| "Change of Tactics" | ||
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A Disused London Warehouse June 3, 2008, 1300 hours Lima Time He walked back into the room having been off getting some much needed sleep. The chair was over by one of the walls, and that is where he headed. Sitting down on it he turned his attention to the small monitor that sat on another chair. The image on it showed Daniel Odds rocking back and forth in the darkness that was his new `home. In fact it had once been a storage room of some kind, but the warehouse they were in had long been left to dilapidate, and so the room was now being used for another purpose. The hours immediately after he had brought the unconscious form of Odds into the warehouse had been spent `prepping' him, though no medical practices were going to be performed. Odds had been subjected to some standard coercive and non-coercive techniques, but the real stuff was yet to come. Currently his entire perception of the world had been changed. The room in which he was being detained had no windows; it was pitch black. Every now and then a light would be switched on for varying amounts of time, only to be turned off again. Odds had had several meals, some mere minutes after the last. This had been done to disrupt his sense of time and leave him thoroughly disorientated, and would continue for a little while longer. He pushed the comatose Odds into the vessel and sealed the door. Stepping back he looked at the large metal container and smiled, knowing what was to unfold within its solid walls. He walked back into the room with the chair and sat down, flicking on the television as he did so. The football highlights were on, so he settled down to watch the Arsenal � West Ham game. Thierry Henry was on fire, he saw, scoring a hat-trick in the first half, with Pennant adding a further two goals late in the game. They were good goals as well; Henry's second was easily a contender for goal of the season. If only they could do this in the Champions League, he thought to himself, the cup would be ours. He wandered over to the other side of the room. Hung up on the wall was a pillow. It looked as out of place as a fish on a bicycle, but that didn't bother him. It was there for a reason. Odds was here for a reason. I am here for a reason, he told himself. The pillow was at chest height. He stood in front of it, just staring at it. Thoughts came into his head, memories of events that had happened in his other life, the life he had lived before he had been reborn as a Russian. People, faces, places; all of these entered his mind. Things he had seen, things he had heard, things he had smelt, and things he had felt. A wealth of experience washed over him, flooding his thoughts. He saw Odds and himself, sitting together discussing something, all good natured and friendly. From the time before, his mind reported. Anger. Hatred. Punches flying in from every angle, each one connecting with such force that his knuckles had bled almost immediately, the blood trickling down his wrists as he continued with his relentless pounding, each hit made in the hope that some of the pain would be taken away, finding that none of it was. Still, he had kept on, punching until every ounce of energy he had had was used, then crawling back up and attacking the wall with his head. The blows were not as powerful as they could have been but the pain was welcome. He remembered that. Seeing them together, the two of them. He watched himself as the rage built up, noticing the signs which indicated to others that avoidance was the best course of action. He was detached now, watching himself prepare to face Them, the pair. A blow. Not a fist, but air. On his neck. A smile. Grass. A football rolling past. A turn, accelerating away from his opponent, dodging the next with a slick step-over that sent him the wrong way. Weaving up the wing, people on his tail. A neat flick inside to Dave, continuing the run, collecting the return pass, running to the edge of the area and unleashing a powerful drive at the goal. A club. Darkness all around, speckled with flashes of smiling faces. No danger. Talk. People talking to him, talking about the atmosphere. A girl asks him if he is ok, taking his hand and leading him to the side. She asks again, and he answers her. I'm ok, he tells her. She looks, concern in her eyes, but doesn't push further. Watching himself standing up by the bar, JC next to him. Telling him about Odds. JC asks why he doesn't just beat the fuck out of him. A promise, he replies. He looked at his newly taped-up knuckles, flexing them to make sure the dressing didn't impede his movement. His eyes flickered over towards the pillow, the red visible on its surface as it lay on the floor. The wall was also covered in blood from where the pillow had fallen leaving behind only a bare wall for him to attack. He didn't know how long he had spent punching the wall but the feelings he had felt had been eased by the workout. The weight around his shoulders was pissing him off, but he had no choice. He carried Odds' unconscious form into yet another room. He called this one the `Torture Room', for reasons that would soon become apparent to the sleeping Odds. He set him down on the floor, checking to make sure the hard landing hadn't woken him. It hadn't. Next he turned his attention to the big metal container set in the middle of the room. After adjusting a few dials he opened the lid, picked Odds up and slid him into the water inside the container, then closed the lid on him. The questioning would begin soon. Return |
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