Amon woke slowly, his mind unusually sluggish. His head felt heavy; his senses strangely muted. His bunk felt unusually soft and warm and the military-issue blanket didn't itch like it usually did. Was he drunk? He couldn't be drunk. Sakaki had finished the last bottle of beer only a few days ago. The beer - like the cigarettes and the soap and fresh food - wouldn't be replenished for a few weeks yet. And even if there had been beer (which there had not) it wouldn't have been enough to turn a creaky old bunk and threadbare blanket into feathers and linen. Something was not right. Slowly, and with considerable effort, Amon opened his eyes.

Was his vision just blurry, or was there someone in the room? His hand reached instantly for his gun, only to find it missing. His body protested at the quick movement - a sharp stab of pain jolted up his arm and he fell back, defeated by his own limbs. He heard an intake of breathe and a quick rush of words, but these were drowned out by the roar of his own blood. His hand spasmed uncontrollably, his chest shuddered and through it all the thought came to him, as calm and detached as ever: the mission has failed. I've been captured. I have to escape.

Small hands pressed down on his shoulders. The voice spoke again, this time more softly with a measured, calming cadence that put Amon's teeth on edge. He stilled regardless, and the hands finally deigned to release him.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Amon took small, shallow breathes so as not to aggravate the tight pain in his chest. His chest felt wet. He touched it gently with his unwounded arm, and felt a thick strap of bandages, slightly torn and soaked in blood. He took in another breathe. Looked up at his captor.

It was only a girl. A young one too, only sixteen at the most with solemn green eyes and a thin, pale face. Her hair was tucked under the veil of a novice nun, and her hands were held primly at her sides. The walls behind her were built of dark stone, and there was a plain cross hung on the wall. She eyed him hesitantly, a question in her eyes.

"Who are you?" Amon demanded.

She shook her head slowly and spoke again, her tongue incomprehensible to his ears. French, maybe? Italian? He couldn't be sure - he had no idea how far from the camp he'd been taken. His ignorance grated, as did his injuries. There was no way he could escape, not in his condition. But he couldn't accept being a prisoner either, not for another damn moment.

She took another step towards him, hand outstretched. He caught her slim wrist in his grip, heedless of the pain lashing through his arm. He needed answers and he needed them now.

"Where am I?" He demanded again, this time more forcefully. "Who are you working for? What do they want with me?" The girl tried to pull away. His grip tightened and she winced in pain, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. He forced out the next few words, his head swimming, his vision greying into darkness. "Answer me!"

She spoke again, switching from one incomprehensible tongue to another: smooth vowels to clipped syllables, and he could not understand her at all.

And finally: "Please," she said. "English? You know this. Please." She kneeled down, heedless of his tightening grip. Her english was scattered, broken, much like his own. But she did not know his birth tongue, and he did not know hers - it was a compromise, and a relief. "I want help. Only to help." Her head pressed his shoulder. Warm. "Amon."

His grip slackened as he sank back into darkness.