A/N: Nice to see the story finding a few readers.
The second chapter. Ronan finds himself in a tough spot. Enjoy!
Chapter 2: The Room
The small room was not much more than walls around him and a vertically assembled row of inactivated power cells in front of him. When functional, those would spit out bands of bluish-tinted, semitransparent impenetrable energy, closing the area in the form of another wall. The room housed no additional furniture to two chairs, both of them made out of dark metal and one of these rigidly fixed to the floor. He had chosen to sit in that particular chair. He did not have many options since the other chair had been on the other side of the wall of energy.
Just minutes ago it had been empty – now a visitor occupied it. Heavily armored and likely armed, the man certainly did not carry the appearance of a typical interrogations officer. Unlike those weak humans in uniforms combining dark brown and orange, the appearance of this visitor reeked of battle.
Something was clearly off.
It was not only the environment, although in many ways resembling what Ronan had seen and experienced before, but lacking any actual familiar aspects. Exceeding those details he could perceive with his eyes and other senses, the way he had been treated raised far more questions.
His fate was never to be held a prisoner, to be questioned and grilled of his actions by his enemies. Already years ago he had crossed all boundaries enabling such mercy and due to nothing more than his own choice and sheer necessity. A half of the galaxy wanted his head and most of the rest would celebrate seeing it separated from his corpse. He did not expect this wretched…diplomacy.
Initially Ronan had decided that recent occurrences were a part of a Xandarian contrivance to throw him off the track. After all it had been the most obvious conclusion, crystal clear even. The last time he recalled, he had been on the surface of the planet Xandar. Walking on Xandarian soil. Smelling the acrid stench of smoke, but also first scents of victory…
…And then he had watched his intentions collide with his means and shatter into a thousand pieces…
At the time, during that one single distinguishable moment he had thought it meant Death. Those pictures and images of pain, his flesh being torn apart and ceasing to exist – they still were raw and fresh within his mind. Obviously he had been wrong, had misinterpreted every single one of his senses simultaneously. It had to be so.
But yet, even now and been given the time to ponder his circumstances he was unable to draw a link between the past and the present.
Too many factors were…out of place. The Kree was unable to completely fully shrug the feeling off, no matter how many times he rationalized to himself that there were not many plausible options.
Where he looked for answers, he was faced only by broken logic.
"Where am I?" Ronan had allowed the question leave his lips, partially disgusted because he well knew risks embedded to the action, but knowing that he did not have much choice.
And the stranger who had never given his name, the man wearing the featureless red and black mask explained.
Clearly computer-enhanced, the man's voice had a mechanical edge to it. Ronan listened to those few words defining his alleged situation in silence and tendrils of disbelief traversing his mind. His eyes were fixed to the thin, dark, rectangular slit, which cut the metal of the mask from left to right. Other than that the mask did not have significant external features. It was a seemingly simple construction. A number of scratches crisscrossing the painted surface identified it as an equipment of warfare and not decoration.
He listened and tried to hold back his anger. So far he had managed to suppress it only poorly. Nothing more than common sense and his ribs, which objected sharply to every intake of air, kept him from going for the unseen weaponry hidden beneath the robes the man was wearing and lunging towards the doorway, and hallways beyond.
By his nature Ronan despised the lack of respect the stranger showed. It was both unacceptable and cowardly to address a Kree of his stature in such a manner – not giving him the freedom of looking into one's eyes. If the being in question had been one of his underlings, Ronan would have replaced the sorry creature without hesitation. Preferably in such a violently abrupt manner that guaranteed that he would never be bothered by misconduct of this kind again.
But since he had already concluded that his current position was turning out to be somewhat challenging and required more circumspect play than what usually was his preferred way, the road of observation was the most profitable path he could take. So he had swallowed the hatred, disgust and frustration down and the end result was a thick, poisonous knot around his internals.
And only barely he was able to resist the urge of clenching his fingers when the man finished his explanation, said words still lingering in the air.
What mind games do they attempt to play?
"Do not take me for a fool," Ronan told the man, irritated, lips twisting and patience once again wearing thin. "There is no such establishment as this Galactic Republic. Is this some sort of Xandarian trickery you are attempting? If so - it is in vain."
