He stirred. Remnants of dreams clung to his mind. His body ached. What a nightmare…it even affected me physically…bothering my injuries….
He flipped over onto his side; his hand sought Connie but met only empty air.
He opened his eyes.
Across from him was a fern on a three-legged white stand. Beside the fern stood an aquarium, blue and orange fish swimming in it serenely. On the other side of the fern was a desk with an empty chair behind it, and above that was a television on the wall, blank of any images. Faint birdsong trilled from it. Beside the desk was a silver cabinet. A large purple rug covered most of the floor, subtle mauve and gold designs weaving in it. At the foot of the white leather couch he was lying on was a matching chair. Just to the side of that was door made of dark wood with a golden nameplate engraved with "DR. L".
His heart stirred with uneasiness. Where am I? His mind tilted, trying to make sense of this.
Last thing I remember—
The trunk. The needle
He felt the right side of his neck; there was a slight lump there.
So it wasn't a dream.
His heart thumped hard. His body felt weighed down—probably because of the drugs, fog reluctantly receding from his mind.
He tried to get up, but what he really wanted to do was go back to sleep. Wake up for real, Connie beside him. He settled back down again, closing his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him.
Instead, his heart thudded against his chest, telling him to prepare for danger. So he opened his eyes again.
He looked at his hands. His wrists had slight red marks from handcuffs. At least he wasn't bound anymore…
He grasped the back of the couch, slowly pulling himself to a sitting position. Even that much was hard. He took deep breaths, his head spinning.
After a moment, he sat back against the couch, facing the desk. It was made of the same color wood as the door, its surface glossy. The chair was a sleek black office chair.
Perhaps there were clues in the desk….
He heaved himself to his feet and let his spinning head settle before shuffling carefully over to the desk. He leaned his hand against its surface, steadying himself. Then he stepped around it to the chair and sat down. Relief flooded him at being able to rest again. He pulled on the handle of the desk drawer, but it wouldn't open. He tried the others; they were just as tightly locked.
Or—
A thought hit him. What if it were all for show. What if there was just solid wood behind the façade. He rolled the chair over to the fern, rubbed its leaves. Sure enough, it was made of fabric. Happy to not have to get up, he rolled the chair over to the fish tank, expecting it to be fake too. But the fish looked real. A purple one swam up to him, looking at him curiously as if expecting food.
Perhaps that dizzyingly strange hypothesis wasn't right. Another explanation….
As he spun the chair slightly to face the couch, still indented with the impression of his body, which gave him an unpleasant chill, another idea came to him.
This place looked disturbingly like the waiting room in a psychiatrist's office. He'd been to one personally a few times. Each time, he'd felt uncomfortable, as if waiting for a doctor to break open his chest and examine his heart, digging in it impersonally to dissect each nuance of his soul, places he'd rather keep hidden. Last time… it hadn't ended well.
But why would he wake up in a psychiatrist's office? Why would Yavesh take him here? Unless—
Another possibility hit him. What if… my PTSD really did get out of hand. I lost touch with reality…. Had to be hospitalized…. Perhaps all of this time in Muldavia, maybe even before, has been a fantasy.
What about the mark on my neck, the marks on my wrists?
That also fits. Perhaps I had to be restrained—perhaps—a shudder ran through him. Perhaps I became a danger to Connie… if there was any decency left in me, I would have left before it became a reality. Perhaps I checked myself in here…
But why am I suddenly lucid now? Am I finally recovering? And finally I can go home to Connie… But how can I trust myself now. Can I ever believe I'm truly recovered?
There could have been an experimental procedure… maybe why I had to be strapped down… injected… Maybe I'm cured now.
His heart leaped. Part of him knowing it was foolish to entertain any theory until he had more facts.
He rolled over to the door with the nameplate on it. Tugged on the doorknob. It was locked.
He tried the other door—that was locked too.
If I'm in a waiting room—why would they lock both doors?
