Disclaimer: I do not own, lay claim to or make money from Dark City, the characters, or anything else covered under copyright law. The following is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only.
Author's Notes: This fic has been edited to fit your all ages website.
It had been years since he'd seen the sun. Exactly how long, he wasn't sure. It was hard to place his ruined memories on an accurate chronological time frame. Years of darkness, years of working for them, facilitating Their experiments on his own kind. He was all but numb to it now, with all his original quandaries about morality and fairness locked away deep in his mind.
He didn't have a choice in this, after all. At first it was because he was too afraid of death, too afraid of the pain They inflicted when he didn't do things Their way. Then when he finally worked up the courage to remove himself from the picture - after all, there was no one here who could do what he did for Them, no-one with his knowledge and abilities - he found out they simply wouldn't let him.
The first night when he climbed into the bathtub with a bottle of wine and a razor, he woke up to find himself strapped to the wheel in the middle of the consensus - naked still, but that shame didn't register anymore to him - the cuts on his wrists healed to thin white scars. They beat him, told him not to try it again, though it didn't stop him. The end result was the same every time no matter what the method. He tried to throw himself off a building, but They caught him inches above the pavement, gasping and sweating, adrenaline pumping through his veins in an anti-climactic anticipation of pain. He hung himself from the light fixture in his apartment, tried to drown himself in the hopes that the water would keep Them away, even put a gun to his head. It all ended with him waking up on that damn wheel again, and more torture. He wasn't sure if they could actually bring him back to life or if they simply watched him closely enough to interfere before the damage was permanent, but it didn't really matter. He was still alive.
The gun ended up being the last straw for them. When he woke up, groggy, head pounding, he felt the same wash of disappointment - how did it not work? and resigned himself to another punishment. More scars, more pain. But there was a woman in front of him, struggling, crying, held firmly in place by two of them - Mr. Hand's posse, as he'd come to think of them. And before he could do or say anything, Mr. Hand unsheathed his blade, strode over to her and calmly slit her throat.
He never forgot the gurgling, the horror in her eyes, or the way the blood came in spurts from the pumping of her heart. He begged them to stop, to fix her, begged for forgiveness, but she was dead within moments, and the only sounds in the room were his soft, broken sobs.
"We will do this again if you continue to act the way you have been," Hand said simply, emotionless, and all he could do was nod helplessly.
"I understand," he said softly, and resigned himself to years of darkness and pain.