A Human Weapon

I'm not crazy.

Dylan listens to the building crumbling around him, his head pounding with the rhythm of the ceiling crashing to the floor.

I'm not crazy.

He places his shoulder against the door that's blocked with debris, shoving with all his might. The cement that slides across the floor groans, but he pushes harder and it gives away. The door flies open, his body instantly diving through it. He breaks into a sprint down the long corridor, the walls shaking around him.

I'm not crazy.

I. Am. Not. Crazy.

The phrase is a mantra circling around and around in his brain, repeating itself to the cracking of the stone floor. His bare feet slap against the cold concrete, leaving large splinters in his wake. He can't tell if it's his doing or not.

He will not stay here.

He will not become a weapon of war.

His steps falter when the pain in his head abruptly increases, nearly knocking the breath out of him. He hunches over, tugging at his hair and groaning, fighting the urge to scream. Scream in agony, in rage, in sorrow. Maybe in all three.

He hears running footsteps approaching, so he ignores his migraine the best that he can and starts sprinting again. He won't let them catch him. He'd rather kill himself than fall into their hands again. Into that mad scientist's who has twisted fantasies of ruling the nation. It may be too late to undo the terrible things done to him, but Dylan has a choice on whether he will actively participate in these deadly games.

He will not.

"Stop!"

He hears the shout and blatantly ignores it, only pushing himself to run faster.

"Stop, dammit!"

He closes his eyes despite still running and wills the ceiling behind him to cave in. He does not like to use this impossible thing the scientist calls a "gift," but if it will save the millions the scientist wants him to kill, so be it.

Shocking him that it still works, he hears the concrete crack before falling, slamming hard into the floor. One man moans as it barely misses smothering him, and the others curse loudly after Dylan. Let them curse. Let them damn him to hell.

He will not stay here.

Before he can process it, five guards round the corner in front of him, adorning head to toe armor and the biggest guns they could get their hands on. Dylan skids to a stop, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He tries to focus on the ceiling again, but a sharp pain darts through his brain, the pain so crippling he falls to his knees with a yelp.

He can see the guards hesitating, uncertain if this is a trick. They hold their guns with tight grips to keep their hands from shaking. He notices two of them exchanging wary glances. They are afraid of him.

Everyone in this facility has been told to fear him. He has proved why he needs to be feared, but for reasons he wishes he could take back. Those were not his choice. He does not want to be feared. He does not want to be a monster.

But in this current situation, he can use that portrayal to his advantage.

The head guard takes a step forward.

"Don't," Dylan warns with a hoarse voice, raising his hand threateningly.

The guard halts immediately.

Another guard lifts his watch to his mouth, talking into the speaker. "We've got eyes on him, sir. Not sure if he'll make a move yet."

He can't hear the response.

Dylan's head soothes a bit, so he focuses his strength on the floor beneath the guards. Very convenient for them to be huddled so close.

The concrete splinters around their feet, a line slowly tracing a jagged path. Some of them look up in fear, scared to move in case they quicken their fall. There's a floor beneath this one, but no mortal man could survive the impact.

"Stop," the head guard demands, raising his gun. "Stop it or I'll shoot."

"You can't," Dylan replies with a smirk. "I'm more valuable to him than you."

The guard's eyes widen just as Dylan wills to floor to disintegrate. He tries not to listen to the screams as the men fall one by one. He tries not to hear the splat of their landing. He swallows the lump in his throat, pushing himself up onto his weak legs. He's not sure if he can hold up for much longer. His mental and physical strength can only be stretched out so far, and he fears he's using up all of his energy.

He needs to get to the front gate.

He hobbles into a sluggish run, rounding the corners cautiously as he weaves through hallway after hallway, somehow managing to avoid another bunch of dimwit guards. That only provokes his paranoia. He's worried they're all in a group waiting for his arrival. He's not sure he'll be strong enough to take them all out by then.

He turns the final corner and faces the front gate, but he doesn't allow relief to overwhelm him just yet. He starts to walk towards it, thinking this is too easy, right when a tranquilizer dart whizzes past his head. Instantly, he ducks, whipping around to find half an army marching towards him. He swears under his breath, barely dodging another dart as he manages to start running again.

"Wait," a voice calls.

An all too familiar one that sends shivers down Dylan's spine.

He stops for a brief moment, but doesn't dare turn around to face the evil being.

"You know what your destiny is," the scientist says. "You cannot escape fate, my boy."

"Go to hell," Dylan hisses back.

"The world needs you--"

Dylan doesn't want to hear his petty reasoning as he uses the last of his strength to sprint towards the open front gate. He hears the order shouted for it to be closed. He sees the gate easing towards the ground with intentions of keeping him imprisoned forever.

I'm not crazy, he tells himself, and I am not a weapon.

He falls to the ground, determination and adrenaline driving him. He slides under the gate just before it slams shut.

He stands on the other side, successful and free.

He can still hear the scientist screaming in anger, so he faces the panel on the gate and flashes it his middle finger, if only for dramatics.

I'm not crazy.

He walks for a long while before finding a cliff in the woods to sleep beneath for the night. He can feel the exhaustion coursing through every ounce of his being, right down to his bones.

I am not a weapon.

Sleep comes to him easily with a final thought:

I am free.