With brute force, the wooden, aged door was roughly thrown open as the
scientist, which had caused Jesse so much discomfort, rushed in. His face
was colored a beat read and painted with rage; his skin had cast a look of
a pale spirit, and his breathing was heavy and uneven. Gritting his teeth,
he reached for the closest thing next to him, a metal-wired chair, and
threw it against the wall, biting his lips as he heard the clashing. A
table that had lain adjacent to him was suddenly rammed into the same wall.
More crashes and bangs occurred, but he had only just begun. There were
at least four more tables in the room, and within seconds they had all been
flipped onto their backs, leaving the items on top to search elsewhere for
escape. Nothing was immune from his reign of terror---he grabbed anything
in his path. In his wrath, he took an entire tray of medical equipment and
hammered it against the wall. His hands seemed to be reaching for
something, anything, that might bring his hands relief. The adrenaline was
pumping widely threw his veins: everything seemed to be frustrating him to
some painful extent. Even the most inconsequential of items seemed to be
enough to anger him and they were soon cascaded across the room and broken
into a thousand pieces. More crashes and bangs. Soon, almost everything
was on the floor, either beaten or broken. Gradually, he began to slow
down, losing energy. The crashes became less frequent, and soon the man
resolved to throw smaller objects. In a last fit of fury, he mustered all
his strength and started kicking all the pieces that were now upon the
ground. Finally, after the last of the objects had been kicked, he
stopped. Surveying his destruction, he let out a long, calm breath, and
his shoulders drooped. He closed his eyes for a brief second, and tried to
resurrect a calm composure.
Amidst the ruin of the room, there was one item left untouched by his rage: a desk. Piled on top, were four confidential and classified documents, a beaker being used as a pencil holder, and a few other miscellaneous bits and pieces. Sitting down at the desk, he furrowed his eyebrows, his hands brushing into his temple. Blinking slowly, he ran his palm across his forehead and ran it through his auburn hair. Scratching the back of his head for a moment, he pulled at the ends, thinking. Staring into space, he kept playing with his hair, analyzing the events that had just occurred. He resumed to put his hand on his forehead, and it stayed there as he used his other hand to rub his left eye. To keep himself balanced, he pressed his two elbows into the desk, then slowly placed his head on the durable, metal desk. He began banging his head against the desk, as if it would help him think. Leisurely, his head rose into the cuffs of his palms, and then placed his fingers aside his lips, as though he were deep in thought. As though he had come to a conclusion in the evaluation of the previous affair, he commenced into grinding his teeth together. In a sudden, swift motion, a thrust his beaker/pencil case across the desk. Smiling, in almost silent satisfaction, he carefully listened to the beaker shatter across the floor. The pencils scattered across the smooth landscape, jumbled in their masses, rattling across the flooring. It took a few moments before they settled into their resting place, misplaced and some wrecked. It was obvious that the anger had not ceased within him, and he was still kicking himself.
Setting to work, he picked up one of the pencils from off the floor and started looking over his documents. A new file had been placed on his desk earlier that day, and he had failed to recognize its presence. On the top of the manilla folder, in large bold letters read: CLASSIFIED. A tiny sigh was released from under his breath, as he had come accustomed to reading such documents. He never could understand why people bothered to write "classified" because they were always the first to be looked at by any intruder and always seemed to come into the public's knowledge one way or the other. "It's not as if anyone actually pays attention.it probably just entices them more to read it," he murmured to himself.
"How could I have been so foolish? To think that this would actually work! This isn't my fault, it's-" he stopped mid-sentence to turn around. Turning his head, he had the strangest feeling someone had been watching him, although he was facing the only door in the room. The only other possible place was the window, but it had been barred and plated with blurred glass. He shrugged it off, and continued his work. Yet the eerie feeling crept up over him again, as if someone was peering from the doorway. He looked up from his labor, but again, no one was there. Shaking his head he buried himself inside of his work, trying to forget. Work made him a recluse; it was his career, his hobby, his escape, his wife, and his life. Sighing, he started to wonder whether he made the right choice. But there was no use in thinking of that now. No, none at all. There was no way to go back, no way to turn back the hands of the clock, no way to think about what might have been...
