[ Everything changed, the day the Slates were unshackled. Yata had been too young, at the time, to really understand what had happened. Even now, he has a hard time remembering how things were Before. Before, it was said, that only a trusted few had powers, carefully monitored to protect the people, to protect peace. Whether they did or not really isn't important anymore, because someone had decided to change things. They'd unshackled the Slates, made that power run free and wild. No longer would it be limited and coveted by a select few. It would be free to all.
Yata's pretty sure they were naive idiots or just plain crazy. Maybe even both. This power was never meant to run free and wild. Everyone should never have been given these powers. It didn't make people safe. It didn't make anyone free. Instead, it had just separated humanity even more. He'd heard it described like magnets, once. It was one of the few explanations that made sense in describing what the powers had done to the people who'd been changed by the Slates.
There were the Pullers, those who could draw out magic and manipulate it - both from themselves and others. Their power wells weren't overwhelming, more limited and restrained, but their control in using that power could be honed and refined until it almost seemed like a work of art, a beautiful melody, an intricate tapestry woven from the most delicate threads.
And then there were the Pushers. In contrast, their ability to call forth power was deep - almost endless it seemed, in some cases. But they lacked the ability to hone it, to temper it. There was no control, no finesse. It could be as sudden and devastating as a storm or an earthquake or a volcano and often just as unpredictable.
It didn't take people long to become afraid of anyone who was a Pusher - not that that was their official name, but the slang terms for them had become much more popular as people became more and more afraid. And angry.
Yata was nine the first time he accidentally set something on fire. It had been a moment of childish temper, but he'll never forget the look on his mother's face when it had happened, or the bone-deep fear that had shaken him when she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the house. She'd taken him downtown immediately, her grip firm, her face pale and pinched, and Yata had been too startled and frightened to question what was happening. She took him to the Gold Center, the tall skyscraper at the city's center, which was already establishing itself as the leading expert in the strange phenomenon devastating the city as newly released powers ran amok. His mother had handed him over to a doctor in a white-and-gold coat. A medical examination, he'd gleaned from their conversation, and then he'd been led to a clinic room. He'd been poked and prodded and asked questions. And then they'd done something, something that had hurt, and something in him had lashed out, as if some part of him was trying to defend itself from the pain. He'd burned the clinic room and everything in it to ash. He'd also burned half of the room next to him. Yata never saw his mother again.
He was taken to another building, dressed in a hospital gown, and put through more tests than he could keep track of. They'd watched him for weeks until it was determined that his power was not something he could control. It just was, like an emotion, or a reflex. He didn't know what that meant at the time, but from their expressions, he knew it wasn't good.
With the unleashed magic at that time still new and unknown and frightening, the corporations involved in understanding and controlling the increasing outbreak of Incidents were given almost unfettered permission to do whatever was necessary to contain the problem. So no one even batted an eye when Yata and the others like them were Collared. It was to help them, they were told. It would keep them - and everyone around them - safe, not to mention give them the possibility of living life without destroying everything around them. Of course, someone should have seen that the next step would be to understand how to tap into that deep well of power, to use it. There were varying levels of success, depending on the Pusher. Yata was not one of them. At best, he was the Energizer Bunny, but at worst? He was a ticking time bomb.
He quickly learned that things usually went worse.
The first time he ran away, he was eleven. He stayed free for three days. The second time, a year later, he made it a little over a month. The third time, he had help, another girl trapped with him, another Pusher, who told him that she knew a group, deep in the city, who knew how to block the trackers in their Collars so they couldn't be located again. They were working on a way to remove them entirely - something made almost impossible by the way the tech had been fused with their nervous system to try and subdue the power that was now an intricate part of them. That time, he remained free for almost a year. It had been glorious and he'd been fifteen and then, in a botched attempt to remove his Collar, he'd burned down half a block of old warehouses in the docks. And everyone in them.