One more item in the room besides the white chairs and the television. The cabinet. He didn't have much hope it would open. But he rode the chair over to it and tried each drawer. They were locked as well, but these actually had keyholes, so they made more sense than the desk. To his surprise, one of the smaller drawers opened. Inside was a remote. He rolled backwards and pressed "on" at the TV.
The television didn't respond.
Jason opened the back of the remote, finding that it had no batteries in it. He returned to the cabinet and tried the last few drawers. One of the larger top ones opened; he dug in it and found a blank piece of paper and a small key. Excitement hitting him, he tried the key in the other cabinet keyholes. But the key was too small.
He rolled around the room, searching for another possible place for the key. He didn't find one, but he did find tiny cameras in each corner of the ceiling. He also found white tiles around the edges of the room, continuing beneath the carpet. And there was a small lump in the middle of the floor under the carpet.
Bracing himself for the effort it would take, he knelt and lifted one corner of the couch, edging the carpet out from under its leg. He did that with the rest of the couch and the chairs as well and rolled the carpet out into the middle. Frustration filled him that just that much effort made him stop, breathing hard, several times.
But he forgot all of that when he found what had caused the lump in the carpet. It was a metal ring, soldered to the floor. Beside it was a metal drain.
Mystification rose up in him. What could those be used for? Something about them disturbed him. For one thing, this room could really be a façade. For another thing, the drain and the clean white tiles reminded him of a slaughterhouse.
Or…
He didn't want to consider the possibility.
He tried to move the desk and the fish tank, but to his disappointment they were too heavy. However, he found a corresponding lump beneath the plant. And on the ceiling, two more rings at matching distances to the ones on the floor.
Why is there even a plant in here? he wondered. There could be a listening device in it…. He tore up the fake moss in the pot, in the end tossing every tuft of it onto the floor, along with the shredded fern. Nothing. Not even a bug disguised as a fake insect.
Then he moved to the fish tank, but all he found was fish food in a little alcove in the stand. He realized he was hungry when an urge hit him to eat the fish food. Disgusted at himself, he put it back.
How long will I be in here? he wondered. Will they starve me? Are they up there observing me, as if I'm a fish in a tank?
The walls closed in on him. Trying to fight it, he focused on the fish, sinking into their world. Grateful he at least had this to look at, a beautiful space full of life, separate from everything unpleasant.
Its soothing effects filtered into him. He rolled over to the couch, and, part of him rebelling against it—it made his skin crawl—he lay back down.
He was just sinking into sleep when his heart thumped hard, waking him.
What if someone comes in—
I have to be prepared.
This place isn't what it appears. Brought to a slaughterhouse…. Disguised as a psychiatrists' office… to be observed in a fishbowl…. Games. That fits with Yavesh.
Which makes the most sense because I know perfectly well that yesterday (?) really happened. Almost anything else would be better…
Best would be what it feels like. An insane dream. That I'll soon wake from.
Time stretched out, yawing around him, then collapsing, pressing him down to a pinpoint, like a black hole swallowing him.
A scream built in his chest, trapped there, aching.
He charged across the room, pounded on the door with "Dr L" on it, then pounded on the blank door until pain rang through his fist.
Anger filling him, he kicked the remnants of the plant, broke the pot, ripped up the piece of paper, nearly kicked over the fish tank before he caught himself and silently asked forgiveness from the fish.
Finally, the scream burst from him, rang against the walls, echoing back in his ears. Wringing his lungs out. His chest aching, he collapsed onto the rolling chair. The remnants of the scream still resounding. For a moment, he thought he had deafened himself permanently, until he recognized the faint gurgle from the tank, and the birdsong on a loop, virtually the only sounds besides his own breathing.
He leaned his head in his hands, tears threatening. Ran his hand through his hair, feeling as if everything had collected a taint of unreality.
Am I real? Or am I just a figment of someone's imagination….
Perhaps I'm all that's real. And I'm floating in some vacant space…
That was worse than any possibility, so he stifled it, but its potential still disturbed him.
