Author's note: Welcome to Decent. The story is now complete, so I invite you to play along. I apologize that the plot is not particularly new or unique, but I am trying out some techniques that will hopefully make the familiar aspects interesting and fresh enough for a few moments of enjoyment. At the very least, perhaps some of you can have some fun trying to figure out what the heck is going on! Comments are appreciated...
The cold, hard floor rose up to meet him as the rough hands on his arms let go with a sudden shove. He barely had time to curl into a clumsy roll, and then he was scrambling to his feet again, lunging for the door that snapped quickly shut an instant before he slammed into its unyielding solidity. Frustrated, he took another run at the barrier, grunting when the impulsive outburst only bruised his already tender shoulder and sent him staggering back again. Panting and glaring at the door, he paced back and forth, a few angry steps in each direction, until the anger bled away and he calmed enough to begin to take in his immediate surroundings. His pace slowed, but he still moved in an agitated prowl, changing his pattern to circle the space and studying each wall in careful, professional scrutiny.
His first impression was of overwhelmingly indifferent whiteness. The tired color was yellowed with age and repeated cleanings. Every surface in the small, bare, featureless cube of a cell was the same gratingly calming shade. Even the linens on the simple mattress that rested on the floor and the tiny towels folded on the matching porcelain sink blended in monochrome harmony with the walls and scrubbed floors.
He stopped to study the floor for a moment and nudged his foot against a scrupulously clean, but chipped, tile. He was surprised for just a moment by the sight of white socks sticking out of familiar gray pants. Then he grinned a bit maliciously. They'd taken his boots after he'd drawn the hidden knife. Sadly, the weapon had only gained him a couple of extra burly escorts and a thoroughly humiliating body search. But that one guy would definitely need a few stitches, he thought with some satisfaction.
Sighing deeply, he sank onto the mattress and scrubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He felt like hell, the lingering aches of capture and forced transportation exacerbated by anxiety and exhaustion. He'd been trailing the terrorists for 24 hours even before he'd hit the squad of soldiers at the Stargate on this planet. Just his bad luck that the terrorists had their enclave surrounding the 'gate itself. He'd stepped through straight into the hornet's nest.
Replaying his capture over in his mind again, he absently rubbed his hand over his bare wrist and mottled arm, bruised by the imprint of firm hands and fingers in patches of cherry red welts. They'd taken his watch too, and he suddenly wondered how long he'd been here. The initial interrogation had been brief and fairly polite. They hadn't had to make much of an impression as no fewer than 6 men had been holding him down at the time. Then, there had been the long walk through the enormous complex of both crumbling and modern buildings to his current location.
He rubbed his hands on his pants as he studied his cell again.
The place had an antiseptic, clinic-like quality that made his skin crawl. He would have preferred a slimy, spider-infested dungeon. At the least, that kind of a place would have indicated a comforting lack of interest in him and his trespasses. A clinic spoke to him of highly competent interrogation and carefully considered scrutiny. He shuddered, then leaped to his feet to pace the tiny space again.
How the hell had he let this happen? He knew the terrorists that had been plaguing Gellan and its sister colony Gemman were known for their ruthlessness and their highly efficient attacks. He was just so damn eager to track them to their source, he'd gotten sloppy. Well, he found their source, all right. He was sitting smack in the middle of their damn "source", and he shoved aside the images he'd seen in the Gellan newsletters of tortured and murdered hostages as he paced.
The burst of manic energy was short-lived and after several more senseless circuits, his shoulders began to sag and his socks scuffed against the smooth tiles, snagging on the occasional cracks and chips. At last, blinking with fatigue, he retreated again to the mattress and threw his arm over his eyes as he stretched out along its length.
He tried hard not to sleep. He intended only to rest his aching body and hopefully relax some of the tension that vibrated along his spine with every imagined scenario of what was to come. But he failed, and sleep found him despite his restless worries that melted into restless dreams of torture and shadowy terror.