Hi! (skip this part if you're a new reader) I'm putting all the new chapters on this same story because I know not everyone reading is following me, just this particular fic, and I'd hate to lose what readers I actually have.

I have to tell you, I haven't really finished writing the whole thing out, but I'm most of the way there and I have an outline for the rest. So I've decided to go ahead and post the first chapter/prologue thing.

Um, also, this first chapter is a little intense(?). This re-written story is gonna involve flashbacks to torture, but nothing too graphic. Just warning you.

Thank you so much for reading!

Disclaimer - I do not own Generator Rex

i.

The first thing he knows is pain. It's a terrible first thing to know, and he learns it immediately, and so, so intimately.

Muscles are bunched and tight beneath his skin, and a simple shifting tells him they are bruised. Everything hurts. Everything feels battered. His arm feels broken, actually – but that's definitely worse than bruised.

The first thing he comprehends isn't a gentle touch or a peaceful quiet, or even the simplicity of a bed underneath his injured body.

No, it's horrifying, deep, scraping and grinding and clawing agony, and it only gets worse as he wakes up.

He screams in pain. The action makes him choke and swing quickly into a sitting position, coughing and clutching a sore, squeezed chest. His lungs feel like they're on fire – and every breath is a small gasp escaping a secure prison.

Now he can't scream if he wanted to, which, he's still not sure he doesn't want to, but manages a low, tormented moan.

The next few minutes are a battle for oxygen, fought desperately. The world swirls and blackens around him. When he finally wins, he winces, remembering his twinging arm (the right one), and his other battered limbs.

"Okay." He whispers, unable to speak louder. The noise makes him jerk up.

Blinking, breathing heavily, he tries again.

"O...kay?"

It's a low croak, alien and strange, and it feels like nails scraping the back of his throat. He wonders if he had been screaming before, while he was asleep.

He tastes blood and decides that yes, he must have been. For hours. Why...how...what is...He struggles even to put the questions together in his fractured brain.

But searching reveals there is one, clear memory in there, of more of that unbearable pain and it hovers as a dark, terrifying cloud in his mind. He dares not think about anything besides the present.

It's not hard – there's plenty of hurt to focus on right now.

Fire dances along his entire right side, bruises tingling and burning enough to make him shut his eyes and have to breath for a moment.

When he can, he peeks at his arm again, tries not to vomit at the blood. Paired with innumerable scratches and gaping holes, he can see far too much beneath a barely-there jacket. There are way too many colors there – bright red, sickly yellow, and deep, ugly purples – and he almost can't spot the bronze of his skin beneath them all.

Very, very bad doesn't even begin to cover it.

"M-maybe I could j-just take this..." He whispers to himself, left hand tugging at his left sleeve. "Get...jacket..off..and.."

His voice sounds like something hoarse and dying, but he knows if he listens to the silence much longer, he will freak out. He will start shouting and screaming and sobbing, pleading with anyone to come get him, wondering why he's here, why him of all people –

Darkness, deep and hungry, roars in his face. He can't see, can't tell where he is but he knows he hates it.

A cold, soft voice croons in his ear and something metallic sinks into his flesh.

"You are mine now, boy."

And there is so much hurt, so much icy agony that it makes him want to scream. He doesn't want this, doesn't want to be here, he wants to go home –

He struggles and claws and forces his way from the half-memory, desperate to feel the hard ground beneath him. Desperate to feel even the pain, if it keeps him from the monster inside his head. It's not real, it can't be real.

"I-I'm okay." He almost sobs. "I'm here. I-I'm here...I'm here...I'm here..."

Somehow the crazy mantra is just making things much worse. Maybe it's because he doesn't even know where 'here' is. But the owner of the voice isn't here, right? That's something? It's gonna be something...Oh, man...

Logic offers a sharp slap to his terror. None of that is going to help right now, it scolds him. He needs to work on getting out of here.

It's correct, he thinks as he sucks in a shuddering breath.

He promises himself that if he survives the next couple hours, he can panic then.

Surprisingly enough, that promise gives him strength – it feels like a reassurance that he will survive. That he won't be dragged into whatever hellish nightmare resides in his mind.

Ignoring the ache in his chest, he takes a second to breath. Calm down...

Okay.

First order of business is to do something about his arm. Blood loss is a bad thing, right? Plus, it's something he thinks he can fix right now. Sorta. That's something.

