Chapter 8 – This Ain't Paris Anymore
She woke to smells of what she guessed was a hand-prepared meal. Amélie inhaled deeply, smiling before opening her eyes, then chuckling quietly at the probable mess that would now exist in the kitchen.
That's so sweet—Gérard can't cook to save his life and I'm probably going to have to scour the dishes. It's the thought that counts!
Amélie suddenly realized this wasn't her bed. Or her house, for that matter. None of her ceilings were this ugly, flat gray, and the bed might as well have been the concrete floor of her greenhouse.
"Where am I?"
This has to be a dream. Or I've been drafted into a terrible movie.
A single light illuminated the food she'd smelled upon waking. Though its aroma remained and its appearance suggested that the flavor would match her first impression, the fact that everything was slopped onto what looked like a metal cafeteria tray killed what little ambience could be said to exist. She stumbled over to the table, taking a seat in a hard, unforgiving chair.
It dawned on her that her clothes had been swapped for medical robes.
Upon finishing her food, the tray disappeared in a flash of light.
Vishkar she thought, letting a venomous hatred fill her head.
What happened next did little to dispel her suspicions, as a holographic man appeared across the table.
"You are here because you can help us."
"You could have just asked" she replied irritably. "No need to gas my greenhouse and have me wake up in whatever godforsaken place this is!"
"Do you realize you've been swept up in the same corrupt, self-serving, violent organization that you once so nobly protested against?"
Amélie opened her mouth to reply but was overrun.
"Of course, of course, they're different now. They've changed. Or have they? Overwatch still gobbles up over half of discretionary spending in most nations that are part of it. Most oversight is paper-thin. They still conduct assassinations, espionage, and wanton destruction of civilian property."
"As if you can talk" she seethed. "Or has Vishkar papered over Rio de Janeiro?"
"We are not Vishkar."
The non-debate debate continued for a time before two guards abruptly dragged Amélie from whatever room she'd awoken in. The ensuing timespan blended together as a series of vicious vignettes.
"UHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
She took a huge breath as her head returned to air again. By this point she couldn't tell how many times she'd been forced face-first into nearly-frozen water. The most disturbing part wasn't the torture itself—it was that those administering it showed no emotion whatsoever. On MorningWatch, the villains always took sadistic pleasure in tormenting the heroes, which made their eventual defeat that much more exciting for the kids. Here, they might well have been pre-Omnics, robotically submerging her at semi-random (but short) intervals.
The mattress in her room no longer felt like wood under her back. She swore they'd changed it, but couldn't be sure it wasn't just her mind playing tricks. After all, she'd just been nearly drowned, then roughly shoved back into her quarters.
Just as Amélie began to drift off to sleep, a low pulsating hum began to emanate from somewhere in her room. She tossed, turned, as if to make it go away. Whatever it was, it receded and her fall toward unconsciousness resumed only to be brutally slain by a screeching klaxon.
"Am I imagining things?" she wondered aloud, thinking she heard Overwatch advertisements playing underneath the cacophony of noise. Whatever it was, its pitch and volume shifted just enough to naturally grab the brain's attention and keep her from tuning it out or getting used to it.
After what could have only been an hour or two, Holo-Man returned.
"You probably see this sort of thing in vids" he began. "But I really do want to help you. The more cooperative you are with me, the less…harsh…I can convince my compatriots to be."
"Good-cop-bad-cop." She spat at his image, even though all it did was pass through and land on the floor behind. "Save your games and just tell me what the hell you want."
"I don't know" he replied. "It's not what I want, it's what you want."
Ugh. More talk straight out of that old sci-fi flick with the short green alien who liked to talk in riddles. Mind what you have learned. Save you, it can.
Amélie vowed to double-down on what little anti-interrogation training she'd received as the spouse of an Overwatch agent. She had no rank or serial number, but she created a mantra anyway.
I am Amélie Labelle Lacroix. I am in harmony with myself and my plants. My birthday is 7 November.
"Is it getting warm in here?"
"Quite possible" replied Holo-Man. "I do not control the temperature in your room. That is left to my more unsavory associates."
Casse-toi, bâtard!
The last time she'd been in a room like this, she'd gone to the sauna with some friends. Now, it was just oppressively hot, humid, and…yep. There's the noise-generator again!
Her thoughts were a roiling boil of unprintable words combined with "Vishkar." Holo-Man might like to pretend that's not who they were, but everything that happened so far suggested otherwise: the tray, Holo-Man himself, several hard-light probes (whose wounds still stung).
I am Amélie Labelle Lacroix.
Observers were amused the façade lasted this long.
"She still thinks we're those Vishkar nutjobs" said one.
"Well, it looks like stealing their tech while dressed as anti-Omnic extremists was worth the effort then!"
Speaking of the tray, it reappeared, this time covered in some kind of gray gruel. Holo-Man's voice emanated from the same audio system that tormented her moments ago: "If you'd been more cooperative, we could have brought back the Blanquette de Veau, but since you can't tell us what you want I am limited to providing basic nutrition."
"What I want is to leave this place and never eat merde like this again" she shouted.
A small part of her was grateful for the waterboarding. It was at least cooler than her room, which might well have been the center of the sun. Woozy, uncoordinated, and stumbling, she had to be supported by guards to make the journey from one hellhole to another.
I am in harmony with myself and my plants.
"We've had her for a week!" snapped the base commander. "Why isn't this moving faster?"
In her room, Amélie shivered. Of course they'd baked her, then dunked her in freezing water, then brought her back to her room whose temperature slowly slid toward the same level of unpleasantness as the water she'd been in. Just as she'd gotten used to the cold, her eyes were assaulted by flashing lights like the type found in video arcades—the ones with "epileptic seizure warning" plastered all over.
My birthday is 7 November.
"If we use everything at once, she'll tune parts of it out!" protested one of the scientists responsible for overseeing Lacroix's "conversion." "We can't just throw the kitchen sink at her!"
"Her husband will be back from that conference soon—and once he realizes she is gone, all of Overwatch will be combing every desert, rainforest, city, and monastery looking for his lost wife!"
"Where is Mdme. Lacroix?"
This question was on the minds and lips of all five of the "GreenWatch" (as they'd dubbed themselves). Neither repeat customers nor their caseworkers had anything to tell them.
"She probably went on vacation" was the best lie anyone could come up with.
Now, even her bed turned against her. It seemed the mattress developed random even-more-uncomfortable spots that moved about between "sessions."
Now comes the…audio? No, wait! Lights! She'd predicted the change-of-method with slightly more than 50% accuracy, but this time found herself disappointed as the humidity in her room began to climb alongside a shift in temperature rather than being assaulted with illumination that wouldn't have been out of place at a rock concert.
Temperature she thought. As if on cue, it began to plunge.
I am Amélie Labelle Lacroix…