He rubbed his face. Tears leaked through his fingers.
Dear God. Please help me….
The door opened. He jumped, heart racing.
In walked a large, muscular man dressed in a white T-shirt that showed off his muscles and matching white pants. There was a tattoo on his left arm, part of it twining barbed wire. His sharp green eyes narrowed as he looked around the room, then glared at Jason.
"What is this!"
He charged toward Jason and before he had a chance to brace himself, he grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him. "You really shouldn't have done that. You're supposed to wait calmly."
"For what?"
"For the Doctor."
"Who is he?" A possibility occurred to him, but it was so absurd he dared not entertain it. Because it would mean an ancient ghost rising from the dead.
"You need to learn a lesson."
"What for? You're the one who's locked me in here—punishing me for no reason—"
"You don't make the rules."
"I don't even know the rules—"
The man spun Jason around and bent Jason over, yanking his arm up his back.
His left arm.
Pain stabbed through it.
He wanted to struggle, to fight, but the man had him bent in a position he couldn't move from, unless he wanted more pain. Then he shoved him down against the desk and metal jingled.
Handcuffs.
It struck him that that was what the key was for.
I'm not being bound again if I can help it. I've been trapped enough.
The handcuff snapped against his left wrist.
Jason kicked backwards, hitting something solid. The pressure lessened. Taking the opportunity, he spun around, kicking, hitting the man's knee. The man roared and charged at him, but he dashed away, then snapped the loose handcuff into his face.
The man cried out in pain, hand leaping to his eyes.
The plantstand. He grabbed it and as the man came at him again, he slammed it hard against his stomach. The man fell back against the wall. He yanked out a rod from his belt and pressed it to the plantstand.
Shocks zapped into Jason's hands, and he had to drop it.
The man advanced toward him, the end of the rod sizzling.
His palms burning, Jason snatched a shard of the pot just in time, though he knew it wouldn't do much against the man's weapon.
The man dashed toward him; Jason just managed to dodge out of the way, but he was breathless, exhausted already.
The next shock caught his arm, and he shrieked in pain; another zap on his chest and he collapsed to his knees, feeling like his heart had stopped. Clutching his chest, his lungs aching, he tried to gather his strength but the next moment a hard kick caught him in the side and slammed him to the ground.
A kick in his stomach.
Another.
Pain slashed through him.
Savage kicks hitting his back. His thighs. Then, the man kicked him onto his back and he lay there, looking up at the white lights on the ceiling. A mixture of anger and exultation glowed on the man's face. He stepped between Jason's legs and lowered the cattle prod.
Jason braced for unimaginable pain
Creak!
The door opening. Footsteps. A woman appeared to his right, small compared to the guard's mass; yet she cut an imposing figure. An intensity quivered through her, along with an air of authority. She wore heels and a sleek dark purple business suit and had shoulder-length brown hair. "You got carried away again, didn't you, Brack," she said.
"Look at the mess he made." Brack gestured around the room.
"You had clear orders. Not to harm him. Sometimes you have leeway to do as you see fit, but this wasn't one of those times," she said sternly. "Please, leave us."
"But—"
"We may need you later. But it's important you control yourself when it's needed. I'm afraid we won't let you have any time with him for a while."
"I was looking forward to—"
"You have others to tend to. Don't you?"
He hung his head. "I suppose…. I do like breaking in the new ones."
"Perhaps you can have your chance later. This one is a special case. We have to treat him with care. Every order is to be carried out to the letter. If we tell you we have leeway, then it's your prerogative to use whatever force you see fit. But with this one—there will always be limits. Understand?"
"Yes."
"None of us must forget who he belongs to."
"Of course."
"Now go."
Brack nodded and snapped his heels, then holstered his cattle prod and strode out the door.
Jason's relief was short-lived because just as he left, two more guards entered. They weren't as large, though, and stopped just inside the door.
