Prologue

Psychic torture was possibly the worst ordeal for a human to have to experience. Particularly if that person was psychic themselves; the trauma from the incident was thought to be doubled in such a case. Charles Stanton now fully understood the truth of this concept.

Strapped to a lone chair in an otherwise empty room, Stanton had endured all of the interrogation he could take. In a secret part of his guarded mind, contrary to the usual branch of thought for anything living, he wished with the entirety of his heart that the terrorists that had captured him would end his life swiftly. Instead of prolonging this horrible pain for a moment longer.

As he struggled again against his flawless restraints the door of the small cell creaked open ominously and the bright light above the prisoner blazed down, momentarily blinding both the entering interrogator and his hostage. The man approached his weakened opponent strongly, a heavy black case gripped tightly in his tough hands. He knelt beside the chair as he had always previously done, but tired of playing lengthy mind games with this psychic.

"Where did you hide the device?" he whispered threateningly. Stanton tried to appear unmoved, though he had clearly been through enough torture that he was moments away from giving in. When the hostage did not reply, the interrogator seemed to shrug and clicked open the case he had brought with him, inside of which were all manner of tools and devices intended for the torture of any psychic. This too did not faze the hostage; he had already experienced anything these terrorists had to show him. The interrogator removed a long thin rod from the case and pressed it to the man's skull.

"Where did you hide it?" he repeated slower, fingering the button on the weapon that would send a sharp electric current racing through the hostages mind if he chose not to answer. After a moments silence the interrogator squeezed the small switch and watched, satisfied as the man flinched horribly.

He repeated the question several times, every time he received no response and sent another painful shock through the psychic's tender mind. It was enough, Charles Stanton had decided through the excruciating pain. As he gave in and spoke the few words which had previously halted the terrorists from ending his life and prepared for the death that surely awaited him, his last few thoughts were for the agency he had served faithfully for many years.

Forgive me Truman, he begged. I wasn't strong enough.