#reflex rottmnt

Word count: 90

“…is becoming too aware.”

“What if we [REDACTED] him again?”

“That has complications.”

“…necessary.”

Reflex smiles. A new piece of intel. His heartbeat quickens as he scurries away. He’s rushing down the hall, silence following each step like a lifelong habit. His mind is faster than he can realize when he thinks, ‘I should tell Donnie first then—.’

His steps slow.

His voice is quiet.

“Donnie?”

It’s… strange.

He speaks the name again.

“Donnie…”

His heart thrums against his chest, a warmth igniting with a newfound source of energy.

Word count: 790+

Reflex flips a tin can in his hand, leaning his hips back against a conveyor belt as he whistles. He tosses the can higher and catches it in the crease of his elbow before popping it into the air again, catching it with ease. He gets a painful itch on his right arm, or what was left of it, and sets the can down to scratch the scarred tissue. He doesn’t remember getting the wound, and no one else seems to know the answer, which was a given since he’s still new to the place.

And “Reflex.” It’s a strange nickname. It doesn’t feel like his name. But maybe that’s because it’s a nickname. He’ll get used to it.

Just like how thinks he’s gotten used to ENVI. Sure, it smells stagnant down here, and it’s way too full of people. And he’s sure that there are five illnesses traveling through the factory floor alone. But he’s gotten used to it.

Even the villainous name.

ENVI: Earth’s Natural Viability Institute, a research center focused solely on searching for stable sources of food and providing said resources and more. A subsidiary of a bigger, larger place that he still hasn’t found out yet.

It sounds like a coverup, at least that’s what he feels. Because how else will he explain the disdain that tickles under his skin as he walks around. An unease that tells him not to let his guard down, despite having no reason to.

They treat him fairly well, especially as a stranger with amnesia in a place like this.

He didn’t expect to be working the “frontlines” here so quickly. If anything, he expected to be working in the lower levels. Maybe shoveling the fertilizer onto their crops or something, but no, he’s working the packaging line on the ground floor. Canning fresh meat into small tins, folding vegetables into plastic containers, bottling jugs of water, etcetera etcetera.

“Yo, Reflex! Get back to work!”

Reflex smirks and almost cackles in response. ‘Work.’ Like he has to do that. He doesn’t have to, he has better things to do. Like sitting under the sun on the observatory deck on the rooftop and getting some Vitamin D before the doors lock.

“Hey! I saw that!” Popper retorts as he tosses a tin can at Reflex.

Reflex tosses his tin can in the air to catch Popper’s, then catches the first in the crook of his elbow. He poses dramatically, bowing his head at the senior factor worker before popping the elbow can into the air to set down Popper’s on the frozen conveyor belt to catch it again. This time, he finger guns at Popper with a cocky smirk, “I’ll be here all week if you want more, Popsy!”

Popper, or Popcorn, was his guide when he first woke in ENVI. The human man is a heavyset fellow with white, wispy hair and a thick, black beard that reaches to his ears with a blend of white and black mutton chops. Popper apparently earned his nickname from eating a handful of what he thought was popcorn kernels, but turned out to be peeled peanuts—he’s severely allergic.

To give the man some reprieve, he had been starving for weeks before he came to ENVI.

But, due to the funny situation to look back on, the man was given the name “Popper.” And that initiated Popper into ENVI.

Everyone in ENVI apparently has a story like that, and a nickname to match. Hence how Reflex got his name.

Reflex woke up shocked and confused to the point his left arm moved on instinct and elbowed the nearest person. That turned out to be Foreman. He doesn’t remember what happened after that, but he was told he woke up a week later. When Popper told him the story, it seemed like a funny one, but somehow he seemed to be missing the joke considering how hard everyone else was laughing. It was like he didn’t know the true story, an outlier in ENVI’s inside joke.

Not that he truly feels welcomed in ENVI.

It seems he’s the only mutant here. Even when he travelled to the lower levels—there are four from what he learned—there are solely humans here. Not a single mutant to be seen, except for when he looks in the mirror.