Only a few moments had passed when another noise aroused his attention. Averting his eyes from his work, he looked up to see that his door had moved two feet from the doorway. Since there was visible evidence of an intruder, he knew that he had not imagined it, but as he began to scrutinize the sequence of events, the door had somehow shifted back inside the entrance. He blinked slowly, and reared his head back, trying to make sense of the situation. After staring at the immobile door for a several minutes, he looked back to the door. Concluding his mind had been playing tricks on him, due to lack of adequate sleep (four hours within the last three days) he placed his hand back at the desk for more analyzing. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as the apprehension in the room grew thick. Soon, the door slightly creaked and his eyes flashed back at the door, awaiting the next move.
The creak continued, but this time it was from behind the door. Cautiously, he arose from out of his chair and stood up. Eying the door was hesitation, he pondered for an instant about whether or not to check what was causing the disturbances. In an effort to calm his quivering heart, he tiptoed across the floor, making sure to avoid the mess he had created before. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he watched his shaking hand reached for the doorknob. His fingers began to tremble when they touched the handle, and as they placed themselves upon it, it jittered back at them. Slowly, they turned the handle, leaving him behind the door as it opened. Waiting a moment behind the door, he waited patiently for the mystery to walk in. When nothing happened, he twisted his head and peered around the side of the door. No one was there, and with a disappointed, but confused, look he went back to his desk, closing the door behind him. Even as he sat back down in his chair, watching the doorway, a peculiar premonition came from within him, and he felt an intense warning, urging him to look behind him once more. Mouth yawning, eyes closing, he felt a sudden urge to fall asleep. Placing his head upon the desk, he began to daydream about the day that this would all be over. In a swift motion, he jerked his head up and rubbed his eyes, knowing that he must keep going. Duty called and he must finish his work...if he was going to remain alive. Reluctantly, he started looking at the 'classified' document again, reading and rereading its contents.
"This can't be right," he said to himself, and tried to look over it again. Within this medical file contained information that didn't seem possible. Perhaps there was something he was missing, and maybe there is more information in the file, he thought. Stroking his chin, he examined the bottom portion of the paper. It had stated that his signature was required, indicating that he had understood the file. He placed the paper aside from the rest of the file, and hovered his pencil over the bottom line. Starting to sign it, he stopped suddenly when he realized that all the medical files required him to sign in blue ink pen. Stooping down to the floorboards, he discovered one at the corner of the desk. Crawling on his hands and knees, he reached for the pen, when he reached back with a horrifying screech. His hands covered the sides of his forehead and he began to widely punch his seat, violently thrashing around. Crinkling his temples in pain, fierce grunts were shouted and he grinded his teeth against the pain. Gnawing at it, he inched towards the wall for support. Screaming so hard that nothing came out of his mouth, water filled his eyes and small beads came running down his cheeks. Falling against the wall, he felt a small pressure pining him to the wall. Nothing had touched him, and the pain began to relinquish long enough for him to vaguely see something across the room.
It was a blurred image, unlike anything he'd ever seem before, and he was unable to find anything distinguishable. However, an ominous voice quaked within him, in his head, and it was only then that he had recognized who it was.
"Where is it?" The menacing voice echoed throughout his mind, and he shivered at the thought of it. He knew he would have to encounter the inquisition, however he was disinclined and reluctant to answer, knowing his answer wouldn't be well desired.
"I don't know-the boy won't speak!" he managed to squeak. Terrified of the coming response, he cowered and tried to climb into the wall, trying to disappear away from the reaction.
His panic was soon answered, with a bigger assault than he thought he could have ever imagined. Everything inside him mind was a bleak chaos- nothing made sense, and it seemed to him it never would again. With austere disarray invading his mind, the only thing left to do was wait for it to subside and then accept the impending punishment.
The foreboding voice interrupted his frenzied thoughts, yelling, screaming at him. The words were too cluttered to make any sense, but he dared not ask to have them repeated, dreading the possibility of having this entire scene repeated. Physical anguish was one thing, but this, this psyche penalty was intolerable...for anyone. The one conscious thought he could follow cascaded his mind towards the medical sheet on the top of his desk. Whoever that girl was-having the empathic ability to tap into other's minds and emotions...but having to dwell with the mental sentiments of everyone around her at the same time...their passions, their feelings-whoever she was, the mission to find her. He shook his head in dismay. What was her name? Rattled back into reality by the screeching of his superior.
