I do fight then. I fight like it's the last time because it might be. I fight like life is somethinga personcan win. I fight because Dan will never fight again.
It's pointless; I know it is. If I'm going to die, then I'm going to die. Death is a coin toss, not a puzzle. I can rage against it. I can bite and hit and kick and snarl, but. I might as well be screaming into a void.
I can hear myself making noises,shouts ofagonised fury. It sounds muffled, though, like I'm underwater. I feel wet. Wet and cold. I think maybe they've brought in the tank. Maybe someone is holding my head underwater. I can't breathe, so it's a possibility.
My vision is blank. Not black or white or blurred. Just blank. Just nothing. There's nothing but the pain. It thrums in my blood, slow and excruciating, freezingthe tar which runs throughmy veins.
I hearanother voice. A voice I vaguely recognise but am unable to place.It's a quiet, calm voice. I can't make out the words,but the tone sounds like it should be soothing. It isn't.
I think maybe I'mmoving. I feel like I am. I don't understand how I can be moving through all this pain. I try to stop. When I realise I can breathe again, it’s a hollow victory.
I'm caught, trapped in this endless moment. I keep thinking my body will just give out. I keep thinking it will go numb, that I'll pass out from the shock. But I don't. I keep feeling it, and feeling it, and feeling it, and feeling it. It goes on and on and on.
Frozen vines of agony wind themselves around my bones. Icy thorns dig so deep into my flesh, pieces of them break off and get absorbed by my body. Those pieces become permanent. I couldn't scratch them out now without shredding everything else.
I'm still moving. I know I am. I can't stop it. I can't see anything beyond the blanket of nothing covering my eyes. I can’t hear anything either. Except. Except that voice. The voice which should be soothing, but it isn’t. The voice that tries to play at kindness but doesn’t know how.
There’s nothing, and there’s the voice.
When it ends, I think I must be dead. I think I must have died, andthis is the last gift I'll be given before hell comes to claim me.
But when the veil of nothing lifts, when I can see, when I cansee, I realise hell already came. Hell came and dragged me down into the earth. Hell dug its claws into what remains of my soul and vowed to show me the very worst of what I am. Hell, if you want to know, is surprisingly mild in temperature.
Death is the only thing that make sense.It's theonly way to explain why my last memory is.
I don't know. I.
My last memory is of a grey room. Not the first. The second. A blue liquid. A syringe. Pain. So much pain. Somuch.
I'm not in a grey room anymore. I'm in a red one.
Except it's not really red. It's just been painted that colour.
There are no chains either, and I'm not naked. I'm dressed in full tac gear, body armour andall.
There are no OI guards.
I'min a warehouse.
A warehouse painted red.
There’s a gun in my hand. I squeeze it, feeling cool metal press against warm skin. It’s a familiar thing to feel. All of this is familiar. The red is familiar. All of the red. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember how I got here or where I am.
A tinny voice speaks in my ear.
"Agent Jack."
I look down at my black boots. I'm standing in a massive pool of red. That is. That is careless. I know better. I know. But.
The voice tries again.
"Agent Jack.”
I check my gun. There's one bullet left in the clip. The rest are scattered around the room, drowning in red or sunk into meat.
The tinny voice coming from my earpiece orders,“Agent Jack, go outside.”
Then.