That time, when he'd been caught, he hadn't tried to run away again. He'd withdrawn, quiet and resentful, as he was passed from one official to another. People who thought they could control him - tried to control him. But his power burned too hot. Always. They couldn't control it any more than he could. He watched one burn himself out, destroying his own ability to Pull out or channel even the faintest threads of magic any longer. Another one had injured himself so badly he'd been in a coma for three weeks. It wasn't long before Yata had a reputation among the organizations and government groups now in control of the City. His past reputation as a troublemaker had been combined with his danger even now, until many were too afraid to even try any longer and he'd heard more than one conversation about what to do with him if no one could safely control him and find a way to expel that power buildup that constantly welled up inside of him.
He knew it was only a matter of time before he ran out of options entirely. he was trying to resign himself to that, even as he ended up in a cell in the Gold Center once more, passed back from the Grey Clan after two short weeks. There were rumors floating between the guards that he'd overheard a representative from JUNGLE was here, but he hoped not. Those guys gave him the creeps. But it's not like he got a choice in where he ended up.
So he waited, seated on a simple wooden bench in his stark cell, head buried in his hands as he tried to ignore the way that his fire was building again, an itch under his skin just begging to be scratched. Not that he could, without a release from the Collar, from someone who could draw this power out of him and vent it safely. He wondered what would happen if they just stopped? Would he implode? Burn himself up with now outlet or release? He was almost tempted to try one more escape, one last time. Wouldn't it be better to go out on his own terms instead of this? ]
[Footsteps approach Yata's cell, voiced raised and anxious. One rings out above the others, not loud but much more authoritative.]
--and I told you, I don't care what "JUNGLE" said. We are still the government and we take priority.
B-but, Scepter 4 doesn't take such...explosive Wells, honestly JUNGLE's the only people suited to--
Shut up. I have my orders to take Well Y-65 into custody and I don't care how much JUNGLE paid you to keep him here.
[There was no comeback to that, just a quiet 'yessir' and a key slotting into the lock on Yata's cell. A young man, lanky and sickly grey, stands there with the officials in charge of Yata's cellblock. The man scoffs.]
He looks like shit. Get him washed and changed, unless you want me to "accidentally" let someone get a photo of him walking out of this "state-of-the-art humane facility" looking like that.
[ He knows he's not the only one down here, so when the voices had approached down the corridor, he hadn't really paid too close attention, figureing they were here for something else. But then he hears JUNGLE and his number spoken together and he curses softly under his breath before jolting to his feet when the lock clicks and the door swings open.
There's no JUNGLE uniform standing outside the door, though. Just the guards of the Gold Tower and a young man in the familiar blue of Scepter 4. Which is odd, because they usually deal with capturing rogue Pushers and getting them off the streets, but they rarely have any involvement with them after that. At least not that Yata's ever heard.
The fact that they're coming for him here, though? ]
...Shit.
[ He backs up a step eyeing then uneasily, warily. He didn't know why this guy was here, but he doubted it was for good reasons. ]
He crosses his arms across his chest and lifts his chin, scowling stubbornly. ]
So what are you here for? I thought you guys only came after us when one of us gets away. [ he gestures around at his bare cell. ] Look, I'm not going anywhere, see? You can go home now.
[ Yata watches him go in confusion and then has the two guards manhandling him out of the cell, getting a yelp from him as he's hauled down the corridor into the showers.
Twenty minutes later, he's still slightly dripping and there's a bruise on one cheekbone from apparently pushing his babysitters too far. he's dressed in a nondescript parole uniform of plain, sterile grey, his number patched on the chest. His wrists have been restrained by a hi-tech pair of handcuffs, additional security on top of his Collar. He's wedged onto a bench between the two angry looking guards, one of them sporting a few bruises of his own. ]
Tch, if they think we don't know every time they so much as pass by a JUNGLE member...
[He sighs.]
Wait here. I have orders, and they don't include you coming out of here like a prisoner. [To the guards:] If he's at all injured when I come back, you're dead men.