"Where is the girl?" the voice expanded. "Have you checked her?"
"We have checked one female, and one male. The male has been exceptionally difficult to work with." The moment he said that, he knew he should have taken it back. A sudden ringing raging in his ears agreed with him. He squinted his eyes, trying to pretend that could somehow that could extinguish the pain inside. Trying to make up for it, he quickly added,
".We haven't lost hope yet-he will cave in shortly. If not, he'll die, but either way it's worth something. If he dies, the rest of their league will come, and if he doesn't, he will prove worthy to us," he swallowed quietly, hoping that answer would appease.
"You better hope," it said calmly, "that your faith is worth something. If it's not." The sentence did not need to be finished. A colossal strain that was felt within the walls of his brow was an answer he did not wish to respond to. Without rhyme or reason, the voice in his head unexpectedly vanished, leaving the man against the wall, crouched in a fetal position.
After being relieved from the pain, his head fell back against the wall. Resting a few moments, he found enough strength to walk back to his desk, rubbing his forehead. Opening the top drawer of the desk, placing his hand inside, and he withdrew a cloth-covered object. The cloth was flannel, with red plaid decorating it. It seemed out of place, as though it had been put in the drawer by accident. With fringes on the side, he quizzically looked at the object, not sure about whether or not he wanted to use something of this magnitude. In a moment of quick decision, his eyes became illuminated with thought He gently swept the cloth aside, and the reflection of the object glimmered in light, almost blinding his eyes. Pulling it close to him, he whispered,
"Maybe now Kilmartin will talk."
(A summary of the chapter, for those that didn't understand it: basically, the scientist that worked on Jesse, got pretty ticked off and went on a rampage, destroying his office. He then sits down at his desk and reviews some files that were placed on there earlier. One of them is about a tel- empath that these people are trying to capture. Then as he tries to figure out what's going on, something outside his door is creating strange noises. Repeatedly, he checks but no one is there. Later, when he puts all his fears to rest, he's attacked by the same people that attacked the MX team. When he recovers from his attack and his conversation, he goes to his desk and reveals the one instrument that will make Jesse talk-.sorry, decided to try something new and create a different angle [show you guys what other people are doing, not just the MXers.] I guess I know not to do that now. :-) )
(Okay, you guys, I'm sorry it's so short. I think I must be losing my touch (if I ever had it) because no one is reviewing anymore. My first chapter I got a lot of reviews, and in my fifth chapter I got four. Either no one's reading or what, but because of that I take it as my cue to go and stop writing, and I s'pect I'm gonna stop. Thanks to the faithful, y'all were great! And to Jill, thanks, I got your email as I was uploading this document! This'll be my last chapter, so, cheers-)
Amidst the ruin of the room, there was one item left untouched by his rage: a desk. Piled on top, were four confidential and classified documents, a beaker being used as a pencil holder, and a few other miscellaneous bits and pieces. Sitting down at the desk, he furrowed his eyebrows, his hands brushing into his temple. Blinking slowly, he ran his palm across his forehead and ran it through his auburn hair. Scratching the back of his head for a moment, he pulled at the ends, thinking. Staring into space, he kept playing with his hair, analyzing the events that had just occurred. He resumed to put his hand on his forehead, and it stayed there as he used his other hand to rub his left eye. To keep himself balanced, he pressed his two elbows into the desk, then slowly placed his head on the durable, metal desk. He began banging his head against the desk, as if it would help him think. Leisurely, his head rose into the cuffs of his palms, and then placed his fingers aside his lips, as though he were deep in thought. As though he had come to a conclusion in the evaluation of the previous affair, he commenced into grinding his teeth together. In a sudden, swift motion, a thrust his beaker/pencil case across the desk. Smiling, in almost silent satisfaction, he carefully listened to the beaker shatter across the floor. The pencils scattered across the smooth landscape, jumbled in their masses, rattling across the flooring. It took a few moments before they settled into their resting place, misplaced and some wrecked. It was obvious that the anger had not ceased within him, and he was still kicking himself.