Red crescent stripes perpendicular to his eyes. A thick, ghastly scar on his left temple. Light green skin. Yellow crescent stripes on his upper arms. Two fingers and one thumb. The remains of his right arm, a thick nub of an upper arm. A shell, plastron and carapace, encasing his torso. More yellow crescent shaped on his thighs. And two toes on each foot.

Mutant. Inhuman.

Something to stare at in ENVI.

Word count: 790+

Reflex leans forward onto Popper’s sweaty back, an extremely disgusting action of informality that he would never have thought of doing if he hadn’t already placed two thick blankets. The blankets are a little charred, making them pokey at some parts but somehow, he’s used to it. Familiar, even.

Reflex groans aloud in Popper’s ear when he complains, “Ughhh, I’m on probation.”

Popper ignores him, hammering down scalding metal into flat sheets. His arms move up and down, his body erupting in short tremors that reach to Reflex with each motion.

Reflex flips over on his back, his carapace making it even more uncomfortable to lean back on Popper. But he groans about his probation still, “Probation sucks, Poppy Seed. I don’t recommend.”

Popper ignores him still, even when Reflex remains glued to his back when he has to walk over to trade the sheet metal for more discs to flatten out.

Reflex opts for climbing onto Popper’s back, but seemed to be the last straw when the elder groans aloud. Popper throws his shoulder, sending Reflex to the floor laughing.

“Get back to work, ‘Flex, or so help me—,” Popper starts to threaten but stops when he sees Reflex splayed out like a starfish. His foot nudges Reflex when he says, “Hey, get up. I didn’t hurt you. You mutants are sturdy—meant for stronger stuff than this.”

But Reflex doesn’t move. He doesn’t even realize he’s still on the floor. He’s too lost in thought to feel Popper’s nudging and gruff voice.

It’s… He swears he’s done this before. Call it dejavu but, being tossed to the floor like this shouldn’t have been what happened. It’s wrong. How he’s come to this, he’s not sure. But it’s all wrong. But he knows Popper wouldn’t have been able to handle his weight. He’s all muscle and shell, almost a foot taller than the human man. But… but for some reason he thought—for one second he—.

“Reflex! This ain’t the time for rest!” He hears Weast from the corner yell.

Weast is Foreman’s watchman, he runs the grounds when Foreman is absent. He earned his name when he forgot directions and fumbled his words on a shipment by mixing west and east. He’s also the “officer” assigned to Reflex. Not that it means anything to the offender.

Reflex is quick to recover, flipping over to his stomach and raising his nub arm in defeat. “See, I would, but I’ve been getting those ghost pains,” he responds without a hint of pain.

“Mutants are built for stronger, now get your ass up! You’re still in the doghouse for that shit you pulled last week!” Weast counters annoyed, but hasn’t made a single hint of moving from his spot where he sits comfortably on a pile of tin sheets.

Mutant, mutant, mutant…

Reflex flicks his gaze to Popper, who has already returned to the hammer. He didn’t really expect any sense of backup from Popper, but there was that feeling—.

“Now!” Weast barks.

Reflex makes a show of expertly flipping to his feet single-handedly. Obviously showing off how unbothered he is by his missing arm. He flexes his left arm at Weast, just one more jab at the man who sits lazily on Popper’s hard work. He half expects something to come flying at his face, but nothing comes.

Instead, Weast’s attention has already turned to a nap.

Reflex watches Weast for a few seconds, letting the sound of Popper and the others working fill his ears. There’s a steady rhythm echoing on the ground floor. It comes in twos, like feet skipping along carelessly. But they mock Reflex.

Mu-tant. Mu-tant. Mu-tant.

It makes the everpresent disdain he feels in his chest feel validated. And it’s about time they started showing their colors.

Reflex makes a show of pulling up a nonexistent sleeve on his nub, and doing the same with the other. He picks up his hammer—he was put on the same job as Popper this week—and slams it down in one, easy drop.

The sound echoes deep and reverberating throughout the ground floor. It’s enough to make the others in the room stop to cover their ears. But it brings a smile to Reflex’s face when their hammering stops at once, like a conductor bringing silence to the orchestra with a tap on their music stand.

