Electricity arched up his back again, this time stronger. Agony had no meaning any more, pain being his waking life. He didn't even cry out this time; just grunting as the energy rippled through his nervous system again. The higher charges were kept on shorter and shorter times; a supposed theory that the sheer amount of voltage at higher infrequent intervals would somehow jog his memory.

It finally stopped. He hung limp in the restraints, his left hand twitching uncontrollably. He had stopped caring. Ever since they had killed his parents, forcing him to watch every grisly second of their subsequent tortures, finally ending their existence with a single large bore pistol to the back of the head. He couldn't cry anymore. He had nothing left to cry about.

"The High Council of the Illuminati a very interested in why you think that not talking is helping you. Perhaps, you would like to inform them that you know nothing?"

The mocking voice came form what he thought was left. He couldn't be sure. He had almost no sense anymore. He didn't move. He remained silent.

A sigh. "It seems he has sustained too much damage again. Evelyn, send recovery in here. Tell them that they are to repair him for its arrival tomorrow."

Another voice. "Of course, Consul Olearick."

"Do you hear that, boy? Tomorrow is going to be special for you."

The figures in white approached again, and before he fell into unconsciousness, he heard the mocking laugh of Olearick; it was fading as if he were being flung out into the distance.

---

He didn't remember much on the day they had captured him. He did remember that it was his birthday, but that was all. The rest blurred into the unreality that was his current situation. He had already told them everything he could possible think of. The more outrageous the story, the more they probed him for details. At one waking point, he got cocky and likened them to the inquisition of the ancient days. He did it out loud. He could not even begin to describe the type of torture one's mind could take.

He had surrendered to his fate. He thought that this was finally the end. They were going to ask him one final question, and then kill him. He was dressed in a white silk robe. It contrasted horribly with the charred scaring flesh of his body. He had managed to get a glimpse of himself in the two way mirror. He had lost weight, he had decided. About a hundred pounds; not that it mattered anymore. He had seen the scars all over his body, but he couldn't see his face anymore. He only saw a broken prisoner, eyes dead, and face emotionless. But he noticed something that surprised him. Under his eyes; a twin stream of tears flooding out of his eyes. They weren't blood, but crystal clear, and they seemed to flow on their own accord. He regretted looking, closing his eyes to let darkness take him again. He heard the door click open, followed by the sound of Olearick walking in. He didn't know why, but Olearick was holding a box. He placed it in front of him, and moved to the opposite side of the table. He sat down, clasping his hands tightly as though concerned about a private matter.

He looked at the box. He noticed it was long, maybe about four to four and a half feet long. It was black, and a single clasp held it closed. He also noticed that it was covered in rusted metal, and that the black was actually paint that had begun to chip in places.

"Do you know what that is?"

It was Olearick's voice. He didn't respond, just staring at the box.

"Open it."

It was a command. He barely was able to move, let alone support his own muscles. He looked weakly at Olearick,