The woman knelt, proffered a hand. Jason hesitated; she was the enemy. Even if she'd 'rescued' him. But her blue eyes were earnest, even kind. He reached for her hand, and she clasped his arm, the other arm around his back, and guided him to a sitting position. "Are you alright?" she said.
Disgust rippled through him, even though she'd helped him; he doubted she had his best interests in mind.
He nodded, slid back against the couch. His back and stomach ached. Just when the previous bruises were fading… Worse were the places that had been shocked, still throbbing with a deep, prickling burn.
She sat down beside him, leaning against the couch companionably, her legs bent. She kicked off her heels, leaving her feet clad in just nylons. She swept back a strand of shoulder-length hair and said, "I'm Tamara. The Supreme's assistant. I'm sorry about Brack. He does tend to get carried away. Are you sure you're alright? He doesn't always know his own strength. He can cause a lot of damage without much force."
"I've had much worse." He tilted his hands to show his palms. Raw red skin showed across them, cracked in places, the rough shape of the metal plantstand. A few flecks of white paint scattered among it.
Tamara winced. "Ooh, electric shocks are the worst. Those batons are only supposed to be used as a last resort… for our own safety."
"Where are we?"
She pursed her lips. "I can't divulge our location. I can tell you we are at the Core. The center of our operations."
His heart skipped. The center. Perhaps he could glean some intel….
"Who are you?"
"You call us Yavesh. Which is fitting, I suppose. We call ourselves something else. You'll discover that, in time. There are some things we'll reveal as you progress; some things you will never know. Not even I know everything; compartmentalizing is essential to our survival. Only the Supreme knows everything."
"He can't know everything."
"Everything essential to directing operations."
"Who is the Supreme?"
Tamara smiled, the depths of her eyes dancing with delight. "That you'll find out in a few moments. Let's get you fixed up first." She slid her hand into her pocket and emerged with a small tube. She spread some cream onto her fingers and, reluctantly, he let her spread it over his palms.
"Anywhere else?"
He showed her his arm, but he wasn't about to show her his chest.
After she finished, she stood, held out her hand. "Would you like to wait somewhere more comfortable?"
"What am I waiting for? How much longer?"
A vibration from her pocket. She pulled out her phone. Raised one eyebrow. "So—looks like your wait is over. Time to meet the Supreme."
"What if I don't want to meet them."
"There is no other option. Besides, you'll be glad you did." She reached toward him again, but he stood on his own, though aches writhed through him.
His heart rebelled against going toward the leader of Yavesh. But he supposed he did have to meet them sometime. At least he'd learn what who was the orchestrator of the web of evil…
But he didn't think Tamara's other prediction would come true…. It wasn't going to be pleasant for him, going forward.
Somehow I have to stay sane… not let this all overwhelm me… not go crazy like I just did…. Keep my head…. Keep my moral center. Not let them win.
Tamara laid a hand gently on his back, guiding him toward the door. He hated that she'd felt the need to touch him, although he was grateful for the healing salve. The two guards stepped behind him, looming just at the edge of his vision, crowding him in—the world closed in on him—
I have to survive this. Not get injured if I can help it. But fight anything that's…going to hurt me worse in any way….
Tamara, beaming as if showing him a grand surprise, opened the door. Then led him through, the guards following.
A wide window. Glaring out onto a rolling meadow, sunlight dancing through the trees on the edges, a sunbeam bursting through the fluffy clouds in a blue sky.
Silhouetted against the beauty that he vaguely registered as an illusion, a woman sat at a broad glossy black desk. Her hair was bound up in a bun, twirls dangling in front of her ears. She exuded a sort of sleek power, akin to that of a panther. It put him on high alert—there was something familiar about her.
His eyes adjusted, and he could see her more clearly. Blond hair, intense blue eyes. Beauty that had only refined with seventeen years from a sly fierce determination to a sense of absolute command, the hint of a cold, cruel twist on her full lips.
Elena Holt.