Adam Mitchell Chronicles - The First
Jul. 15th, 2010 04:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lone_defenderTwenty-one year old Adam Mitchell was brought to the attention of Torchwood in the Summer of 2012. He was baffled about how a secret organization on the other side of the world got wind of him before something like Van Statten found him in America. After he'd gone and moved across the world just to hide away.
He'd sickened up in his panic when he was first thrown into the empty, starkly clean cell. His escort didn't even bat an eye when the result was neat and frozen. Adam himself nearly hyperventilated when he'd spit it out. He'd forgotten all about that.
And they didn't find it remarkable at all.
He was kept in a cell under the gleaming white tower in London. He wasn't experimented on, or poked and prodded. He wasn't dissected. He wasn't spoken to except to provide him with meals. The people who brought him food on what he assumed was a daily basis didn't even click their fingers at him. It wasn't the nasty dissection the Doctor had warned him of, or the horrifying things Van Statten would have done, but what slowly began to feel like an eternity of silence in an unknown cell barely seemed any better.
He'd begun to feel like he'd spend his entire life in that cell, held by an strange organization whose sole purpose seemed to be keeping him out of anyone else's hands when the routine changed. Instead of the ever shifting disinterested faces with food, a tall, slight man arrived one day. His suit was steam-pressed and flawless, and under normal circumstances, Adam would have felt it was the only thing remotely intimidating about a man like him.
On the other side of a reinforced glass door, after an indeterminate amount of time in isolation, the way the taller man stared down at him was downright terrifying.
When the man finally broke the silence, Adam thought for a moment he was hallucinating the man entirely. But the man didn't go away when he blinked or shouted at him. All that the man in black did was stand and listen patiently until he was finished interrupting.
The man offered the opportunity to leave the cell in return for working for the people who'd imprisoned him. Perhaps he'd accepted too readily, because the man left without opening the door, and Adam could have sworn there was a trace of distaste in his expression as he turned away.
The man returned what Adam calculated to be a few days later. He offered again. Remain imprisoned for the entirety of his life, or use his intelligence to help their organization. He called it Torchwood. The man ignored his shouts when he walked away.
Adam presumed it was another form psychological torment when the man arrived again, and reiterated the offer. Work with Torchwood, maintain secrecy, catalog alien artifacts, defend Earth, or remain in his cell for the rest of his life. He didn't bother calling after the man that time.
The next time he woke, the cell was open.
He'd sickened up in his panic when he was first thrown into the empty, starkly clean cell. His escort didn't even bat an eye when the result was neat and frozen. Adam himself nearly hyperventilated when he'd spit it out. He'd forgotten all about that.
And they didn't find it remarkable at all.
He was kept in a cell under the gleaming white tower in London. He wasn't experimented on, or poked and prodded. He wasn't dissected. He wasn't spoken to except to provide him with meals. The people who brought him food on what he assumed was a daily basis didn't even click their fingers at him. It wasn't the nasty dissection the Doctor had warned him of, or the horrifying things Van Statten would have done, but what slowly began to feel like an eternity of silence in an unknown cell barely seemed any better.
He'd begun to feel like he'd spend his entire life in that cell, held by an strange organization whose sole purpose seemed to be keeping him out of anyone else's hands when the routine changed. Instead of the ever shifting disinterested faces with food, a tall, slight man arrived one day. His suit was steam-pressed and flawless, and under normal circumstances, Adam would have felt it was the only thing remotely intimidating about a man like him.
On the other side of a reinforced glass door, after an indeterminate amount of time in isolation, the way the taller man stared down at him was downright terrifying.
When the man finally broke the silence, Adam thought for a moment he was hallucinating the man entirely. But the man didn't go away when he blinked or shouted at him. All that the man in black did was stand and listen patiently until he was finished interrupting.
The man offered the opportunity to leave the cell in return for working for the people who'd imprisoned him. Perhaps he'd accepted too readily, because the man left without opening the door, and Adam could have sworn there was a trace of distaste in his expression as he turned away.
The man returned what Adam calculated to be a few days later. He offered again. Remain imprisoned for the entirety of his life, or use his intelligence to help their organization. He called it Torchwood. The man ignored his shouts when he walked away.
Adam presumed it was another form psychological torment when the man arrived again, and reiterated the offer. Work with Torchwood, maintain secrecy, catalog alien artifacts, defend Earth, or remain in his cell for the rest of his life. He didn't bother calling after the man that time.
The next time he woke, the cell was open.
