There was once a time when sleep brought dreams. Dreams were nice, pleasant, and usually involved some kind of food. He used to love sleeping; lazing around all day. But sleep no longer brought dreams. If it did, they weren't pleasant. His sleeps weren't typical; they could last hours, days, weeks. When Pilot wasn't being trained, on a mission, or otherwise being used, he was in an induced coma. It gave him less time to sit around and think; he wasn't supposed to think.

When he was first brought in, when he was still the dumb kid named Isaiah, learning not to think was hard. 

[i]Straps across his legs, his arms, and his torso. The table he was stretched out across was particularly hard and uncomfortable. His eyes were wide with fear as guys in white coats lowered a funny looking helmet over his head. He was terrified; he cried, he struggled, he - felt nothing but blinding pain.[/i]

Training to obey orders, no matter how inhumane, wasn't easy. It hurt. Back in those days,[hider=everything hurt.]

[i]He was left on that table for hours, days, possibly even weeks. His every thought was monitored, and the wrong thoughts brought punishment. 
 
"Test number double oh two. You're name is Pilot, and you will do as I say."

 [center] [What the hell was that supposed to mean? Where's dad?][/center]

Pain. Darkness. Alone. Sleep. A new day.

"Test number double oh three. You're name is Pilot, and you will do as I say."

 [center] [Who the hell is that guy and why is he calling me that?][/center]

Pain. Darkness. Alone. Sleep. It went on for days.

"Test number nineteen. You're name Pilot, and you will do as I say."

 [center] [My name? What is my name? Pilot? Izzy?]
 [Izzy.][/center]

Pain. Darkness. Alone again. Another test. 

"Test number forty three. Your name is Pilot, and you will do as I say."

 [center] [Pilot. Is that my name?]
 [Yes. That's it.]
 [Who is that guy? Why am I still here? Dad?][/center]

Pain. Darkness. It seemed to never stop. [/i][/hider]

Nothing hurt much anymore. He didn't think the things he wasn't supposed to. He did the things he was told. Sometimes, if you get hurt enough times, everything just kind of goes numb. He didn't feel the prick of the needle that put him to sleep, for however long they wanted. He didn't care that they shipped him all around the country to be poked and tested on. He didn't feel the second needle poked into his arm to wake him up. He didn't ever know where he was, or why he was there, but he [i]did[/i] know one thing for certain:

 [center] His name was Pilot, and he would do as they said. [/center]