[ None of the three look pleased with this order, Yata giving both of these guards a wary look and both of them looking like they'd much rather be anywhere except for here. Finally, the silent one speaks up with a curt. ]
Fine. But make it quick or we're returning him to his cell. And then you can take it up with the General.
[Fushimi waves them off. He knows they won't do any such thing.
He comes back with a pair of sweats, a hoodie, and shoes roughly the size of Yata's feet (based just on a quick glance, in truth they're a bit large). He tosses them to the Pusher.]
[ The bruised guard steps forward, looking annoyed. ] Not while he's in our base, sir. He's dangerous. Once you get him out of here, you're welcome to remove them as you like, we'll pass the key to you. But as long as he is out of the confines of the cell, he is to wear these. it's protocol. Surely even Sceptre 4 understands that.
[ Yata just catches the clothes and starts stripping right there, uncaring. He's used to this sort of treatment, after all. Considering they watch everything he does - and always have - he doesn't even think twice about changing right here.
Beneath the parole uniform is a slim build with lithe muscles, hinting that despite his captive status, he hasn't let himself waste away too badly. Even if he is looking too thin at the moment. And there's several more ugly bruises beneath the uniform that are revealed now that he's undressing. Although several of them at least look to be several days old now and not fresh. ]
We facilitated, Fushimi-san. He's out of a cell and cleaned up and dressed. You're free to take him out of here and do whatever you want with him. But either he's in a cell or he wears the cuffs. You didn't see what he did to the last person who had him without those.
[ At those words, Yata freezes, his shoulders hunching in defensively for a moment, as if the words were a physical blow. But a moment later, he's straightening up, still scowling, the hoodie mostly over his torso now. Except with his hands still cuffed, the whole arrangement is hidden under the sweatshirt. He looks at the Scepter 4 guy and shrugs. ]
If you're worried about appearances, at least the clothes you brought hide them?
[ Both guards straighten in alarm, spotting that band immediately.
Yata spots it, too, but has no idea what has the guards suddenly so edgy. It's not like people explain things like this to Pushers. In fact, Pullers as a whole are a pretty secretive bunch. It's sort of why the division between the two kinds has widened as deep as it has. Besides all the envy, of course. On both sides of the equation.
But the taller of the two guards immediately steps forward to slide the keycode into the shackles, letting them beep before clicking them off and removing them. ]
As you wish, sir.
[ Yata blinks down at his newly freed wrists and then back at the guards in confusion before looking over at the Blue guy. ]
What the hell? Why would you die? Unless you're going to stab yourself with that out of sheer stubbornness to get your way? [ That just sounded dumb, but he had no idea what he had just missed that filled the room with a sudden sort of tension. ]
[ Casting one more wary glance at the pair of guards now standing at attention behind him, Yata straightens before quickly slipping into the sweats and sneakers and pushing his arms through the sleeves of the hoodie. It's all a little big and baggy on him but he's okay with that.
Shoving hands deep in the pockets, he quickly steps away from the guards and towards the Blue. ]
[Fushimi nods and leads Yata out of the facility. A car is waiting for them, and they're ushered in by another pair of Scepter 4 men. Once seated, Fushimi sighs.]
I'm a Puller. One of the ones that can die without either medication or a Pusher. I also made my condition sound worse than it is to get those idiots to do what they were told.
[ Yata settles, looking uncomfortable in the back of this business car and the other Scepter 4 members who are ushering them everywhere with silent deference. When they're seated and the car starts to move and the guy across from him starts to talk, he can only blink in surprise. ]
Wait. That's a real thing?
[ There were rumors about it on the streets, about how some Pushers vanished and were never seen again because of things like this, but he'd always thought they were just gossip. ]
You... How... What does that even mean? [ Yata sputters a little, paling as he stares at this other guy. Just what were these people planning on doing to him? ]
[ Yata jolts in sudden alarm before shaking his head. ]
I don't think that's a good idea. The only times anyone's tried to take this off... let's just say it got ugly fast. You probably don't want to mess with that if I'm only here a week anyway.