Reflex flicks the hammer with ease and catches it on his shoulder, his left hand gestures as freely as possibly while holding the end of the hammer’s handle. “Behold, your mutant’s power!”

Word count: 380+

Popper is starting to feel a huge amount of regret. Enough to break into a sweat when he’s doing absolutely nothing. He shouldn’t have agreed to Foreman’s request. Sure, the food bonus sounded like a steal when he first heard it, but now? He just might throw it all up any second. It’s not worth the stress and anxiety building pile by pile each and every second of the day.

Reflex is too… too watchful. Too inquisitive, too imposing, too much.

Popper knew better. Reflex’s a fucking mutant for crying out loud! A mutant. Those things are indestructible. Who knows what’s going on inside those heads?

Reflex, amnesia aside, is too smart for his own good. It feels like he’s always watching. Taking in every little movement—every breath, even.

Every time Popper thinks he’s sneaking a glance, he meets Reflex’s stare immediately. And in that split moment, before Popper has a chance to do anything like look away or play it off, it’s Reflex whose searching gaze breaks and reforms into that playful facade.

Yeah, he knows it’s all a joke. He knows Reflex is playing it up. Or kind of. It’s all confusing, is what it is. Sometimes he believes it and sometimes he doesn’t. That’s the problem with mutants: they hide their true selves.

Sneaky bastards.

But Reflex is far worse. He plays that role too well, he’s starting to feel like the mutant’s friend. It’s getting dangerous.

Reflex is becoming like the son he never wanted. He could be the same age as his son if he had one. But those thoughts easily get swept away every time Reflex finally shuts his mouth.

Quiet is never good with Reflex. It’s unnerving. It’s freaky. Because at those moments, Reflex just stares. Unblinking, unmoving—hell, unbreathing, too. Possibly. It’s similar to thinking something is watching him in the dark of the night when he gets up for a cup of water. Except, something is watching him. And he can’t do anything but play along and hope to God that the mutant won’t snap like all mutants do. He just hopes he’s on Reflex’s good side when the damned thing finally gets all the info he wants.

Word count: 390+

“Do you remember your color?”

Reflex looks over his shoulder at the familiar stranger standing in the crevice hidden from the cameras. A mere shadow risking capture by ENVI to ask the simplest of questions. A shadow whose face can be scarcely made out from the soft light on the ceiling.

He frowns seeing the stranger’s upset expression. But he looks down at his arm and asks, “Was it yellow?”

The stranger bites down on their jaw, muscles tensing hard enough to be seen through green skin. “No, that’s April’s,” they correct immediately, a tinge of pain in their voice.

Reflex shrugs. “Maybe it was red,” he responds casually, despite the escalating ache in his chest. He thinks back to the red crescent stripes striking across his eyes, only ever being reminded of their presence when he looks at the unfamiliar stranger in the mirror.

The stranger slams the side of their fist against the concrete, the walls reverberating with the force like being struck by an earthquake. The stranger nearly yells painfully, “That’s Raph’s!”

Reflex pivots on his heel with an air of nonchalance, throwing his hands behind his head. He throws on a smile that he knows the stranger won’t see, an effort more to ease himself than the other. He shrugs again, “Sorry to disappoint, looks like I’m not your guy.”

Reflex walks away, feeling a tug in his chest that yearns to pull him backward. He ignores it. But he can’t ignore when the sirens’ blare echoes into the room at its deafening volume. He groans knowing he has to report to the Foreman.

“You’re my big brother, Leo.”

Reflex freezes in his steps. “What?”

He turns around, pivoting clumsily on his heel to see the stranger illuminated with an orange glow. He can feel the energy humming in his chest, urging him to move with the stranger.

The stranger’s fists tighten at their sides as their eyes disappear into a warm light that mimics the sun itself. Their voice comes out warped and all powerful, like a god that had descended from the heavens above.

“We w— —ve y—u.”

“What?!” Reflex yells over the siren until to be blinded by the furious flames that burst from the stranger in a split second. The flames are so hot, Reflex feels like he had been tossed into a furnace, instinctually shielding his face with his arms.

Word count: 840+

“Leo!”

