LIFE - Chapter One, Part Two

LIFE - VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER ONE - "BLACKOUT" - (#2)
Written by A.J. Charlton and M.P. Ragghianti
         
                She was conscious again. Thick darkness surrounded her. But she was not in the cell anymore. She knew that for certain straight away. She was somewhere else.  She had been moved to a room that was warmer, cleaner and more comfortable. But, through  nothing more than it being the unknown, it was no less terrifying and no less haunting. She was in a chair, and not just any chair, but a comfortable, welcoming, cushioned chair. But that was where the comfort stopped. Her hands were tied behind her back, a gag was stuffed inside of her mouth and a blindfold was strapped around her eyes. And in that room, around her, somewhere, she detected the presence of at least one person. Was it him?
         She heard soft, careful footsteps creep slowly behind her. She tried to remain calm, she tried to stay focused. She tried to control her breathing and she tried to control her heartbeat. She suddenly felt the prickly sensation of warm breath drifting against the back of her neck. The platoon of hairs that lined it stood to attention almost immediately. She gulped helplessly. She was afraid. She was terrified. Yet she knew that it wasn’t him. His breath was cold, dirty and unforgiving, and she would have recognised it instantly. Instead of big, brutal fists, she felt a gentle, comforting hand move onto the back of her head, and the blindfold was removed easily. Her eyes were suddenly struck by a ball of white fire from the lights that clung onto the roof above, and they snapped themselves shut instinctively. She tried to squirm them back open but they didn’t want to budge.
         “Dip the lights slightly” said a gentle male voice from a few metres in front of her, “it’s hurting her eyes”.
         She heard the soft, careful footsteps from the person behind her move away slowly, and after a few seconds the lights dipped into a much dimmer and more comfortable tone. She was able to open her eyes at least a little bit now, but the pain was still intense. Directly opposite her she could make out the silhouette of a dark-clothed man sitting patiently in a chair. She was unable to make out his physical features, other than that he was of a somewhat thin build. Another figure, a large, well-built woman, took a seat next to him. The room seemed very small; maybe only three or four metres in length and width at most. It was entirely white in color and empty in content, apart from a small white table that sat in between herself and the two figures.
         The male, who sat opposite her, reached over and pulled the gag out of her mouth. From close up, he looked at her with what appeared to be a smile. His breath smelt of coffee. He whispered to her “Your eyes are supposed to hurt, and yes, they’re supposed to be blurry. Don’t worry, it’s not permanent. It’s just necessary.” Then he sat back in his seat, and wrapped his hands together on the table in front of him.
         “Where am I?” She asked timidly, raising her eyes towards him, and then moving them over to the blurry female shadow that was sitting diagonal to her.
         “We’re not here to talk about that, Priscilla.” the female responded in a stern voice, shaking her head dismissively like a school teacher.
         Her male companion shifted forwarded and leaned in towards Priscilla. Her eyes, which were calming down slightly, were able to trace his gaunt face more easily now, and she noticed that he was wearing shades.
         “… We’re here to talk about you.” he said delightfully.
         Priscilla let out a gulp… Talk about her? She didn’t even remember who she was.
         “More specifically, Priscilla,” the female added “we want to talk about your past. We feel like you’ve been…” she searched her brain for the correct word “… withholding… information from us.”
         “What!?” Priscilla exclaimed under her breath. “I haven’t withheld anything… Who are you people?”
         “We think that, perhaps, the withholding wasn’t entirely… voluntary… on your part.” said the female, once again choosing her words carefully. “Evidence has arose that suggests this”.
         “… But unless you cooperate with us fully, Priscilla” added the male, as he leaned in closer… “Then our methods of getting that information out of you won’t be entirely voluntary on your part either.”
         “… Please not the rats.” she said in a weak and defeated tone.
         “The rats? The rats are nothing by comparison to our methods.”
         Priscilla shifted uneasily in her chair. Suddenly, the gentleness that the male voice had resonated earlier was far more terrifying to her. The female blur next to him stood up quickly and leaned forward with her palms pressed flatly and firmly against the white table.
         “Do you remember why you’re here, Priscilla? ” she demanded.
         Pricilla shook her head slowly. “No.”
         The female removed her sunglasses, and, hands wrapped behind her back, paced the room like the prosecution in a court case, thinking through her next damning sentence carefully. It seemed to take an age, but it finally arrived…
         “You’re here because you were involved in the plot to kill President Snider, Priscilla.”
