The memory opens in a situation that is very much not child-safe, a green-skinned child, maybe 10-years-old at the oldest, with a protective face mask, dangling upside down from some scaffolding while welding something. Two angry older men who are clearly the same species barge into the lab where he's working. They're wearing robes that make them look like they're possibly important people.
"What are you doing up there?!" says one.
The boy turns off the welder and flips up the visor to give them a flat stare.
"I understand my work is certainly over your head, but one would still think you'd be able to recognize science when you're looking directly at it," the child says dryly, looking at them with the sort of blistering condescension you usually never find on the face of a child.
"You know what I mean," snarls the first man, "No personal projects until other projects are complete!"
The other politician crosses his arms, "You have four projects for Colugov, as well as commissioned deliverables for 3 other planetary governments."
"If they're so important, why don't you do them," the boy says with a roll of his eyes.
The two men look even angrier, as if the insult here is that they're not capable.
"If you don't cease work right away, we'll have your personal projects deconstructed during your next rest cycle."
The boy beams an expression of pure hate at them and then climbs down off the scaffolding, putting down the welder and protective mask. He lets himself be ushered away and there is a time lapse of him putting together various machines, occasionally checked on by his scowling overseers.
Despite the fact he has little robots to help him, it's hard work with long hours. By the end he's got smudges of engine fluids on his face and looks genuinely tired.
"I've worked for ten hours on projects pedestrian enough to only be worthy for the nearest trash vaporizer. Now may I finally get back to experiments that are actually worthwhile?"
The two overseers look smug.
"I supposed that's enough," says one breezily, and they lead him back to the first room he'd been working in.
It's now empty. They had his personal work deconstructed while he did the other work. The boy's eyes go wide and then he turns to his handlers with his fists balled up in fury. He rounds on the handlers, who still look smug.
"Why did you dismantle my work? I did what you wanted!"
"Perhaps now you'll prioritize what's most important."
The child looks like he's an inch away from trying to punch one of them but he holds back, like he knows he'll get in more trouble, have more taken away.
"Now. Bed. We need those projects finished by end-of-day tomorrow Perhaps after a week of obedience, we'll allow you to restart any personal work."
"Come. Now."
When the child refuses to move, one of his guardians grabs him on the arm and starts yanking him along, almost too fast to keep up. The child winces, making it clear that it's slightly painful.
"It may not seem like it," says the other handler, "but this is for your own good. You are a Brainiac. If you do what we say, unlike your monstrous forebears, you can actually serve your people."
"They're not my people," the child protests, fruitlessly tugging against the grip on his arm. "We share a few quirks of genetics, nothing more."
"This is why we must keep innocent Coluans away from you. You are a twelfth-level freak. Think of the harm you would cause if you were left to your own destructive devices."
He's all but thrown into a room largely bare of the toys and decorations many children have in their rooms, almost stumbling to the ground.
"Now, engage in your sleep cycle."
"But I -"
The doom swishes shut and the child goes over and pounds against the door button, only to find it's locked, and then slams his hands against the door a few times in frustration.
"I'm not finished with you yet! Hey! Open this door! Open it!"
The child stands there shaking like he's only been left with frustration and pent-up negative energy. Then he lets out a scream and punches his hands into a touchscreen panel, breaking it. He's left standing alone in an empty room, his hand bleeding slightly. He sits on the edge of his bed and finally lets himself look miserable, clearly repressing the need to cry.
cw: verbal child abuse, mild physical child abuse, slavery
"What are you doing up there?!" says one.
The boy turns off the welder and flips up the visor to give them a flat stare.
"I understand my work is certainly over your head, but one would still think you'd be able to recognize science when you're looking directly at it," the child says dryly, looking at them with the sort of blistering condescension you usually never find on the face of a child.
"You know what I mean," snarls the first man, "No personal projects until other projects are complete!"
The other politician crosses his arms, "You have four projects for Colugov, as well as commissioned deliverables for 3 other planetary governments."
"If they're so important, why don't you do them," the boy says with a roll of his eyes.
The two men look even angrier, as if the insult here is that they're not capable.
"If you don't cease work right away, we'll have your personal projects deconstructed during your next rest cycle."
The boy beams an expression of pure hate at them and then climbs down off the scaffolding, putting down the welder and protective mask. He lets himself be ushered away and there is a time lapse of him putting together various machines, occasionally checked on by his scowling overseers.
Despite the fact he has little robots to help him, it's hard work with long hours. By the end he's got smudges of engine fluids on his face and looks genuinely tired.
"I've worked for ten hours on projects pedestrian enough to only be worthy for the nearest trash vaporizer. Now may I finally get back to experiments that are actually worthwhile?"
The two overseers look smug.
"I supposed that's enough," says one breezily, and they lead him back to the first room he'd been working in.
It's now empty. They had his personal work deconstructed while he did the other work. The boy's eyes go wide and then he turns to his handlers with his fists balled up in fury. He rounds on the handlers, who still look smug.
"Why did you dismantle my work? I did what you wanted!"
"Perhaps now you'll prioritize what's most important."
The child looks like he's an inch away from trying to punch one of them but he holds back, like he knows he'll get in more trouble, have more taken away.
"Now. Bed. We need those projects finished by end-of-day tomorrow Perhaps after a week of obedience, we'll allow you to restart any personal work."
"Come. Now."
When the child refuses to move, one of his guardians grabs him on the arm and starts yanking him along, almost too fast to keep up. The child winces, making it clear that it's slightly painful.
"It may not seem like it," says the other handler, "but this is for your own good. You are a Brainiac. If you do what we say, unlike your monstrous forebears, you can actually serve your people."
"They're not my people," the child protests, fruitlessly tugging against the grip on his arm. "We share a few quirks of genetics, nothing more."
"This is why we must keep innocent Coluans away from you. You are a twelfth-level freak. Think of the harm you would cause if you were left to your own destructive devices."
He's all but thrown into a room largely bare of the toys and decorations many children have in their rooms, almost stumbling to the ground.
"Now, engage in your sleep cycle."
"But I -"
The doom swishes shut and the child goes over and pounds against the door button, only to find it's locked, and then slams his hands against the door a few times in frustration.
"I'm not finished with you yet! Hey! Open this door! Open it!"
The child stands there shaking like he's only been left with frustration and pent-up negative energy. Then he lets out a scream and punches his hands into a touchscreen panel, breaking it. He's left standing alone in an empty room, his hand bleeding slightly. He sits on the edge of his bed and finally lets himself look miserable, clearly repressing the need to cry.