Perhaps if he can remove his red jacket (too red, darkened in places with stains of his blood) he can wrap it around his still bleeding limb. Then he wouldn't lose so much blood, and he wouldn't pass out or die or something. It sounds like an awesome plan.

He goes for it and winces, his arm struggling to free itself. This plan was completely contingent on being able to remove the jacket, wasn't it?

"Dang it...S-stupid...get...off..."

Okay, so at this point he'd settle for getting half of it off. The less-tattered half, preferably.

Finally, after moving his shoulder one too many times and having to close his eyes again and hold down a scream, his left side is free from the jacket.

Giddy joy or agony, or both, steals his breath, and he lets a trembling smile bloom on his exhausted face.

I did something...He taunts the chasm of darkness in his head, too exhausted to speak the words aloud.

Just for that, he allows himself to rest for a moment. He only half-closes his eyes though, wanting to know that the real world is always close by.

Eventually he realizes that he's done essentially nothing after all, and decides to blame his slowness – and current dizziness – on the blood loss.

He groans and picks up one sleeve of the jacket.

It takes a very long time to curl the stiff fabric around his broken arm. His left side is only marginally better off than his right, and he has to keep stopping to blink spots from his vision and to tell himself not to throw up. That would be gross. And unhelpful.

"You..can...do..this..." He gasps, ignoring the tears streaming down his cheeks. "S'not...so bad..."

Minutes, probably hours later, he has the world's ugliest, most stupid-looking bandage on his broken limb, and he clutches it gently, protectively to his chest. There's a small sense of pride at his accomplishment, if it can be called that, and maybe, just maybe, he allows himself a little smirk.

He wouldn't want to, but he could totally be a medic...person. Dude. Er, doctor. Yeah, he could be a doctor with a fancy lab coat and cool chart, always poking and prodding at people who only wanted to say hi, just like – um...Just like...

Just like who, exactly? He can't picture anything but a generic doctor – a stranger in white with blurred features and a chart. That's hardly anyone special.

Shaking his head at that particular non sequitur (blood loss again, probably), he wriggles to his knees and slowly, painfully stands to his feet.

The earth spins beneath him for a moment, but he blinks, and suddenly he can see. He can see!

He can see...well actually, he can't see very much. Nothing bright or shiny had caught his attention while he played doctor on himself, and nothing particularly interesting captures it now.

Dusk shades his surroundings in dim greys and vague shadows. There's tough dirt beneath his feet – er, roughed up boots – and in the fading light, he can make out a reddish tint in it.

The small, spiky dark shapes, he finally decides, are some kind of shrubbery, and they are settled every few feet farther than he can see.

It takes a moment for him to realize what's wrong with the scene. There's fear tightening in his crushed rib-cage, and his mind blanks on the reason for what feels like forever.

He has no idea where he is.

He has no idea where civilization is.

Suddenly his injured arm goes numb, his mouth opens and closes soundlessly, and he spins around anxiously, looking for something, anything. There had to be something, didn't there?

Some town or building or shed. Some group, some person, maybe with a cowboy hat on and a star-shaped badge pinned to his chest – he doesn't care right now, it could be the friggin' Pope, he just doesn't want to be alone anymore.

"Don't freak out. Don't freak out.." He repeats in vain. "I-it's okay..don't..."

Bile and sheer terror mix for an acrid taste on his tongue, and he begins to run despite his wounds.

This is the panic he promised himself. This is the nightmare that he can't wake up from.

So he runs, flees like he can outrun reality.

Maybe he's hurting himself more, maybe he's supposed to be in great pain – but all he feels is the hard pounding beneath his feet, the gasps in his throat, and an invisible hand squeezing his heart to near-bursting.

He's in the desert. He's alone in the desert, in some place far from civilization and water and food, and he can't remember how he got there.

Has he been kidnapped? Drugged? Beaten up and left someplace remote to die? Each scenario fuels his rapidly increasing paranoia and makes his legs pump faster.

Why is he here and why is he alone? Why is he so hurt? Why is this REAL?!

There's no answer to his frantic questions but the thudding of his boots against the cool ground and the ragged gulps of air as tears of terror slid down his face.

He almost misses his painful dreams.

A/N: Hey, guys! I'm back! I know this is short but I will probably post the next one tomorrow, or the next day.

Sorry this first one is a little dark - it will get better. I promise.

Please review, tell me what you think!

Love y'all~~

Kokoro