Priscilla jolted forward in her seat, flabbergasted.
         “No, I wouldn’t kill anybody… I couldn‘t…”
         “I didn’t say you killed him, Priscilla… He isn‘t dead, for a start.” the female said, firmly pressing her hands down on the table again. “We do, however, now know that you played a significant role in his attempted murder.”
         “That’s not true!”
         “Oh but I’m afraid it is.”
         The lights above flickered. The female brushed her hand trough her black hair firmly.
         “We have evidence, Priscilla,” she went on, “evidence that places you in direct responsibility for the attempt on his Life. Evidence that links you directly to Halbadia’s circle of twelve. Evidence that suggests that you were the one - or at least one of the ones - who actually gave the order for his assassination.”
         “I would never order the death of anyone! ” Priscilla shouted.
         “Priscilla,” the male took over calmly. “You did.”
         Priscilla suddenly felt a vehement sense of frustration, and her depleted source of energy seemed to replenish itself temporarily, “If I ordered the assassination of the president,” she stated impatiently, staring fixatedly at the male, “then that would be the highest of treasons. We all know that treason results in execution around here, not interrogation.” Her eyes opened themselves fully for the first time “If what you say is true, why would I still be alive?”
         “Because, Priscilla…” he said, once again thinking through his next sentence carefully, “We have a use for you. You see, what you and your people did; it is not just an assassination attempt - not just an act of treason - in the eyes of many, it is an act of war. The people of this county know that, and they want us to… deal… with it. They’re watching this administration very carefully to see how we react… What they expect, unfortunately, is different to what we desire. What they demand is different to what we… need… not only as an administration but as a country. So what we want, to get straight to the point, is for you to take full responsibility for this -- for this attempt on Snider’s Life -- for you to admit to your crime, and not only to your crime but to your country’s crime. To accept sole responsibility for their misdeeds against us... To sacrifice yourself for the greater good, so to speak.”
         She shifted uneasily in her chair and looked up at him, trying to process what he had just said.
         “Why would I do that?” she asked.
         The female, now silent, twiddled her thumbs impatiently. The lights flickered again. The male smiled.
         “Because if you don’t, Priscilla, we will retaliate against your country, and a lot of people will die. And that will be your responsibility - their deaths will be on your conscience, forever. And when you die, whenever that may be, you will die knowing that you could have saved them. You will die a coward, when you had the chance to die a hero. We‘re giving you the chance to die a hero, Priscilla. I seriously suggest you take it.”
         He leaned forward again, pulling a recording device from out of his inside pocket. “All you have to do is pick up this microphone and say something like ‘I was solely responsible for both the order and the implementation of the attempt on president Snider’s Life’ and viola, you will save the lives of thousands. The blame will be taken off Halbadia and put squarely onto yourself and a group of terrorists who were acting alongside you… We will fabricate a story - a story that prevents a war. A story that satisfies our people and their thirst for a scapegoat – their thirst for bloodshed. It is the best way forward for all of us, Priscilla; trust me. We don’t want, nor need, another war. Nobody does. But what we do need is a scapegoat.”
         Priscilla looked down to the floor. How could she take responsibility for something she’d hadn’t even done? Or at least, something she thought she hadn’t done..? But what if she had? Then she would die a coward -- and not just a coward, but also a liar… And she would have killed thousands. She would have killed tens of thousands. But treason -- surely she wasn’t capable of that… surely? She looked up at the man again.
         “Who are you people?” she asked with a shining glimmer of fear in her eyes.
         “The question is not who we are, Priscilla. I think the big question here is who you are, if anything. Are you a coward or are you a hero..? Do you know who you are, Priscilla?”
         “I don’t remember who I am,” she said “because you people stole that memory from me, just like everything else”
         The man broke into a dry smile.
         “We can’t steal memories, Priscilla… It’s your people who do the magic tricks, not us. Now tell us what we want to hear... Before we force it out of you.”