His body moves before he can think. His hand catches the blue-hilted sword, his fingers finding an all-too-familiar comfort in the grip like an old friend he has finally reconnected with. He flips the sword in his hand and makes a quarter turn.

It’s an even far more familiar feeling when the blade pierces through thick resistance. The blade meets skin, breaking through flesh and sinking a quarter inch deep beyond the dermis layer. It sinks into subcutaneous tissue before he stops.

“Popper…,” his voice whispers out in shock, the sword slipping from his grip.

The elder man’s face has gone sheet white, eyes widened before they narrow with fury. “Traitor…”

Popper falls backward, limp hand resting on the side of his stomach, failing to cover the wound. Blood stains his dirty shirt, a rich red blossoming from the wound site.

“Leo! Come on!”

Reflex looks up at the purple masked raider that hovers above from propellers attached to their shell. The raider’s hand is reaching for him, eyes desperate but firm as they urge Reflex to grab their hand. The raider haphazardly dodges bullets and all sorts of artillery, but their hand remains reaching out for Reflex despite it all.

But Reflex looks down at Popper.

He doesn’t like Popper but he didn’t want the guy dead. And he caused this. Whatever habit that kicked in, whatever he did, he’s the reason Popper is bleeding out like this. He can’t leave Popper. He can’t do that to the man.

Reflex’s body moves before he can think. Again, the second time since the raid started, his body moves from habit alone.

He presses his hand over Popper’s stomach and shouts, “Popper’s injured! I need a hand carrying him to the medbay and focused fire on the raider!”

“Leo…”

Reflex glances at the purple raider whose eyes have faltered. They look the opposite of Popper’s, but the feeling is the same. And somehow, for some reason, this one hurts more than Popper’s. He quickly looks away.

He sees Skidmark run over, handgun going off over his head. He hears the purple raider curse then the sound of the propellers grow distant. Who…

Reflex bites down on nothing and focuses on the task at hand. He takes one side of Popper, lifting the man from the underarm while Skidmark takes the other. Together, they drag Popper away from the fight zone and into the elevator. Inside, Reflex kneels down to rip a piece of the man’s shirt off and tuck it into the wound. He then looks up to explain their next course of action, but his eyes meet Skidmark’s enraged expression a millisecond before he’s punched directly on his scar.

The world spins for a moment, his tympana rings as he tries to register what Skidmark is yelling at him. It’s something about Popper, he knows that, but he can’t understand. But all Reflex can think of is how his body knew what to do before he did.

And how did that raider know him?

Why did they know he would catch the sword? Why had he moved so fluidly—as if years of habit kicking in? Why did he trust the raider wordlessly, knowing that there was someone behind him and to stop them before they stopped him? Why…? Why?

Reflex breaks from his thoughts when he sees Skidmark’s dirty, bloody fingers trying to press on Popper’s wound.

That’s wrong. And gross. Infection can spread from those dirty fingers. Popper will die if Skidmark is the one to help.

Reflex ignores the confusion concerning why he knows this. Instead, he pushes Skidmark to the side with his shoulder and scoots closer to Popper’s side. He removes the now-dirtied cloth from Popper’s wound, and orders, “Radio the medbay that we need alcohol, gauze, the suture kit, and whatever they have to cauterize the wound.”

Skidmark grabs the upper lip of Reflex’s carapace and tugs Reflex back, but the action is halted from the sheer feat of strength. The mutant remains defiantly unmoving, unbothered, undisturbed.

Skidmark is only briefly surprised, keeping his hand on Reflex’s shell when he spits the words, “Who put you in charge, mutant?”

Reflex ignores Skidmark and releases Popper’s wound to yank the Walkie-talkie from the man’s belt. His fingers slip on the knob when he changes the channels until he gets to Channel 4, the medbay’s channel. Blood soaks into the buttons, resulting in a squish when he presses the PTT button.

“Popper injured. Suture kit, cauterization, disinfectant needed,” Reflex orders stoutly then shoves the Walkie-talkie into Skidmark’s chest.

Skidmark sputters for a second, hands open wide with the Walkie-talkie resting in them. But then reaches for the gun resting on his hip holster. His hand stops short, fingers hovering over the handle like an itch he wants to scratch but can’t.

