The Feather

In so many motion pictures, this kind of thing happens in some dank basement with a moldy smell and water dripping within earshot. It was almost comical, at first anyway, what a normal room he was in. If it weren’t for the fact that his legs were securely manacled to the chair, it might have been tea service. The chair itself was bolted to the floor, too, so that might have also been a give away that this wasn’t a social visit. The most notable item in the room was a large wall clock, and only because they watched it closely.

He couldn’t believe he’d been caught. He’d practically written the book on stealth and evasion. It was quite unfortunate that it seemed they’d written the book on using torture to make people talk. The group of tough looking men weren’t amateurs. First, they normally put a gun to your knee, but these guys know that’s no good, and so does anyone versed in this wretched business. They’d blow out arteries and without a blowtorch, you bleed out, either way the guy you want answering questions has now passed out. He saw no evidence of one, anyway. His guess was they knew all that, and assumed their captive did as well, since they didn’t go for his crotch next. Not sure what they do to females, and he'd never even asked, but you do that and the reason to live has dropped significantly in your prisoner. Breaking joints, however, was effective in the short term, and they seemed to be on a fairly short time frame. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that short.

They used many tools, and he screamed often as it happens over the course of several hours. The training he was given made him strong. That isn’t just a physical description. Yes, his body was in peak condition, or at least it was at the beginning of all this. But It's about the mental state he was in by the time he was selected. It was the mission that counted.

He clenched his teeth together and moaned through them as they snapped another bone. The count was twenty-six. Keeping track was a method taught to keep you focused under this horrific duress. Since the bastards put ammonia under his nose if he passed out, it was easier to keep a tally. The captors weren’t wise to it, nor did they notice he kept his jaw tight even when screaming. It wasn't just a matter of endurance, either, there was a much more important reason.

It seemed that, by their clock, time had run out on the current method to make him tell them what they wanted. In an odd way, the electric torture device was like the room itself. It wasn’t big auto batteries and cables, it was clinical electrodes. He had almost chuckled, but thought better of it. The first shock from the unit made his mouth open involuntarily, and one enemy finally figured out the problem. When he was given the secret to solemnly protect, he had willingly had his tongue cut from him. One of the toadies scurried to get paper and a writing instrument… It’s a shame they’d broken his wrists and all his fingers. All of the enemy stared at the big clock.

They realized he could not speak, could not write, and communication was all but impossible. One of the enemy, a big ugly bastard, sighed loudly. A memory from the academy fomented. Duty is heavier than a mountain, death light as a feather, or something close. A moment later, a soul floated on the wind with an oath fulfilled.

(WC:632)