         Priscilla wanted to respond, but the words weren’t there. She didn’t know what to say, what to do or what to think for the best. At that moment, she just wanted to scream. She just wanted to cry. A small part of her spirit, at that moment, may just have wanted to die. The man gestured to the female with his hand. The female registered his gesture and moved around behind Priscilla, who wanted to turn her head to watch, but the pain she felt in her neck upon even trying to do this was too agonizing to bare. There was a clicking noise, like something being opened, and then the glug glug glug sound of liquid being poured from a bottle. She studied the room, trying to ignore the presence of her captors; her eyes finally focusing themselves. Stretching the entire height and width of the wall opposite her, she noticed, was a mirror with beautiful decorative symbols; so beautiful that it was almost comforting. She heard footsteps approaching from the female behind her. She ignored them, concentrating on that mirror. Focusing on those symbols - those symbols that she thought she recognised from somewhere, but she couldn‘t remember where. Her eyes studied them for a few seconds, and then moved down to her reflection. For the first time, it dawned on her that she was no longer naked. They had dressed her in a dirty, dingy orange outfit; written on the chest of which, in big bold font, was the word “URSUS”. There was also something on her head… A golden metallic strap, which resonated a striking red light. Could this be the device that was blocking her memories? She wondered. Then she caught sight of her face; oh Gods, her face… Her face - a face that, once upon a time, every passing man and woman in Eronil would have declared as beautiful without hesitation or consideration - a face that countless men would have lusted over; that countless men would have paid great money just to have the privilege to touch - that face, that formerly beautiful face, was bruised, battered and ruined. Yet to her, as she looked at herself in that reflection, she was still beautiful. Her eyes, green and intense and so incredibly innocent despite all she had been through, were still beautiful. Her lips, though swelled, dry and sore from the cold, were still beautiful. Her long blonde hair, though coarse and damaged from the conditions in that cell, was still beautiful. To Priscilla, she was still beautiful, and no dirty, dingy clothing, no fists, no rats and no freezing cold cell could ever change that. She would always be beautiful. Always.
         Her eyes moved away from herself and shifted over to the male interrogator, who she could now see in detail for the first time. Dressed entirely in black, he was quite handsome; his skin clean and smooth, his dark hair short but styled, and his eyes, no longer covered by shades, big and blue. Those eyes made contact with hers then maneuvered their way over to his accomplice, who paced back around the table and stood in front of Priscilla, again, much in the manner of a school teacher about to address her class. However, there was something simply disturbing about her presence now, and it resided in her hands. Priscilla’s eyes shot away from the male and attached themselves to those hands immediately, causing her to jump up from her seat in a sudden bout of terror; the rope around her wrists giving her a painful friction burn in the process. But she didn’t notice the pain from the burn, all she noticed was those hands... Because in those hands, clenched tightly in between their stern fingers, was an alarmingly large needle. A needle of terrifying threat. A needle filled with a vile green liquid. A vile green liquid that, Priscilla knew, would be coming her way any minute now if she didn‘t give these people what they wanted…
         If they weren’t tied behind her back, her hands would now have been trembling frantically. Her lips were trembling frantically. The balls of thought bouncing around her brain were trembling frantically too. The fear - the fear of that needle, and not only that needle, but the fear of the woman holding that needle - was smothering her body; possessing, controlling and restricting her every movement like a strait jacket. Restraining her, clenching onto her and paralyzing her; not letting go. That needle, though she knew not what it was or what it contained, was as sickening as the rats, as menacing as him and as chilling as that cell. It was all of her fears combined. It was the most sickening, menacing and chilling fear of all. It was the fear of the unknown. The fear of a pain - and she knew it would be a pain, for everything she had experienced in this place so far had involved pain in some sense of the word - the fear of a pain that she had not yet experienced, that she had not yet encountered, that she had not yet endured. A new form of torture. The next step in the process of destroying her soul, crushing her spirit and eradicating her will to live. And for what? She knew nothing. She had no information to give. She was being tortured within an inch of her Life for nothing; or nothing that she could remember. It was senseless. It was immoral. It was insane. Yet it was real. It was happening. And it was terrifying.
         “Priscilla, have you ever heard of Laspec?” the woman asked, secreting a dash of liquid from the end of the needle to test it.
         “Would I even remember if I had?” she responded despondently.
         “Laspec is the main power source on Eronil. It’s a high-energy liquid that we mine from The Northern Waters; a liquid that provides us with everything we need -- power, light… protection.”
         Priscilla just looked at her, as she dabbed the end of the needle with a soft cloth. She had such an air of control and calm about her when holding that needle - that terrifying needle - that it could easily be interpreted as an air of insanity.
         “But in it’s most raw form, Priscilla, it doesn’t offer protection… It offers pain.”