Setting to work, he picked up one of the pencils from off the floor and started looking over his documents. A new file had been placed on his desk earlier that day, and he had failed to recognize its presence. On the top of the manilla folder, in large bold letters read: CLASSIFIED. A tiny sigh was released from under his breath, as he had come accustomed to reading such documents. He never could understand why people bothered to write "classified" because they were always the first to be looked at by any intruder and always seemed to come into the public's knowledge one way or the other. "It's not as if anyone actually pays attention.it probably just entices them more to read it," he murmured to himself.
"How could I have been so foolish? To think that this would actually work! This isn't my fault, it's-" he stopped mid-sentence to turn around. Turning his head, he had the strangest feeling someone had been watching him, although he was facing the only door in the room. The only other possible place was the window, but it had been barred and plated with blurred glass. He shrugged it off, and continued his work. Yet the eerie feeling crept up over him again, as if someone was peering from the doorway. He looked up from his labor, but again, no one was there. Shaking his head he buried himself inside of his work, trying to forget. Work made him a recluse; it was his career, his hobby, his escape, his wife, and his life. Sighing, he started to wonder whether he made the right choice. But there was no use in thinking of that now. No, none at all. There was no way to go back, no way to turn back the hands of the clock, no way to think about what might have been...
Only a few moments had passed when another noise aroused his attention. Averting his eyes from his work, he looked up to see that his door had moved two feet from the doorway. Since there was visible evidence of an intruder, he knew that he had not imagined it, but as he began to scrutinize the sequence of events, the door had somehow shifted back inside the entrance. He blinked slowly, and reared his head back, trying to make sense of the situation. After staring at the immobile door for a several minutes, he looked back to the door. Concluding his mind had been playing tricks on him, due to lack of adequate sleep (four hours within the last three days) he placed his hand back at the desk for more analyzing. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as the apprehension in the room grew thick. Soon, the door slightly creaked and his eyes flashed back at the door, awaiting the next move.
The creak continued, but this time it was from behind the door. Cautiously, he arose from out of his chair and stood up. Eying the door was hesitation, he pondered for an instant about whether or not to check what was causing the disturbances. In an effort to calm his quivering heart, he tiptoed across the floor, making sure to avoid the mess he had created before. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he watched his shaking hand reached for the doorknob. His fingers began to tremble when they touched the handle, and as they placed themselves upon it, it jittered back at them. Slowly, they turned the handle, leaving him behind the door as it opened. Waiting a moment behind the door, he waited patiently for the mystery to walk in. When nothing happened, he twisted his head and peered around the side of the door. No one was there, and with a disappointed, but confused, look he went back to his desk, closing the door behind him. Even as he sat back down in his chair, watching the doorway, a peculiar premonition came from within him, and he felt an intense warning, urging him to look behind him once more. Mouth yawning, eyes closing, he felt a sudden urge to fall asleep. Placing his head upon the desk, he began to daydream about the day that this would all be over. In a swift motion, he jerked his head up and rubbed his eyes, knowing that he must keep going. Duty called and he must finish his work...if he was going to remain alive. Reluctantly, he started looking at the 'classified' document again, reading and rereading its contents.
"This can't be right," he said to himself, and tried to look over it again. Within this medical file contained information that didn't seem possible. Perhaps there was something he was missing, and maybe there is more information in the file, he thought. Stroking his chin, he examined the bottom portion of the paper. It had stated that his signature was required, indicating that he had understood the file. He placed the paper aside from the rest of the file, and hovered his pencil over the bottom line. Starting to sign it, he stopped suddenly when he realized that all the medical files required him to sign in blue ink pen. Stooping down to the floorboards, he discovered one at the corner of the desk. Crawling on his hands and knees, he reached for the pen, when he reached back with a horrifying screech. His hands covered the sides of his forehead and he began to widely punch his seat, violently thrashing around. Crinkling his temples in pain, fierce grunts were shouted and he grinded his teeth against the pain. Gnawing at it, he inched towards the wall for support. Screaming so hard that nothing came out of his mouth, water filled his eyes and small beads came running down his cheeks. Falling against the wall, he felt a small pressure pining him to the wall. Nothing had touched him, and the pain began to relinquish long enough for him to vaguely see something across the room.
