This one is really short, but along with it, I give my promise to make the next one really good... I hope. Good in MY standards, anyway. So I think I finally have an idea as to where to go with this. Tell me what you think.
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Hey look! Finally a Berto POV. Yey! On with the story.....
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He would say nothing. Not a blessed thing. That friendly looking psychopath could ask questions until his throat turned raw. He would know nothing about Max Steel or nano-probes or anything if Roberto Martinez had anything to do with it. He would die an uncountable number of painful deaths before letting a good friend into the hands of danger. Berto drew in a very slow breath, almost wishing for death. It hurt to breath. It hurt to do anything but lie there and repeat Hail Mary after Hail Mary, over and over, in his head. He drowned out the annoyingly congenial sound of that man's voice. It was sickening. He kept pretending to be so nice and then bringing on more sessions of torture, persisting until he had a scrap of anything, Max's favorite dessert, the color of his underwear, whatever. His main objective seemed to be getting Berto simply to talk. The minute Berto knew his intent, however, he immediately clammed up, not even giving his captor the benefit of hearing a plea for mercy.
It had been hard, especially when Franklin's nasty friend had hooked him up to a machine he recognized as being used for electric shock therapy. How he had wanted to scream then. But the momentary paralysis of every inch of his being as it exploded with burning pain liberated him from the chore of wailing and crying like a weak, little animal. And as he finally blacked out, he thought silently, *gracias, La Madre de Dios.*
He had dreams. Nothing significant. Just dreams. Heavy stones sitting over his lungs, being struck by lightening, having a train run over his body, other painful things to correspond with how he felt when he was awake. There were a few though, of being home or with his friends or being at work. Sweet and gentle dreams that made the stones and the lightening trivial and less hurtful. They reminded him, upon waking, that he was still alive and someone would come to rescue him, most likely Max and Rachel. He would think of his friends, probably looking for him at that very moment, and he would thank Heaven and the Stars and everything revered for having some one to be so close to. He knew that if it were one of them, he'd be turning over every leaf and building to find them.
There was noise in the next room. Most likely they were setting up for the next session. Berto wondered with disgust what they had planned for him now. A bed of nails might be on the agenda or, perhaps, a pot of boiling oil to dip him in. Berto closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts away. That sort of thinking made him feel vulnerable; his perseverance was already threatening to crumble and he was seriously entertaining the idea of a little self pity with some broken down crying thrown in for good measure. He was tired and hurt and very near losing it... But he prayed. He prayed and he forced himself to relax, and he focused on centering his mind. Eventually he finally fell into a light slumber, undisturbed. Franklin Finer always let him rest for a day before continuing. It was to allow him to heal, somewhat. How thoughtful.
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"Hey, Frank. Why don't you let me try to coach him, eh? I know how to soften him up." Chani suggested with a malicious look. Franklin grimaced inwardly before turning a sharp and stern look to his companion.
"You keep your sick disorders to yourself, Chani." He barked. "We're just trying to torture him into giving us information. Not humiliate him. For pity's sake... give the man some dignity." He watched Chani role his eyes but shrug resolutely. Franklin shook his head with repulsion. The guy was loyal and a great hire and all, but his sexual masochism was revolting and unnerving. Fortunately, he mostly kept it out of business and took medications and whatnot. Still, Franklin felt the necessity to give continual verbal warnings and strict rules.
The two finished cleaning up the wires from the voltage mess, and they proceeded to set up for the next, what Franklin liked to call, experiment. Then he went next door and peeked his head in the room. Martinez was asleep; albeit, he looked kind of like a corpse, but they'd put a little color in him soon enough. Franklin leaned in a little further. He was a nice looking kid: sleek, black hair, the exotic and attractive features of an alluring Spaniard. Probably a real lady-killer. It was enough to make Franklin the tiniest bit jealous. He could see Chani's attraction, but Chani was still a sicko, so he really didn't count. Franklin closed the door again, made sure it was securely locked, and disappeared down the hall after seeing that Chani was on his way out.