[ Assuming that just means he won that argument - because he doesn't expect anyone to actually argue over something that didn't affect them for more than a week, Yata just settles back on the seat once more and looks out the window for a moment. ]
You got a name? Or am I just supposed to say 'yes sir' and 'no sir' for a week?
[ Although the sarcasm layered in his tone makes it pretty clear that's not really an option here. ]
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no subject
Yata's pretty sure they were naive idiots or just plain crazy. Maybe even both. This power was never meant to run free and wild. Everyone should never have been given these powers. It didn't make people safe. It didn't make anyone free. Instead, it had just separated humanity even more. He'd heard it described like magnets, once. It was one of the few explanations that made sense in describing what the powers had done to the people who'd been changed by the Slates.
There were the Pullers, those who could draw out magic and manipulate it - both from themselves and others. Their power wells weren't overwhelming, more limited and restrained, but their control in using that power could be honed and refined until it almost seemed like a work of art, a beautiful melody, an intricate tapestry woven from the most delicate threads.
And then there were the Pushers. In contrast, their ability to call forth power was deep - almost endless it seemed, in some cases. But they lacked the ability to hone it, to temper it. There was no control, no finesse. It could be as sudden and devastating as a storm or an earthquake or a volcano and often just as unpredictable.
It didn't take people long to become afraid of anyone who was a Pusher - not that that was their official name, but the slang terms for them had become much more popular as people became more and more afraid. And angry.
Yata was nine the first time he accidentally set something on fire. It had been a moment of childish temper, but he'll never forget the look on his mother's face when it had happened, or the bone-deep fear that had shaken him when she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the house. She'd taken him downtown immediately, her grip firm, her face pale and pinched, and Yata had been too startled and frightened to question what was happening. She took him to the Gold Center, the tall skyscraper at the city's center, which was already establishing itself as the leading expert in the strange phenomenon devastating the city as newly released powers ran amok. His mother had handed him over to a doctor in a white-and-gold coat. A medical examination, he'd gleaned from their conversation, and then he'd been led to a clinic room. He'd been poked and prodded and asked questions. And then they'd done something, something that had hurt, and something in him had lashed out, as if some part of him was trying to defend itself from the pain. He'd burned the clinic room and everything in it to ash. He'd also burned half of the room next to him. Yata never saw his mother again.
He was taken to another building, dressed in a hospital gown, and put through more tests than he could keep track of. They'd watched him for weeks until it was determined that his power was not something he could control. It just was, like an emotion, or a reflex. He didn't know what that meant at the time, but from their expressions, he knew it wasn't good.
With the unleashed magic at that time still new and unknown and frightening, the corporations involved in understanding and controlling the increasing outbreak of Incidents were given almost unfettered permission to do whatever was necessary to contain the problem. So no one even batted an eye when Yata and the others like them were Collared. It was to help them, they were told. It would keep them - and everyone around them - safe, not to mention give them the possibility of living life without destroying everything around them. Of course, someone should have seen that the next step would be to understand how to tap into that deep well of power, to use it. There were varying levels of success, depending on the Pusher. Yata was not one of them. At best, he was the Energizer Bunny, but at worst? He was a ticking time bomb.
He quickly learned that things usually went worse.
The first time he ran away, he was eleven. He stayed free for three days. The second time, a year later, he made it a little over a month. The third time, he had help, another girl trapped with him, another Pusher, who told him that she knew a group, deep in the city, who knew how to block the trackers in their Collars so they couldn't be located again. They were working on a way to remove them entirely - something made almost impossible by the way the tech had been fused with their nervous system to try and subdue the power that was now an intricate part of them. That time, he remained free for almost a year. It had been glorious and he'd been fifteen and then, in a botched attempt to remove his Collar, he'd burned down half a block of old warehouses in the docks. And everyone in them.
