000 Disclaimer, I own absolutely nothing 000 Ok, I haven't updated anything else because quite frankly I've barely had time to sleep (this doesn't count because I wrote it about a year ago and then forgot about it), so thanks to the Libran Iniquity for taking a gander at it and enjoy! 000
Questions, questions. Always questions, never answers. Questions buzzed around his brain, the words melting into one long melodious note.
They were always the same. "Who are you?"; "Who sent you?" Always the same.
He'd told them. He'd screamed his name over and over till his voice gave out, yet still they asked the same questions. Still they asked the same questions.
The away mission had been going so well, they'd learnt so much and for a fleeting second he'd fantasised about not ending up in sickbay for once. Of course, he had tempted fate. Mere seconds later he became aware of a sudden lack of oxygen. He'd tried to call out to the others but he couldn't force out the words.
He watched them walk away, oblivious to the drama playing out behind them. After that, he remembered nothing.
He'd awoken strapped to a metal table, the restraints dug painfully into his skin and the one across his midsection made it hard to draw breath. He had tugged fruitlessly and as quietly as he possibly could, not wanting to draw the attention of his captors. He was pretty sure that they didn't take him to ask him if he wanted tea and biscuits.
Then the questioning began. Just two questions repeated over and over. They were safe questions, all they wanted to know was his name and who had sent him. That was easy enough, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed and no one.
But they refused to accept his answers and each time he gave the answers he was rewarded with pain. They started small, using just their fists. The next time they used other blunt objects, the time after that was a knife.
The knife had been the worst of all. The sheer agony of the shining metal being slowly driven into his skin was almost more than he could stand. He just kept screaming his name over and over, some part of him hoping the person holding the knife would finally get the message, would finally believe him.
They never believed him. A small part of his mind always wanted to laugh at the insanity of the situation. He did laugh at one point. The knife had been removed and he suddenly realised that if they didn't beat him to death first, he'd die of blood loss. He had laughed then. The sort of laugh that people give when they can barely laugh because they were so weak and helpless.
And when the rescue team finally arrived, when they got him out of there, they asked him if he was alright.
Before he drifted away into the bliss of unconscious he realised something.
He didn't know the answer anymore.
When he awoke, he asked them quietly. "Who am I? Who sent me?"
"Lieutenant Malcolm Reed," they replied, confused. "No one sent you."
And he laughed. The information returned. Endless questions with endless answers.
And he laughed.
000 Please review, it'll make one knackered sixth former very happy 000