Subject A250: The Flame (COMPLETED)

Forty: Patience is a VirTUNE

A/N: ONE CHAPTER TO GO. This is crazy, I feel like this book has gone by so much quicker than the first one.

Can I just express my undying love for this song, too. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever EVER heard. Gorgeous.

She blinked awake and immediately sensed that something was wrong.

Trace was in a room, so white and so bright that she tried to reach up and shade her eyes from the light it forced in.

She tried, but her hands were strapped down. She wriggled against the restraints, and only then did she figure out where she was.

The room looked clinical; she was hooked up to some kind of machine with a screen emanating a dark green glow. It had cords leading to her wrists and up to her head. They were taped down against her skin.

Her legs were held down too. She was lying on some reclined chair. Like a dentist's chair, but white. Pure white. To match the freaky room around her. Trace knew this could only be bad. Thomas had simply had to sit by himself for a few days, waiting by himself in a padded room with no contact, and that sounded awful.

She was strapped down, hooked up to some kind of monitoring technology- if that's even what it was- and left alone in a bright room.

Across from her was a whiteboard, spanning the entire length of the wall. Written in huge letters in crimson pen, were two words:

'Be patient'

"No, no, no, no."

She didn't like the sound of that. Not in this position. If they were going to keep her tied down for days on end, Trace would go mad. She'd lose her mind. She'd go absolutely psycho on them once they let her out. She couldn't endure an hour like this, let alone days.

No way. There was no way they'd do that.

Would they?

"No, no, no. Please! Somebody help me! What am I doing here! Don't leave me in here, please!"

Panic was setting in. What if they couldn't hear her? What if this was an accident? What if they'd left her here to die?

"Help! Please, help me! Help me, please!"

There was crackling sound, like a microphone being turned on, and she could hear a low hum.

"Please, be patient," a voice said. Trace swore she'd heard it before. A man's voice. But she couldn't work out who it belonged to.

"Be patient? How long do I have to be patient for? I'm not good at being patient. What is going on?! Please!"

There was a sigh on the other end, followed by another set of instructions. "Please remain patient. Your supervisor will be with you shortly."

Supervisor? Well, at least she wouldn't be left alone in here.

Although suddenly that seemed like a good idea. What was this supervisor going to do? What would they do to her? They'd tortured kids before; they'd certainly do it again. Trace really hoped she wouldn't be tortured.

Something occurred to her; nothing hurt anymore. Her shoulder didn't ache and her leg wasn't constantly throbbing like it had been before. They'd fixed her. She craned her neck to look down at her legs and tried to rotate her bad one to see the bruise.

It was gone.

"What the hell?" she muttered, Thomas-style.

The room was really starting to freak her out now. The white was overpowering, almost painful to endure. Instead, she focussed on the machine beside her, trying to work out what it was. There was a name on the front, just below the screen, in small letters.

S O U T H W I C K

Southwick? It didn't ring any bells for her. What was a Southwick? Or was the machine just named after someone, like every other person in this facility

It had wires coming out the back, collecting in a jumbled mess on the tiled floor. They reached an assortment of plugs on the wall behind her, seemingly colour-coded.

She couldn't figure out what it did, and that terrified her, so she tried to focus on something else. Anything else.

The room was cold, and she'd shiver every now and then as a result. She wished someone would come in and give her a blanket or a warm coat. Maybe turn the heating up a little. To distract herself, she composed another song. One to stun audiences worldwide. An emotional ballad, probably belonging in the climax of a musical, sung by the young heroine before battle. She'd use it when she ended up on Broadway.

"I'm alone in a white room

Awaiting impending doom.

I should have seen this coming.

Should've jumped, started running.

But instead I fell asleep.

It was nice, counting sheep.

Now I've learnt to be aware

Stay awake, and to take care.

Too late now, I'll be killed soon

By Ratman this afternoon.

Or tonight, or tomorrow

Either way, there'll be sorrow

But I guess that's the way now:

We just die, someway, somehow

Since they don't know wrong from right

WICKED's an ongoing fight

Pounce, then strike and then defend

I will fight until the end

Until it is understood

WICKED's anything but good!"

She paused, took some dramatic breaths, and looked to the light in the centre of the ceiling as if it were a spotlight, shining down on her. She envisioned the applause she would receive. It was glorious.

That voice interrupted her daydream. "Please, don't do that again. We advise that you be patient. It won't be long now."

Trace rolled her eyes, but boredom was consuming her and she only had one companion right now.

"Did you like my song?"

"Not particularly. It had no structure. There was no chorus."

"I don't need choruses; I have talent."

"Debateable."

"Hey!"

The voice didn't reply after that. The microphone had been turned off.

Five minutes later- although Trace was fairly sure a year, at least, had passed- someone stepped into the room.

Flint.