That time, when he'd been caught, he hadn't tried to run away again. He'd withdrawn, quiet and resentful, as he was passed from one official to another. People who thought they could control him - tried to control him. But his power burned too hot. Always. They couldn't control it any more than he could. He watched one burn himself out, destroying his own ability to Pull out or channel even the faintest threads of magic any longer. Another one had injured himself so badly he'd been in a coma for three weeks. It wasn't long before Yata had a reputation among the organizations and government groups now in control of the City. His past reputation as a troublemaker had been combined with his danger even now, until many were too afraid to even try any longer and he'd heard more than one conversation about what to do with him if no one could safely control him and find a way to expel that power buildup that constantly welled up inside of him.
He knew it was only a matter of time before he ran out of options entirely. he was trying to resign himself to that, even as he ended up in a cell in the Gold Center once more, passed back from the Grey Clan after two short weeks. There were rumors floating between the guards that he'd overheard a representative from JUNGLE was here, but he hoped not. Those guys gave him the creeps. But it's not like he got a choice in where he ended up.
So he waited, seated on a simple wooden bench in his stark cell, head buried in his hands as he tried to ignore the way that his fire was building again, an itch under his skin just begging to be scratched. Not that he could, without a release from the Collar, from someone who could draw this power out of him and vent it safely. He wondered what would happen if they just stopped? Would he implode? Burn himself up with now outlet or release? He was almost tempted to try one more escape, one last time. Wouldn't it be better to go out on his own terms instead of this? ]
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--and I told you, I don't care what "JUNGLE" said. We are still the government and we take priority.
B-but, Scepter 4 doesn't take such...explosive Wells, honestly JUNGLE's the only people suited to--
Shut up. I have my orders to take Well Y-65 into custody and I don't care how much JUNGLE paid you to keep him here.
[There was no comeback to that, just a quiet 'yessir' and a key slotting into the lock on Yata's cell. A young man, lanky and sickly grey, stands there with the officials in charge of Yata's cellblock. The man scoffs.]
He looks like shit. Get him washed and changed, unless you want me to "accidentally" let someone get a photo of him walking out of this "state-of-the-art humane facility" looking like that.
Yes, Fushimi-san. Right away.
Tch.
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There's no JUNGLE uniform standing outside the door, though. Just the guards of the Gold Tower and a young man in the familiar blue of Scepter 4. Which is odd, because they usually deal with capturing rogue Pushers and getting them off the streets, but they rarely have any involvement with them after that. At least not that Yata's ever heard.
The fact that they're coming for him here, though? ]
...Shit.
[ He backs up a step eyeing then uneasily, warily. He didn't know why this guy was here, but he doubted it was for good reasons. ]
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I'm not here to euthanize you, calm down. That's what JUNGLE'd do.
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He crosses his arms across his chest and lifts his chin, scowling stubbornly. ]
So what are you here for? I thought you guys only came after us when one of us gets away. [ he gestures around at his bare cell. ] Look, I'm not going anywhere, see? You can go home now.
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[Fushimi's watch beeps; he glances down at it and scoffs.]
Unfortunately, I need you. Clean him up, I'll be right back.
[He heads out of the cell, reaching for a medical pouch on his back.]
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Twenty minutes later, he's still slightly dripping and there's a bruise on one cheekbone from apparently pushing his babysitters too far. he's dressed in a nondescript parole uniform of plain, sterile grey, his number patched on the chest. His wrists have been restrained by a hi-tech pair of handcuffs, additional security on top of his Collar. He's wedged onto a bench between the two angry looking guards, one of them sporting a few bruises of his own. ]
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You really want word to get out about how terribly you treat people here, don't you? Get those cuffs off him, and get him in normal clothing. Now.
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He doesn't have any other clothes. This is what he was brought in with.
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Then run next door and buy some with that bribe money.
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We can't leave our post like that! And we weren't bribed!
[ Yata just scoffs and pushes himself carefully to his feet. ]
Not that they're going to admit, anyway.
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[He sighs.]
