Scene 7-VII

Callum blinks, and it’s dark, and he’s not surprised. They drugged him, he knows, and everything’s blurry, but again, no surprise. He’s in a chair, and he’s chained to it, and it’s kind of cold in here, but he can’t do anything about that, so he tries not to focus on it, but it’s hard when he thinks there’s a cold, wet breeze in this cell, which has to be impossible, because the walls are solid concrete.

His nose itches, and his hands are chained behind him, and he tries to twist his head to rub against his shoulder, but there’s some sort of collar around his neck, and it’s chained to the chair back, keeping his head straight. He sneezes suddenly, and the itch is gone, but the chill is stronger than ever, and he thinks he can’t feel his fingers, but there’s no way to check, because it’s not like he can move them anyway.

Callum sighs, and tries to relax his muscles, but it’s hard when he has steel cuffs biting into cold flesh, and he’s not even sure relaxing is a good idea, because sleeping definitely isn’t, and one will probably follow the other. He sneezes again, and would scream, but all that would do for him is make his throat ache, and he doesn’t need that on top of everything else.

Even having that woman tearing his soul from his body and then feeding it back in agonizingly slowly as she read from it was better than this. He’d give a lot to be back there, actually, but no one’s asking. It’s horrible, this is, but it’s about all he can expect from these barbarians; he understands they’re upset about those two ships, but then they shouldn’t have bombed his country, because what the hell did they expect to happen? No way would anyone take that lying down.

Callum’s tired, but god only knows what they’d do to him while he sleeps, and he’s not eager to find out. He blinks again, eyelids heavy, so he strains forward, letting the collar dig into his neck, and the pain’s enough to jolt him awake, even just for a little while. He chokes a bit when he tries to inhale again, but his eyes are staying open easily now, and that makes it more than worth it.

Light streaks across the floor, and he waits for his eyes to respond, but they don’t, and right, the drug. The door creaks open, and someone’s standing there, and all of a sudden he really wishes they’d just go away and leave him there, because with them comes the heavy stench of death, something he’s become familiar with in the past years. His stomach clenches, and he’s scared, and they’re walking towards him, shadow stretching far in front of them, dancing across him, and it’s cold where it’s touching him, and what the hell are these people?

He shivers, all his willpower going into holding firm, not trying to flee, because that would be kind of difficult, chained as he is. The shadow is growing and contorting, until a pair of ghostly hands are edging closer to his neck, and he screams, and it’s cut off as his neck is squeezed tight. He gasps for air, and the chill seeps into his mouth, and it’s like his throat is freezing, frost soaking through. He slams his jaw closed and clenches his teeth tightly against invaders. His already blurry vision has black spots, and he’s woozy.

And then the shadow recedes, and he can breathe again, and he inhales greedily.

“What—” He says, but the man shakes his head.

“I ask the questions. Your name?”

“Callum.”

“Your unit?”

“COMBAT One.”

“Your call sign?”

“Striker One.”

“Good. Let’s get you out of here.”

Callum’s jaw drops open, and he’s pretty sure his eyes are the size of dinner plates. “O-okay.” He manages, and it is, now.”

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Scene 7-VII

Next: Scene 7-VIII