         Priscilla let out a gulp, and shifted herself uneasily in her seat. That pain would be coming her way very soon. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run…
         The male stood up slowly and walked behind her towards the door. His stride measured and precise. He pulled the door ajar, but before he exited, he turned and gave Priscilla what was an almost apologetic look, and, in a soft and somewhat caring voice, said; “I’m sorry it had to come to this Priscilla, I really am. But you should have given us what we wanted.”
         Then, without another word, either to Priscilla or his accomplice, he left, closing the door behind him gently, and leaving her alone. Alone with this woman. Alone with that needle.
         The woman put the needle flat on the table and sat down opposite Priscilla, where the male had been sitting. She pulled the chair in close and moved her head forward to be nearer to Priscilla, who in turn looked down to the table.
         “It was the Ancients of Mildred who first discovered raw Laspec’s use as an interrogation device,” she began… “During the Great Western War, they would often capture Luscanian spies who had infiltrated their country, and they would drag them into the icy cold caves on the shore of The Divide, away from the rest of civilization... They would isolate them in terrible conditions. Make them sit in darkness for days, weeks and months on end. They would beat them. Feed them to insects and rodents. But they would never quite kill them…”
         Priscilla looked up at her.
         “But the Luscanians are a tough race. Warriors by birth, fierce fighters by definition. There was no torture, no punishment, no level of pain that could ever break them. They felt fear, but they faced fear, and they never gave in to it. They would never give away the secrets that the Ancients of Mildred demanded, no matter the cost. There was nothing the Ancients could do; no form of torture they could find that was effective enough… That is, until one day when an Ancient named Jeremiah Laspec returned to his lands with a bottle filled with a mysterious green liquid that he had found on his travels to the Northern Waters. A liquid that he named after himself.”
         She picked the needle up and studied its contents carefully.
         “He named it after himself through respect, Priscilla. Respect for the fact that, of all the liquids he had ever drank - and he had drank a lot through desperation and dehydration - this was the most painful and terrifying of them all… It was the most painful and terrifying thing he had ever experienced.”
         Priscilla moved her eyes intermittently between the woman and the needle, the feeling of fear being joined by a fear of helplessness, as the woman stood up and started to move around the table towards her…
         “You see,” she continued, “when raw Laspec enters your veins - when it enters your blood stream - it slowly multiplies itself throughout your body; your anti-bacterial cells cause it to grow and spread. It’s like a virus. An agonizing virus that sends shooting pains to all corners of your consciousness. It paralyses your lungs. It stops you from breathing. Then it stops your heart from beating; stops your brain from thinking. The only thing you feel - the only thing you experience - is a suffering, a pain so vast and indescribable that even the Luscanians could not withstand it. You feel so close to Death that Death seems like your best option. You become desperate for it to release you from the agony that is Life…”
         She was now right on top of Priscilla. She moved her mouth closer to the left ear of the terrified, trembling girl beside her, and began whispering…
         “You become desperate for it to release you, but it never does, Priscilla... The pain stays. It stays for days, but it never quite kills you. It just teases... This substance won a war single-handedly because even the greatest of great warriors could not hold their secrets from it; couldn‘t face the thought of being injected with it more than once… Do you want to see how well you fare against it, Priscilla?”
          “Please don’t… Please. I don’t know what you want me to do… It’s impossible… I didn’t do anything... I don‘t know anything… Please don‘t…”
         A single tear ran down Priscilla’s cheek to then end of her narrow chin, and dropped to the floor helplessly, with a loud, exaggerated splash.
         “Then say it, Priscilla. Say you ordered the attempt on the president‘s Life!”
         “But I didn’t... I-- I didn‘t… I swear. I don’t-- I-- I don‘t know what else to tell you.”
         “Priscilla, this is your last chance… This is your last chance to save thousands of innocent lives. We are going to retaliate if you don’t give us what we want. We will go to war if we need to. And it will be on your shoulders. It will haunt you for the rest of your days. And we will expose you for the coward that you are. So please, Priscilla… Please, for the greatest good of all, tell me what I want to hear!
         “I can’t… I didn’t order it… I‘m not who you think I am” she muttered with a whimper. It was the last thing she muttered, but it wouldn’t be the last time she whimpered. The needle was thrust into her neck without mercy.
         “You won’t enjoy this, Priscilla, but next time… next time you’ll know better.”