Reflex doesn’t look at Skidmark, gaze locked on Popper. “Popper first,” he reminds.

Word count: 320+

“‘Flex, what about you?”

Reflex breaks from his thoughts to look up at Popper from the floor. He stops fiddling with the rope in his fingertips, realizing he must have been touching them unaware. He hums in response, “Hm?”

Popper slides a wet rag up and down the sides of his head, leaning side to side to cool down. He repeats himself, “Any siblings? —That you remember?”

Reflex thinks for a moment before the familiar sharp pain stabs into his brain like it always does when he tries to remember anything. He winces but tries to answer regardless, “Hmm… I think… I had a brother.”

He said the first thing that came to mind, but he can’t really pinpoint where it came from. But it sounds wrong. Completely wrong. Or, it feels inaccurate. Maybe even a little off.

But Popper seems intrigued by this answer, taking it with more interest than suspicion when he humors Reflex to ask, “Really, now? What makes you say that?”

Reflex shrugs and answers, “I don’t know. Just a feeling, I guess.” He's not entirely sure why he said a brother, and why it feels wrong, but from the interest in Popper’s eyes, he thinks it may be worth the answer. He responds, “Why ask? You know I can’t remember anything.”

Popper shrugs this time, his eyes drifting elsewhere as he pats his forehead with the wet cloth, “Just asking to ask. Who knows? Might’ve jostled something in that noggin’ of yours.”

Reflex makes a show of shaking his head side-to-side then knocks on his skull to support his reply, “Nope, nothing, nada. Vacío. No tengo nada, mi amigo.”

Popper snickers at this, amusement evident in his voice when he says, “Just full of hot air, huh? Shouldn’t’ve bothered.”

Word count: 1.3k+

Another raid. The fifth one this week. The alarms blare loudly, wailing against his tympana. The other factory works have already begun the alarm procedures: reversing the conveyor belts, packaging what’s already out, passing along guns and knives alike, pulling out thick walls of cement that will act as their barricades, locking the elevators and blocking the stairwells.

“Hey, Reflex! Take cover!” Skidmark yells as he loads his gun. He’s one of the unfortunate fellows when it came to his nickname initiation.

Like always, Reflex doesn’t get a gun. His alarm procedure entails ducking and covering, maybe even hiding in the lower floors.

But as always during these raids, he can’t. Too much blood is pumping through his veins and this strange warmth envelops his chest, underneath his plastron. It’s almost like static, buzzing and pulsing his heart into action. It happens every time a raid starts.

Reflex slides to a basement hatch, and calls out to say, “I’m heading down!”

He receives a thumbs up from Stretch, earned that name from losing his weeks’ rations in a bet trying to prove he can touch his toes. Stretch couldn’t reach, and couldn’t catch himself when Popper kicked him over, making him roll over like a tire until he crashed into a wall.

Reflex slides down the hatch, and hooks his feet on the ladder attached then closes it. But he doesn’t climb down. The lights are off on the first basement level, as per the alarm procedures, but he’s surprisingly talented in the dark.

Along the ceiling of B1 level, there are long tubes that line the crease where the ceiling meets the wall. Reflex doesn’t know where these tubes lead, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that these tubes lead to a blind spot on the roof. He could possibly get a good look at the raiders from there.

It’s become an itch he can’t scratch, not being able to see the raiders. Somehow, Foreman comes stomping over in his fancy dress shoes and assigns Reflex with a stupid job like “protect the injured and keep count on the food supply.” And he ends up doing it because it’s the right thing to do. It’s what heroes do, his mind tells him in a voice he doesn’t recognize. But this time, Foreman doesn’t come rushing over to give him a job during the raider lockdown. He’d rather not give Foreman the chance.

So, he grabs on to the tubing, fingertips straining to hold his weight on the lip of the tubing where the screws are tightened until he can swing his legs on.

Then, he starts to inch his way to the blind spot, using all his core and leg strength to move onward when he has to move his left arm. Somehow, he moves silently, even if any movement is swallowed in the alarm’s wailing.