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Hey look! Finally a Berto POV. Yey! On with the story.....
*********************************************************************
He would say nothing. Not a blessed thing. That friendly looking psychopath could ask questions until his throat turned raw. He would know nothing about Max Steel or nano-probes or anything if Roberto Martinez had anything to do with it. He would die an uncountable number of painful deaths before letting a good friend into the hands of danger. Berto drew in a very slow breath, almost wishing for death. It hurt to breath. It hurt to do anything but lie there and repeat Hail Mary after Hail Mary, over and over, in his head. He drowned out the annoyingly congenial sound of that man's voice. It was sickening. He kept pretending to be so nice and then bringing on more sessions of torture, persisting until he had a scrap of anything, Max's favorite dessert, the color of his underwear, whatever. His main objective seemed to be getting Berto simply to talk. The minute Berto knew his intent, however, he immediately clammed up, not even giving his captor the benefit of hearing a plea for mercy.
It had been hard, especially when Franklin's nasty friend had hooked him up to a machine he recognized as being used for electric shock therapy. How he had wanted to scream then. But the momentary paralysis of every inch of his being as it exploded with burning pain liberated him from the chore of wailing and crying like a weak, little animal. And as he finally blacked out, he thought silently, *gracias, La Madre de Dios.*
He had dreams. Nothing significant. Just dreams. Heavy stones sitting over his lungs, being struck by lightening, having a train run over his body, other painful things to correspond with how he felt when he was awake. There were a few though, of being home or with his friends or being at work. Sweet and gentle dreams that made the stones and the lightening trivial and less hurtful. They reminded him, upon waking, that he was still alive and someone would come to rescue him, most likely Max and Rachel. He would think of his friends, probably looking for him at that very moment, and he would thank Heaven and the Stars and everything revered for having some one to be so close to. He knew that if it were one of them, he'd be turning over every leaf and building to find them.
There was noise in the next room. Most likely they were setting up for the next session. Berto wondered with disgust what they had planned for him now. A bed of nails might be on the agenda or, perhaps, a pot of boiling oil to dip him in. Berto closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts away. That sort of thinking made him feel vulnerable; his perseverance was already threatening to crumble and he was seriously entertaining the idea of a little self pity with some broken down crying thrown in for good measure. He was tired and hurt and very near losing it... But he prayed. He prayed and he forced himself to relax, and he focused on centering his mind. Eventually he finally fell into a light slumber, undisturbed. Franklin Finer always let him rest for a day before continuing. It was to allow him to heal, somewhat. How thoughtful.
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"Hey, Frank. Why don't you let me try to coach him, eh? I know how to soften him up." Chani suggested with a malicious look. Franklin grimaced inwardly before turning a sharp and stern look to his companion.
"You keep your sick disorders to yourself, Chani." He barked. "We're just trying to torture him into giving us information. Not humiliate him. For pity's sake... give the man some dignity." He watched Chani role his eyes but shrug resolutely. Franklin shook his head with repulsion. The guy was loyal and a great hire and all, but his sexual masochism was revolting and unnerving. Fortunately, he mostly kept it out of business and took medications and whatnot. Still, Franklin felt the necessity to give continual verbal warnings and strict rules.
The two finished cleaning up the wires from the voltage mess, and they proceeded to set up for the next, what Franklin liked to call, experiment. Then he went next door and peeked his head in the room. Martinez was asleep; albeit, he looked kind of like a corpse, but they'd put a little color in him soon enough. Franklin leaned in a little further. He was a nice looking kid: sleek, black hair, the exotic and attractive features of an alluring Spaniard. Probably a real lady-killer. It was enough to make Franklin the tiniest bit jealous. He could see Chani's attraction, but Chani was still a sicko, so he really didn't count. Franklin closed the door again, made sure it was securely locked, and disappeared down the hall after seeing that Chani was on his way out.