memory was what kept him sane.

One day, he swore, one day he'd feel that pulse again.

That day had yet to come, however, and so he had to wait with bated breath until it did. He used to count each one, but gave up somewhere in the eight hundred area. It was torture to count, to bide time, never knowing when it would be up. At one point, he was convinced that the day would never come.

And then Sixteen showed up. Screaming, fighting, clawing at every single guard until she had bits of skin and blood beneath her fingernails. The other orderlies dreaded the idea of being her guard. After all, she'd maimed so many in such a short amount of time. To this day, Henry wasn't sure whether it was schadenfreude or stupidity which made him volunteer to look after her. Either way, he had a new task to complete. For hours he would watch as she paced back and forth, muttering to herself as she agonized over whatever awful fate awaited. It was her power that caught his attention. She must not have known, but her undoubtedly overwhelming emotions made the lights flash from two hallways down.

Henry's abilities far outweighed anyone else's. Brenner's second-rate copies could move bricks and turn on lights all they wanted, but they would never come close. After all, he was the original. Superior in every possible way. And then there was Sixteen, untrained, a nonbeliever, pacing her room and practically hemorrhaging power.

Evidently it caught his eye.

Their first exchange only cemented that curiosity.

"Are you doing that on purpose?" He had asked her. Sixteen paused in the middle of the room, head snapping to the door until her gaze caught Henry's. She stared at him for a few moments, hands drawn into fists, a look he could only describe as abysmal glinting in her eyes.

Beautiful, he remembered thinking.

"If you say another word to me I'm going to carve out your fucking eyes," She responded, and immediately resumed her pacing. Henry furrowed his eyebrows, not knowing whether to feel threatened or intrigued. He opted for both.

That was months ago. Presently, he patrolled the hallways, bored as ever. He'd grown to hate the obscenely white tile, so much so it burned his eyes. To distract himself, he would imagine the outside world, though it became infected with growing vagueness as the years slipped through his fingers. He never particularly liked the people that inhabited it, but he could appreciate the natural beauty.