[Warnings: Non-Graphic Violence, Physical Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse]
The three-month downpour had finally reached a truce with them. Muddy water rose in sheets from the massive treads of the heavy ordnance truck as it jerked down the winding forest road, its load lighter than usual. The parcel in the open truck bed wasn't secured, wasn't guarded, wasn't concealed or shielded from the elements. At first glimpse of the compound's eighteen-foot fence, the driver accelerated, sweat dampening his collar.
Clearance was quick, the gates opened and shut swiftly. Russian was thrown back and forth over the radios, guns were cocked, and the truck was left running just inside the gates. The nearest underlings were commanded to lower the tailgate while a gurney or something like it was procured. One of them, his hand already on the latch, jumped when a body bag was thrown at his feet instead.
Tailgate dropped, they mechanically climbed into the bed and dragged the parcel out; one took her by the shoulders, the other by the tether wound about her ankles. Mud speckled her face, and one side was bright pink from being pressed to the metal truck bed for hours. Long strands of wet hair wrapped around the one soldier's wrist, and he just barely kept himself from shaking it off. They got her to the edge of the tailgate and rolled her off onto the body bag, where she hit with a thud.
A brisk shower, a uniform, a haircut—she woke up during that, but nodded off again. They let down their guard when her second awakening was to ask for water. Soon after she was transferred to the interrogation cell.
"I didn't think she'd be this amenable," an officer stated behind the two-way mirror.
"She's faking," the other replied, "that's why we need the additional security."
For her, it was blur: waking up in a metal chair in a metal room with a white man in a uniform eyeing her closely. Another blink and it was a different white man in a lab coat. Her hands weren't bound this time, but she couldn't move them, felt like concrete; tongue like sandpaper, head holding in a dense fog. She couldn't see past it.
She couldn't speak well either, something had happened to her voice; or was she just slower? They asked her questions in Russian, some in English, and she had to answer in an unspecified amount of time. Too slow—slap—too fast—punch—and other times it seemed they just wanted to. She couldn't really feel the hits, didn't enjoy them, but didn't really register them until she lifted her head from a blow and noticed blood on the knee of her uniform. Tasted it too, on her lips. Licked it away to wet her tongue. No one hit her for that. They just called her something that made her shake.
"Interrogations" lasted two weeks. Quite often they left her in the chair overnight or until she fell out of it. Food and water came sparingly, tranquilizers and muscle relaxants administered regularly. She didn't think she was stupid, wanted to prove it. Wanted to not get hit.
They'd ask her to repeat things, in any language, and she'd repeat it. Their voices didn't hurt as much when she complied. They asked her questions not unlike the ones on her first day, and she replied with rote answers. They stopped hitting her with their hands, and they lowered their voices and addressed her more as an inert thing than as a hostile subject. But the names they called her, the things they told her she'd done, those felt like hits. She didn't know why.
By their books, things had gone exceedingly well here. The initial capture had been risky enough, let alone a successful harboring and conditioning of the prisoner. Two-Six was her identifier now, a name as meaningless as possible to throw off the scent. There was an advantage in that no one was looking for her, but that was exclusively accompanied by a "yet."
No one felt safe who remained in the compound with her. They were far from dismantling the atomic bomb that had fallen into their lap. They couldn't play with its power yet either.
Her first trial completed, they sent her to the far end of the camp. An underground cell block, shallowly buried, unused since the last war. This wasn't a prison, there were no prisoners; one wasn't brought here to survive. A random cell was picked, three-by-five, and she was left there placid and unharmed. Plumbing still worked, there was a bench, and food would arrive when it arrived.
She sat down and laid her hands palms-up on her knees. The thinking was over. They'd let her rest now.