Wait here. I have orders, and they don't include you coming out of here like a prisoner. [To the guards:] If he's at all injured when I come back, you're dead men.
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Fine. But make it quick or we're returning him to his cell. And then you can take it up with the General.
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He comes back with a pair of sweats, a hoodie, and shoes roughly the size of Yata's feet (based just on a quick glance, in truth they're a bit large). He tosses them to the Pusher.]
Get him out of those cuffs like I ordered.
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[ Yata just catches the clothes and starts stripping right there, uncaring. He's used to this sort of treatment, after all. Considering they watch everything he does - and always have - he doesn't even think twice about changing right here.
Beneath the parole uniform is a slim build with lithe muscles, hinting that despite his captive status, he hasn't let himself waste away too badly. Even if he is looking too thin at the moment. And there's several more ugly bruises beneath the uniform that are revealed now that he's undressing. Although several of them at least look to be several days old now and not fresh. ]
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Idiots. This is why I don't like working with you people. Tell me, what does this stamp on the documents mean?
[He holds up the release order for Yata and gestures to the copy the guards have.]
That's the Scepter 4 mark. You are required by law to facilitate our goals. That means taking the cuffs off before we walk out of here. Now.
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[ At those words, Yata freezes, his shoulders hunching in defensively for a moment, as if the words were a physical blow. But a moment later, he's straightening up, still scowling, the hoodie mostly over his torso now. Except with his hands still cuffed, the whole arrangement is hidden under the sweatshirt. He looks at the Scepter 4 guy and shrugs. ]
If you're worried about appearances, at least the clothes you brought hide them?
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Take. The cuffs. Off. Or do you want to explain to Munakata-san why I died en route?
[It was hidden before but now Fushimi's wristband is visible.
He's a Puller. One so strong that he requires a Pusher to stay alive.]
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Yata spots it, too, but has no idea what has the guards suddenly so edgy. It's not like people explain things like this to Pushers. In fact, Pullers as a whole are a pretty secretive bunch. It's sort of why the division between the two kinds has widened as deep as it has. Besides all the envy, of course. On both sides of the equation.
But the taller of the two guards immediately steps forward to slide the keycode into the shackles, letting them beep before clicking them off and removing them. ]
As you wish, sir.
[ Yata blinks down at his newly freed wrists and then back at the guards in confusion before looking over at the Blue guy. ]
What the hell? Why would you die? Unless you're going to stab yourself with that out of sheer stubbornness to get your way? [ That just sounded dumb, but he had no idea what he had just missed that filled the room with a sudden sort of tension. ]
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[Fushimi sheathes his knife, arms crossed.]
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Shoving hands deep in the pockets, he quickly steps away from the guards and towards the Blue. ]
I'm ready.
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I'm a Puller. One of the ones that can die without either medication or a Pusher. I also made my condition sound worse than it is to get those idiots to do what they were told.
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Wait. That's a real thing?
[ There were rumors about it on the streets, about how some Pushers vanished and were never seen again because of things like this, but he'd always thought they were just gossip. ]
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[ And then what? Knowing his luck, he'll just be back in a cell waiting to be handed off to Jungle after all. Great. ]
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I don't think that's a good idea. The only times anyone's tried to take this off... let's just say it got ugly fast. You probably don't want to mess with that if I'm only here a week anyway.
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[ He slouches back in his seat, wrapping his arms around his middle and trying to ignore the suddenly sick clench of his stomach. ]
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Doesn't matter.
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You got a name? Or am I just supposed to say 'yes sir' and 'no sir' for a week?
[ Although the sarcasm layered in his tone makes it pretty clear that's not really an option here. ]
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Third in.... For real? You?
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[He gives Yata a Look.]
Surprised?
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[ No offense, dude. You don't look like you should be third in command of anything. ]
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[ Yata is blunt about it as he eyes the guy. ]
Then again, most of the Scepter guys aren't all that old, from what I've seen.
[ ....He might have seen a lot. ]
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