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Unidentified city, England
Once SC-80 left the truck, it was impossible to tell where he was. He was more carried than led, dragged roughly up some steps and then along a smooth surface that felt like tile. There was a drop in his stomach that could only have been caused by an elevator, then a door hissed open and the temperature dropped sharply. A cold wind whipped at the bag over his head, and he could hear the unmistakable sound of a helicopter powering up nearby. He was manhandled aboard, banging his shin on the lower edge of the door; handcuffed to a seat, he could do nothing as the aircraft throttled up.
Exhausted, he faded out for a time…he had no idea how long he was asleep, but he also knew that the journey to London could not have lasted long. The aircraft descended; the doors opened; he was dragged through another series of twists and turns, dropped down another elevator, and then brought to a sharp, sudden halt. A vague electronic hum started in the background, something that he could not identify. "Hands out," a voice commanded; the Captain obliged, and his restraints were swiftly removed. A hand pushed him backward firmly but not forcefully enough to knock him off his feet; retreating footsteps marked the guard's departure, but there was no clang of a cell door. The Captain reached up and ripped the bag free from his head, standing blind in the sudden flare of illumination which washed over him. He closed his eyes and opened them again, his vision clearing. He found himself facing the inside of a small cell, the room sized for a human occupant but with a Loompa-sized bunk and toilet. The shape of the space was unusual, the cell long but very narrow, almost more of an alcove in the wall. He instantly identified the source of the buzzing, as well as the reason why he had been pushed backward after his cuffs had been removed…and why there was no sound of a door. The entire wall of the cell was open, his exit to the corridor blocked by a series of crimson beams across the opening. There was space to reach between them, certainly, as he had undoubtedly been doing when he had held out his hands to the guard…there was no possibility, however, of trying to slip between them. SC-80 glanced around his cell, looking for any alternate ways out, but there was not so much as an air vent.
He moved as close to the beams as he dared, looking both ways down the corridor; there were other cells, but they all appeared to be empty save for the one directly across from him. In it, a man lay on the bunk, his back to SC-80…the Captain could not tell much about him, save for the fact that he wore some kind of uniform. The Captain shook his head. Whoever runs this place could learn a thing or two about security; you don't put the only two prisoners where they can easily talk to each other. His heart sank slightly. Unless you're so sure they can't escape you aren't worried about it. He banished the thought. There had to be a way out of here. The Captain slowly reached a hand toward the laser bars, feeling for any heat or crackle of energy discharge. An insane thought crossed his mind: Perhaps the bars don't really do anything. Maybe they frighten a prisoner into staying in his cell, when he could simply walk away free down the corridor. Maybe it's all a mind game, and the horrible truth is that the only thing which keeps you imprisoned is your own fear…
"I assure you, they're quite real," a voice said, and SC-80 leapt in shock. Deep in his musing, he had not noticed how close he had moved his hand to the bars, and now he snatched it away as if burned. He looked up at the man in the cell opposite; the other was now sitting up on his bunk, gazing calmly across at the smaller prisoner. The other man's serene expression did not waver. "I know what you're thinking…I thought the same thing myself, the first time I saw the inside of one of these containment cells. I thought maybe it was all a game…the cruel irony of me keeping myself in prison. But the bars do work, trust me. I found out the hard way." He smiled and raised his left hand; the ring and little fingers were both cut short at a diagonal angle. "The price of escape," the man said, and lowered his hand. SC-80 sized up his fellow inmate, for the other cut an interesting figure. He was not young, in his late fifties or early sixties, but he still bore the unmistakable bearing of a soldier, a fighter. Battle scars crisscrossed his rugged, clean-shaven face…and even as he slouched on his bunk, his shoulders remained perfectly square. His iron gray hair was cropped short, and his eyes were at once confident, strong, and deeply sad…this was a man who had seen, and suffered, much. He was not physically large…not particularly tall, muscular without being stocky…but nonetheless he exuded an air of authority. SC-80 was curious.
"What is this place?"
"This, my friend," the other said, "is the Tower of London. Well, not the Tower of London, of course…the original didn't survive the War. But it's value as a symbol did, and so they built this. Granted, the prison area doesn't exactly give a good sense of its architecture; from in here, it could be any imperial prison anywhere in the world."
"I wouldn't know."
"Well, consider yourself fortunate." The other cocked his head a bit to one side, his eyes narrowing slightly. "There is one thing that I wonder about, though…your uniform. I've never seen one quite like that before, and I've seen most. Are you with the American Resistance?"
"No," SC-80 said, wondering at another mention of the mysterious Resistance. "Truth be told, I'm not any kind of Resistance at all."
"Are you with them?" The older man indicated unseen inhabitants of the building with a tilt of his head.
"No."
"Well then you're Resistance." The other chuckled, and SC-80 smiled slowly. "How did you get in here, anyway?"
"My plane was shot down…my men and I escaped the crash, but they picked us up later." SC-80 could have said spacecraft instead of plane, but he did not intend to bring up that particular complication just yet. Besides, he had no idea who else might have been listening. "And what of yourself, sir?"
The other grinned. "You actually managed that with a straight face. I'm impressed." SC-80 stood, nonplussed. The older man's grin faded. "You were joking, yes?" SC-80 shook his head slowly, his expression both serious and uncomprehending. The other man stood up and stared straight into his face. "Look at me. You mean to say you've never seen my face before?"
SC-80 stared hard…to his bafflement, something about the man's face did seem the tiniest bit familiar…like something from a history lesson, the Captain thought. But no matter how he wracked his brain, wondering if he might have stumbled upon some famous personage from his own time, he came up with nothing. He shook his head. "I apologize, sir, but I'm certain I've never seen you in my life before."
"Not on the television? Not anywhere?!" The other's voice rose an octave in disbelief, and SC-80 felt uncomfortably baffled as he shook his head. Maybe this guy's off his rocker. The older man stared wonderingly and sat back on his bunk. "Well, that is strange. And here I thought there wasn't anyone on Earth who probably hadn't seen my ugly mug pasted someplace." He grinned again. "My face is on every television screen and wanted poster from Hong Kong to Timbuktu, my friend. I'm the most dangerous man in the world…Public Enemy Number One. I'm General Bucket."
