The corridor was shadowed and broken, unappealing to every sense that could be imagined. It reeked of darkness, of a desire to break, to hurt, to destroy. It would have been quite effective on a normal young child’s mind, back when the soldiers had still worried that their newest project might try and run away. But he was unable to run, unable to move without the help of man or machinery, and such an obvious technique would never have worked on him anyways. He did nothing based on emotion.
He walked through it now without a hint of worry, not even noticing the way the walls seemed to tighten, to try and crush the very breath from his body. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, didn’t worry that there was something that might leap out of the shadows at him, but rather, he didn’t even recognize the atmospheric differences between this dark place and the brightly lit western wing.
The western wing. The military's answer to needing to keep someone contained, without letting them know that they are trapped as much as any prisoner. He still knew, no matter the fact that they had told him he had been born with a broken spine. That they implied they hadn't done it. They had. But they lied, not recognizing that the mind they had created to be so clever would see through their lies as well. He didn't believe them, didn't believe anything they told him, except the power that his mind head, and the power that this body held.
The western wing. Warm and brightly lit, with wide doors and hallways to accommodate the bulky animatronic wheelchair that was his only way of moving, his only way to interact with the world. He struggled through life with it now, only able to truly live through these eyes, running across the world and destroying anything in the way.
The western wing. The only place that he... the only place that Lucius had ever been.
He had been everywhere. All over the world. In conditions that would have killed anyone else, always executing his brother’s brilliant plans, just the way that he wanted. And Lucius had been there too. Had experienced it just the way his brother had, but still his body had never left this room.
And nor was it ever going to. But he was getting out today. Out of the control, out of the pressure, out of the place where they were never allowed to have even a moment's breath. Never allowed to have a moments peace, never allowed a single independent thought. Never allowed to move. Never allowed to leave. Always being controlled, always being influenced, always being stopped, always being poked and prodded, always expected to come up with the solution, to execute the plan, to be the perfect little soldier.
And they had done just that. Everyone here thought that they were safe, that they had come up with the perfect system to win in any situation, and that they had this perfect system completely under control. But not any more. Not ever, although they didn’t know it. He had waited, waited until the moment where they could get away perfectly clean. He foresaw it all.
In the western wing, the guards smiled politely, accommodating his requests with respectful salutes. They smiled to his face and then spat as soon as he turned his back, cursing his name, hating his very existence, but forced to put up with him, for he was the engine that ran this whole facility anymore. He was the one who led every mission, and won every single mission, wading through seas of blood for the glory of this military government. For that was who they owed their loyalty to, or so the generals thought. The men who had taken two newborns to the orphanage, still soaked in their mother’s blood, and, later, came back, and taken the boys to this cursed life.
They thought they owned him, that he would respond to their every whim with perfect willingness. After all, that is what he had done up to this point. They thought he had complete control over the “weapon” that he had been given, the weapon that this body had been turned into, mind shattered, unable to think. And then handed over to his brother, to be controlled. To be guided, to be directed to the right targets, like some absurd homing missile.
But he knew that he was no treasure, no special person. He knew why they had broken his body so completely. So that he could never run away, never escape this prison of control. But why would this "treasure" want to. The treasure behaved himself, acted like the perfect soldier. And the fools believed it. They would learn.
They didn’t even hear him coming now. He crept up behind them and killed them, killed those polite bastard guards who had so often cursed him. They thought he didn’t know, that he thought they all respected him, but they should know his genius, know that he wouldn’t be fooled. Not by anything.
He killed them with a single pinch, with a single touch. He could have obliterated them, but he had been told not to, that everyone in the wing needed to die before he made any noise. And that noise had been determined already, as well.
The soldiers couldn’t control him, and they knew it. He was too powerful to be stopped by anything they threw at him. That was why they had broken his mind, and given him to his brother. He was supposed to keep him under control, turn him into a toy, a machine, a weapon to be pointed and fired. But he didn’t want to keep him under control. He wanted him to kill them, just as much as he did. Maybe more, for it was him who had to face them every day. But he hated them too, hated the memory of their leers, even if it wasn’t him who actually saw it. He knew it. He could feel his brother’s hatred for them, and that hate became his hate. And so he killed them with a harsh leer on his face, quietly. Everyone in this wing would be dead by the time he was finished.
His brother too. Shot in the head by the gun that was tucked into his waist strap. He didn’t need it, but he had told him it to be messy. Had to make sure that they thought he had killed him, completely and thoroughly. Out of hatred, out of a desire to no longer be controlled, whatever story they wanted to fabricate to appease the higher ups. He said that meant that those who were at the top would believe that they only had to deal with one unthinking, if almost unstoppable, monster. They wouldn’t know that the tactician was still there. Was still making plans. They wouldn’t know until it was too late to do anything about it, to try and come up with a way to stop it.
Now he stood before his broken form, the figure that had controlled his life for as long as he could remember. His brother, his constant companion, the man he hated more than anyone else, the only man that he could trust.
The gun leveled, perfectly still, right next to his head. And he pulled the trigger.
The resulting bang echoed through the entire western wing, but it didn’t matter anymore. There was no one alive except him to hear the gunshot anymore. But his brother still heard it, and, slowly, brought into being by the very strength of his brother’s being, he reformed, strong and tall as he had never been in life, insubstantial, but still present. Still thinking. Now it was time to go.
He was free. Out, and able to begin planning his revenge, with a brother that was only too willing to help in tow, and with the power to level a city within his body.