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They enjoy trying to watch me break. These prison guards, they feel so powerless in my presence at first, and with good reason. They are not only holding captive the smartest man in the world, but a metahuman, and it has been drilled into their heads from day one not to take me lightly, not to let their guard down around me.
They know I am stronger than them, better than them, and that I am always plotting my escape and my next scheme, and that they have to stay a step ahead of someone who is always a dozen steps ahead of everyone else. They are intimidated by me and feel as though nothing they can do will really make a difference, that I will escape and kill them all and wreak havoc on the world once more.
And then I don't. Their containment protocol is successful, my few attempts at escape fail, my activity dwindles, and they think they have won. They think that they have overcome me and outsmarted me, that they are just as much heroes as the men and women who landed me here, when in reality, I am just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
But they still believe that they have won and that they are smarter than me, and that is when they begin to want to break me, and when they begin to want to break me, that is when their games begin.
They have done a lot of things to me with varying degrees of success, and I have taken it all in stride. Showing even a little bit of weakness gives them too much satisfaction, and even when they succeed, I have to let them believe that they have failed. This creates a double-edged sword effect, because, though I may not have given them satisfaction, I have given them the determination to work harder at breaking me.
They have only succeeded once.
~X~
I have only a vague idea of why they were taking me to a different cell that day. It has something to do with their little game of trying to outsmart the genius and see him crumble, but I do not know what they will be trying today or why it involves another cell.
A quick glance around the room tells me that it is not much different than my usual cell, clearly built to contain any other metahumans they thought they might obtain someday, but there are a few small differences. The most obvious and notable is the lack of a toilet, which means the room was intended for someone with no need of one. This is not the case for me, and their intentions become very apparent.
An immediate panic comes over me. I know without trying that I won't be able to think my way out of this one. My body has its limitations, and I am not currently ready to try my escape plan. Eventually, I will have need for a toilet, and they will not move me back to my own cell until it is too late.
A few childhood memories of being too shy to excuse myself from class and school bullies blocking bathroom entrances come rushing back to me and I realize that my guards have already won this round. All that remains is for them to collect their prize- my humiliation.
They stand outside and watch me, some of them unable to hold back their snickering as they wait. Their wait will not be a long one, though. I had already had a slight need to urinate, and this has only increased as my panic set in. With the knowledge that they are all watching me and that I have no choice but to wet myself, my nerves make the situation increasingly worse.
It is not long before I am fidgeting, my bladder feeling swollen and uncomfortable, cursing me for not going earlier even though I hadn't known. How could I have known, really? As smart as I am, it does me no good in these blind situations. I can only know so much that goes on outside of my cell and they kept it from me so well.
I am a grown man, I am the smartest man alive, and I am completely powerless to stop this. I wonder how many of them will spread word of this. I wonder when it will reach the ears of all my enemies. They'll all have a good laugh as they imagine Doctor Impossible pissing his pants like a child.
I know, logically, that I should not even have to piss this badly, given how many liquids I have recently consumed and my normal holding capabilities, but logic does nothing in the face of sheer panic and desperation, and the more I try to convince myself that I don't have to, I really, really have to.
Holding still is a struggle all its own, one that I have no hopes of overcoming as my fidgeting increases. I hear a few more snickers from the guards and I have to fight back tears because super villains do not cry, even in the face of their mortification. At least I am able to hold one thing back.
My bladder contracts involuntarily and I feel a few drops of urine escape. I can hear myself whispering, “no, no, no,” though I do not recall deciding to say that out loud. I am losing control of all of my actions. I tap my foot and squirm in place, my desperation becoming painfully obvious.
Crossing my legs is another thing my body does regardless of my mind's desires. I don't know how long I have been standing here, being watched, waiting for the inevitable. It feels like seconds; it feels like years. My bladder whines for relief but I still refuse it, my stubborn pride putting up one last fight against the facts.
I am practically dancing in place, a strange dance with my crossed legs and jerky movements and occasional foot taps. Their laughter echoes and is haunting, but I can barely even register it as I feel more liquid escape. It will not be long before I cannot cut the stream off, and then it will all be over.
My pride is a complicated thing, I realize. Letting them watch me squirm and fight seems like it should be more embarrassing than giving in and pissing myself now, letting them know with defiance that I do not care what they see. Yet the latter option is completely out of the question. I hate them watching me struggle, but I cannot end that struggling by my own willpower.
Things only get worse for me, when I feel my hand gripping between my legs, as if that will have any effect on keeping myself dry. It is a losing battle, and these pathetic actions only make me look worse, but I cannot stop myself. I hop from foot to foot; I squirm; I whimper. I am at my very limit, and then I am past my very limit and then-
I can feel the hot fluid on my hand as it spills through my prison jumpsuit and I let go abruptly, the wet spot now in plain sight. It grows and spreads as my bladders empties itself, running down one of my legs. My face is most likely red, but I still do not allow any tears to escape. A small groan does make its way out of my mouth, however, and I close my eyes as I wait for this to be over.
It takes longer than I expect, and I wonder if my bladder was more full than I estimated, if there was something I forgot to take into account. But this does not really matter, and I can hear a splashing sound as a puddle begins to form at my feet. The relief is overwhelming, but the humiliation is stronger. Their laughter is louder than the spray of urine hitting the hard floor.
And then I am empty and my bladder is relaxing and my face is burning and they are laughing, and they have won. They have broken my pride and they have broken me, and I do not know how to trick them into thinking they have failed this time. I do not know anything in this moment except that my wet jumpsuit is growing cold and uncomfortable, and that they will probably make me wear it around for a while so they can remind themselves of their success.
And though there is nothing I can do about this for now, and though I am still close to tears from the whole ordeal, I can recall my escape plans and I can add to them, and I can plot for revenge. When I get out of here, they'll pay for doing this to me.