Mix up 3 and 23?
The last several hours were a haze of pain in Wanda's head; needles and knives and men in pristine lab coats, murmuring clinically over the table where she was strapped down, as though she wasn't even there. There was a bright searing light and another sterile white room and nobody bothered to answer questions and Wanda knew better than to ask. Sometimes there was anaesthesia, but today there was not. Because it was "-only a few little tests today," one of them had explained, cheerfully, in perfunctory benevolence for the monster.
She felt sick now, as a silent guard dragged her back to her cell and then locked her in where she swayed where she stood and tried, futilely, to even catch the man's eye. Just once, she wanted someone here to look at her like she was a human being, genetics aside. Wanda said nothing, she'd learned early on what any protest earned. The "specimens" were not people, they were mutants, monster, hardly any better than dumb and dangerous beasts. That seemed to be the party line in the facility, anyway, and any attempt to deny it was met with severe punishment.
When the footsteps of the guard faded and a door clanged shut, Wanda slid down to her knees to rest her face against the cold metal wall separating her cell from the next. She whispered her brother's name into a small air vent, knowing that her voice would carry into the next room. Knowing that Pietro was alive in the next cell over was the only thing keeping her sane here. Even if they couldn't be together.