It was a blurred image, unlike anything he'd ever seem before, and he was unable to find anything distinguishable. However, an ominous voice quaked within him, in his head, and it was only then that he had recognized who it was.
"Where is it?" The menacing voice echoed throughout his mind, and he shivered at the thought of it. He knew he would have to encounter the inquisition, however he was disinclined and reluctant to answer, knowing his answer wouldn't be well desired.
"I don't know-the boy won't speak!" he managed to squeak. Terrified of the coming response, he cowered and tried to climb into the wall, trying to disappear away from the reaction.
His panic was soon answered, with a bigger assault than he thought he could have ever imagined. Everything inside him mind was a bleak chaos- nothing made sense, and it seemed to him it never would again. With austere disarray invading his mind, the only thing left to do was wait for it to subside and then accept the impending punishment.
The foreboding voice interrupted his frenzied thoughts, yelling, screaming at him. The words were too cluttered to make any sense, but he dared not ask to have them repeated, dreading the possibility of having this entire scene repeated. Physical anguish was one thing, but this, this psyche penalty was intolerable...for anyone. The one conscious thought he could follow cascaded his mind towards the medical sheet on the top of his desk. Whoever that girl was-having the empathic ability to tap into other's minds and emotions...but having to dwell with the mental sentiments of everyone around her at the same time...their passions, their feelings-whoever she was, the mission to find her. He shook his head in dismay. What was her name? Rattled back into reality by the screeching of his superior.
"Where is the girl?" the voice expanded. "Have you checked her?"
"We have checked one female, and one male. The male has been exceptionally difficult to work with." The moment he said that, he knew he should have taken it back. A sudden ringing raging in his ears agreed with him. He squinted his eyes, trying to pretend that could somehow that could extinguish the pain inside. Trying to make up for it, he quickly added,
".We haven't lost hope yet-he will cave in shortly. If not, he'll die, but either way it's worth something. If he dies, the rest of their league will come, and if he doesn't, he will prove worthy to us," he swallowed quietly, hoping that answer would appease.
"You better hope," it said calmly, "that your faith is worth something. If it's not." The sentence did not need to be finished. A colossal strain that was felt within the walls of his brow was an answer he did not wish to respond to. Without rhyme or reason, the voice in his head unexpectedly vanished, leaving the man against the wall, crouched in a fetal position.
After being relieved from the pain, his head fell back against the wall. Resting a few moments, he found enough strength to walk back to his desk, rubbing his forehead. Opening the top drawer of the desk, placing his hand inside, and he withdrew a cloth-covered object. The cloth was flannel, with red plaid decorating it. It seemed out of place, as though it had been put in the drawer by accident. With fringes on the side, he quizzically looked at the object, not sure about whether or not he wanted to use something of this magnitude. In a moment of quick decision, his eyes became illuminated with thought He gently swept the cloth aside, and the reflection of the object glimmered in light, almost blinding his eyes. Pulling it close to him, he whispered,
"Maybe now Kilmartin will talk."
(A summary of the chapter, for those that didn't understand it: basically, the scientist that worked on Jesse, got pretty ticked off and went on a rampage, destroying his office. He then sits down at his desk and reviews some files that were placed on there earlier. One of them is about a tel- empath that these people are trying to capture. Then as he tries to figure out what's going on, something outside his door is creating strange noises. Repeatedly, he checks but no one is there. Later, when he puts all his fears to rest, he's attacked by the same people that attacked the MX team. When he recovers from his attack and his conversation, he goes to his desk and reveals the one instrument that will make Jesse talk-.sorry, decided to try something new and create a different angle [show you guys what other people are doing, not just the MXers.] I guess I know not to do that now. :-) )
(Okay, you guys, I'm sorry it's so short. I think I must be losing my touch (if I ever had it) because no one is reviewing anymore. My first chapter I got a lot of reviews, and in my fifth chapter I got four. Either no one's reading or what, but because of that I take it as my cue to go and stop writing, and I s'pect I'm gonna stop. Thanks to the faithful, y'all were great! And to Jill, thanks, I got your email as I was uploading this document! This'll be my last chapter, so, cheers-)