When he reaches the wall where the tubing continues through a hole, he twists his body around the tubing until his carapace scrapes the wall parallel to the tubing. It’s a tight fit, but he manages to squeeze through.

He doesn’t know what this room is, and it was never introduced to him when he was given a tour of ENVI. But it’s just as dark as when he first discovered it, filled to the brim with unlabeled metal crates. He remembered knocking the crates only to hear the sound echo.

Why would a room be full of empty crates? It still confuses him, but he continues on. He sidesteps through the gaps between the crates until he finds the hole someone else must have ripped through. It could have been anyone, he promises with crossed fingers.

He slips through with ease, and continues to the blind spot. He slips through more unthinkable passageways, squeezing through gaps, all while he feels the walls around him trembling. Explosions shake the earth, reaching deep underground like it’s searching. He hears guns, every kind ENVI has in its arsenal and more. He loud thumpings and flames and—it’s all chaos up there.

The raiders are really putting up a fight. But that’s the thing that doesn’t make sense. How can raiders put up this much of a fight? And so frequently.

And if they’re after the food like Foreman and the others say, how desperate are they? How far are they willing to go for some food? It’s not worth dying for.

It makes him wonder how he used to live before ENVI.

Reflex is observant. He knows that much. Whatever things he used to do, he honed himself to pick up on things with ease. Like how Foreman is the only person here who wears a suit and sunglasses, is fixed with gadgets like earpieces while the others use old walkie-talkies, and brings forth a sense of hostility in Reflex. The way Popper is well-fed but the lower levels are full of scrawny, starving folks that can’t eat any of the food they grow.

And how Reflex, despite being “rescued from the toplands” and “on his last days,” is not only well-fed but fit. He’s easily built for survival, for fights. Hell, he’s missing an arm and it looks far more healed and clean than the other amputees in ENVI.

Don’t get him started on the weird laughs that find something humorous behind the story of his nickname. There’s definitely something far beyond it. And it starts with his scar.

Somehow he just knows there’s a difference between the scar on his temple and the scar that healed over his missing limb. The temple scar is fresher, pinker. It feels less firm to the touch in comparison to his nub. It feels less like a scar and more of a fresh wound, singed almost. It still hurts on occasion. Which he knows is wrong. How he knows is still a mystery to him. Maybe he was a medic before he was “saved” by ENVI.

Or maybe he was just unlucky.

Like he is now.

Right when he lifts his body up a hatch, the final step into breaching the rooftop, he’s met with a pair of dress shoes. Clean and polished dress shoes. One fit lifts slightly to begin impatiently tapping.

Reflex puts on his best smile and leans his head onto his hand, propped up by his elbow. He looks up and greets, “Evening, Foreman. I see you got those steppers of yours waxed?”

The warmth of the red-orange sun envelopes Reflex, and the explosions sound much closer now that he’s reached above ground. The sun’s ray bounces off of Foreman’s polished shoe and onto the hatch resting on Reflex’s shoulders. Foreman doesn’t seem to mind the sun, despite wearing several layers for his suit attire.

Foreman’s arms are cross over his chest, a glare pinching his eyebrows together. His voice is a forced monotone when he greets back, “Evening, Reflex. I was looking for you.”

Reflex points at himself in false astonishment, “Little ol’ me? I’ve been sweeping the floors, you know, making sure everything’s clean when we all get back to work.”

Foreman leans slightly, looking down the hatch where Reflex stands on the ladder. “And your broom?”

“You won’t like the answer,” Reflex admits in a false coy manner.

“Get inside,” Foreman snaps.

Reflex salutes with his nub arm and drops down the hatch. From the floor, he watches as Foreman leans down to close the hatch, pausing for a moment to glance at Reflex. The mutant in question quickly slaps on a smile, pretending he hadn’t been watching Foreman intently for that split second.

With a friendly wave, Reflex bids goodbye, “See you later, Foreman.”

Foreman closes the hatch, returning Reflex to the darkness before the toplands.

So, like Reflex suspected for a split second a week ago, there are blind spots Foreman already knew about. And the check-ins with Foreman are tests.