Title: It Wasn't
Post-Brave New World
Torture and angst
Summary: Even the old companies don't take too kindly to murderous and villainous freaks, and here the Heroes had given them one all to themselves...
A/N: I'm too soft on the guy, I really am. He killed his own brother and crushed a whole town, but yet I still manage to sympathize with him. The next Heroes fic I do I'll be a little harsher, and it won't be revolving around him... entirely. I'm afraid I may have taken him a little out of character, but he did seem a little hysterical when he killed Mohinder and Joseph, so I've been working from that. Though, was he drunk? Ah well. I've left the "familiar" person at the end anonymous, but it is definitely a character we already know. Actually, there are two characters I had in mind for the part, but instead of telling you either one I figured I'd leave it to your imagination, though I'm sure the speech should be a bit of a giveaway. I'd be pretty grateful if you reviewed, and maybe tell me who you think the anonymous "familiar" person is. If you like it, I may even make it into a three or two-parter? Read on...

Disclaimer: don't own it, if I did then Samuel would have had a better exit.

It Wasn't

The odd thing was that there were no questions. None at all. Simply the sickening pounds and thuds of metal hitting flesh.

Sometimes they didn't even bother with the metal; fists and feet would suffice, and it wasn't long before they became bored with the regular routine and grew creative in their ways of "fun", as they put it. The simple beatings slowly transformed into something more, the pounds became the snapping of bones, and every day was a different way of inflicting pain and misery upon him. He'd moaned, groaned, gasped and grunted his way through each of them, in fact the only thing he could proudly note was that he hadn't screamed, he hadn't cried… he hadn't broken down, and he knew that they grew ever the angrier for it.

Soon the hits became harder, the twisting and jerking became even more vicious, and they slowly began to incorporate verbal abuse into the routine.

"I bet you liked that, eh, freak?"

"You're looking awfully skinny, freak. Those clothes seem to hang off you. Haven't you been eating?"

"Breakfast, freak." Splash "Oops, the glass slipped. Guess you're gonna have to go another day without water, huh?"

Freak, freak, FREAK! It was always freak, never anything else. Sometimes he woke up to his bloodstained cell and almost forgot his own name, forgot why he was even there.

But of course the door would open and the routine would start all over again. Every morning. Every day. Every week.

And then one week it finally happened. He cracked.

The day began with the taunting; the re-dislocation of his shoulder; the breaking of his ribs, another black eye, but then they brought in another person, and this one wasn't like the others. He was… different. Special. Like him.

"We found a nice friend for you, freak." One of his captors had chimed, hauling him upright against the wall, "Figured you might like a trip down memory lane!"

And with that the others left the room with feral chuckles, leaving him with the strange one. He didn't doubt for one second that they were still watching, probably even laughing and jeering behind the large 'mirror' in the wall. Nowadays the ruthlessness of humans found new ways to surprise him. But then again the thought was hypocritical of him. After all, he had pulled a whole town to the ground and buried it beneath dirt and rock. How many people had he killed? 200? More? Not including the deaths of those he had indirectly caused.

But instead of allowing the guilt to well inside, he simply sagged against the wall, painfully drawing in breath after breath as he watched the strange one, and as the strange one watched him. There was silence. Complete silence.

And then it began.

He was back at the carnival and Joseph stood before him, the evening's profits in his hand as he talked, his lips moving as he counted through the money, his words echoing.

"You're drunk again, aren't you, brother?"

But… Joseph was dead. Wasn't he?

Slowly, he reached a shaking hand out to his brother; meaning to touch him, make sure he was real. NO! Of course he wasn't real; this was a trick; a cruel and horrible trick to break him.

But even then another voice called out to him, one that made his guts twist and wrench.

"Samuel! Oh, Samuel! Come here, Sammy!" He turned his head to see his mother, a beaming smile on her pretty face as she stretched her arms wide, as if beckoning him to her. He so wanted to go to her, so wanted her to swoop him up into her arms, just like when he was young, so wanted her to plant a loving kiss on his cheek.

But when he tried to call out to her his voice was hoarse and non-existent, his lungs unable to push out the air, and his lips unable to form the words. Joseph stepped coyly past him, tucking the profits into his pocket as he shook his head at his mother, taking her hand before turning around to look back at him. He tried to stand, but merely collapsed uselessly to the floor within a second, lying on his front as he stretched a hand out to them, finally finding his voice.

"No, wait! Please! Wait for me!" He no longer cared that it was all an illusion, he didn't care that he was sobbing, he didn't care that he was a pathetic mess on the floor, attempting to crawl across the ground; all he knew was that they were going to leave him there, and he couldn't let them. He didn't want them to. "No! Joseph, please! Mother! Don't leave me! Please! Please!"

"STOP IT! Can't you see how cruel this is? STOP!"

Another voice broke through the illusion and suddenly he was back in the cell, arm still outstretched, sobbing uncontrollably on the floor as the door slammed open and someone rushed to kneel beside him. He jerked and cried out in agony as hands touched him, accidentally moving his dislocated shoulder. Quickly, the hands retreated and he took the opportunity to curl in on himself, shutting his eyes as he shook and wept.

"Samuel?" The hands returned, gentler this time, one on his shoulder and another on his back, "Dear god, what have they done to you?"

The question was rhetorical, but murmured with such anger that Samuel flinched again, throwing his arms over his head as he trembled. The person was familiar, but Samuel was delirious from pain and his mind was frantic with panic. Perhaps the person realised this, for the hands grew comforting and the voice grew softer as they soothed him.

"It's okay, Samuel. Everything is going to be all right."

But somehow he knew it wasn't.