"I have no need to play tricks on you, prisoner," the man responded sharply. "This 'Xandari' of yours is nor an ally or an enemy of the Republic. In fact I have never heard of such a location, affiliation or what the kriff it even is."
A small portion of Ronan believed the man – the inability of pronouncing the name of his enemy correctly could be deemed as something vaguely resembling a proof. The slip had seemed inadvertent. But he never rushed into conclusions. Not also this time.
If they were not claiming to be Xandarian, who were they claiming to be?
The man's armor did not bear any insignia. At least for the part he was able to see.
A majority of the protective covering was hidden under long, dark brown robes made out of plain cloth. The visible part of the construction appeared to get its form from a number of metallic plates fixed together, overlapping, allowing movement of parts in respect to each other. Likely in order not to encumber its carrier's movements, Ronan suspected – which in turn meant that the man sitting in front of him probably battled in close quarters. Red, metallic and visibly scarred vambraces covered both wrists and arms up to elbows, strengthening the conclusion.
Who had they sent to interrogate him – some common grunt? A mere pawn?
"Show me a galactic map and I shall point the location to you," the Kree stated venomously, not intending to take part in whatever game he was pushed to play.
"You are in no position to make demands. Am I clear?" the response came without hesitation.
Ronan snorted, not impressed. The armored man leaned forward in his chair, posture slightly tensioning.
"One last time: whom do you work for? Do you or your associates have connections to the Mandalorian fleet?"
He did not answer. He would not have answered had he understood the question. He did not carry the intention of giving the man a slightest bit of information. Not sharing anything, important, insignificant, nonetheless. It was one victory he yet could take and he was going to fight for it with everything he had. He was very familiar with interrogation techniques and could use it to his advance.
Control was the key word. Being in charge.
…If this could be described an interrogation. Hardly it could. Ronan connected the word with something requiring concrete doses of blood and pain, fear and despair. Mental and physical turmoil, destruction.
So what was the purpose of this small game of deceit?
These non-existent names?
This children's play?
The nonsense?
The man wearing the mask observed him calmly. Still and in complete silence.
"Now, this is curious," the man finally said steadily, breaking the moment's silence. "The confusion... So you are stating the truth. You absolutely do not know where you are."
And as if he had suddenly lost his interest, the armored man stood up. Robes fluttering, he gestured towards the control panel and the blue shaded force field flickered back on with the man meters away from the controls. Once again the translucent barrier was separating them and Ronan from his freedom.
The Kree grit his teeth. He had stood up, not exactly noticing when.
"You are under arrest by the Galactic Republic. Ramifications resulting your actions aboard the Justice will be evaluated at a later date. Inability to cooperate will be deemed as resistance and will further impact your sentence. Due to offensive actions against the Republic Navy you are treated as a suspected war criminal and have no rights for legal representation."
Sentences came out in an almost automated manner and bland tone of voice, signaling that whatever the man had sought he had gained. The conversation was over and when the last words were said the man turned around and proceeded towards the doorway with swift steps.
"Why I am aboard this vessel?"
It came out as half a shout, half a command directed towards the man's back. Ronan had said the words louder than he had intended. But his patience had long since closed it limits, frustration gnawing its way out inside his skull like a maniac trapped animal.
A short silence filled the room when the armored man stopped and turned around to answer. The masked gaze fell once more on him; the mask was an emotionless wall.
"You are the only one who can give the why, to me or to yourself. But as for the where, I can enlighten you," the man stated.
"We picked you up at Antar Four. The ground team reported it as a potential crash landing due to impact scars and ejecta on the ground, but they were unable to confirm whether or not there were remains of a spacecraft. So far we don't know by what means you arrived, but it was with a Hell of speed."
He did not understand. It was no worth denying it any further. There was nothing he could grab and use to support any theories he had constructed. It was a globe of bizarre emptiness surrounding him, the unfamiliar feeling of not being in charge…of not even being in control. The damning ignorance – the attribute he often sought to see as a weakness in others – it seemed to define his existence.
For the first time since he had regained his consciousness in this absurd location, the stinging jolts of pain were an obvious fiery barrage of blades beating his muscle, bone and tendons.
For the first time, he felt tired.
He sat down. Leaned forward in the chair and rested his temples to his hands.
He did not raise his head when he heard the door slide open and then close again, leaving him to the solitude and to the dark storm of his thoughts.
A/N2: Please review!