#and maybe a lil attempt at a scary old man cameo.......

[kittlesandbugs]

FHR: Early education Pairing: None, we're deep in freshly decanted Farm territory Warnings: Canon-typical Farm dehumanization, self depersonalization? or something lol, mild physical abuse Word Count: 454 Prompt: from @sidestepping to write a character when they were young with a focus on how that youth affects their POV, under 500 words

Seated at a table, spine straight, eyes forward. Focus on the man in front. This is the third time with a white coat man with a stack of cards with shapes. The man is different this time. Old and wrinkled. Sharp gaze that makes the stomach twist uncomfortably. The old man's eyes flick past, behind and up, to the handler. The hand on the shoulder tightens. Warm, but sharp. A warning of beginning. The old man's gaze returns and then lowers to the drawn card. The card is known. 

"Square."

"Good." The old man nods approval. 

Discard. New card.

"Triangle."

"Good."

Discard. New card. Again and again, same as before. 

Until it is not. 

The circle that appears in the old man's mind warps and blurs. Elongates into points. This has not happened before. The image is always clear. Hesitation. The hand tightens harder on the shoulder. Warning. The handler doesn't like hesitation. 

"What do you see?" the old man prompts, sharp gaze focused and uncomfortable. 

"D… Diamond?" 

The old man's mouth twists and curls upward, wrinkled eyes crinkling more. The expected blow to the back of the skull snaps the head forward with a gasp. 

"Wrong." The old man sounds pleased. Why punishment? "State the objective."

"Name the shape on the card." Understanding. Straighten again. Pain lingers. Focus on the old man. "Circle."

"Good. Why did you say diamond?" 

Finger point to the old man's head. "The shape changed."

The old man chuckles, deepening to a laugh. A mark is made on the clipboard. Notes taken. "Oh, this one is promising." 

The hand on the shoulder returns, a soft and open pat. Praise. 

"Again." There's a square before the old man even draws. It flashes briefly as he views the card, then back to square. 

"Triangle."

"Good."

The game continues through the deck. Sometimes the old man conceals. Sometimes the answer is open. By the time the last card is drawn, the vision is blurred. The mind burns, like a muscle worked too hard. 

"Very good…" The old man rises from the table, looking past to the handler. "Have this one brought to my lab weekly, for further testing and evaluation. There is a very valuable mind tucked away in that little skull. We need to nurture it. Find a different way to reprimand it." 

"Yes sir," the handler says. A soft hand on the back of the skull this time. Praise. A faint warmth inside. The handler is pleased. 

The old man approaches. A finger tilts the chin up, eyes meeting. The urge to flinch away from the hard prying gaze is strong. 

"You're going to accomplish amazing things some day, little Re-Gene."

It is a relief when the old man leaves.