Mr. Teddy is nowhere in sight.
As the sound of booted feet disappears down the corridor and the door at the far end of the hall slams shut, the screaming picks up again for a moment, then cuts off just as suddenly.
A voice from down the hall, deep basso - almost a subsonic rumble - says "Christ, I hate this place." There is a pause. "Hey," the voice rumbles. "You that just came in. You still conscious?"
"Hello," Marda squeaks out. She's still very out of focus at this time and hasn't quite gotten the full impact of the situation yet. "Is anybody there?"
"Why," the voice rumbles, sounding astonished, "you don't sound like more than a kid! Whats your name, kid?"
"I'm Marda," the child replies tentatively. Her situation is slowly becoming more clear to her and her apprehension is definitely on the rise. "Who are you?"
"You can call me 'Mitts' or 'Mitsy'," rumbles the voice.
Marda slowly takes stock of her situation as her head clears. She has a second degree burn the size of a silver dollar wherever the hyped up cattle prod hit her, and another one on the sole of one foot. They are starting to hurt like hell at the moment, and have blistered ominously.
"OK. Where are we Mr. Mitsy?" Marda tries to stand and emits a sharp yelp in pain as she falls back on the mattress.
There is a pause, then the deep voice starts again, tinged with a bit of hesitation. "Are you alright? And... are you as young as you sound?"
"No," Marda whines. "Those mean guys hit me with a shocky thing and now I hurt real bad. And how young do I sound?"
Another pause. "How old are you, kid?" finally asks Mitts. And who's in the other cell?" He sighs deeply. "As for where you are... You're in big trouble, that's where you are. This is the CPC, the Center for Paranormal Control." Ominous vibrations mar the rumble. Another pause follows. "From the outside," continues Mitts, "the CPC is an older, four story brick building that looks long abandoned, but it's just a front for the labs. Visiting psychic are supposed to come here to register during their stay on Al Amarja.
The walls amplify his rumble for an instant after each sentence. "This place, this basement is probably older, much older than the CPC, perhaps another medieval construction put to new use by the d'Aubainne régime," continues the prisoner. He stops again for a moment, then picks up the trail. "The 'Democratic Bureau of Investigation' is based here; the DBI's Psychic Neutralizer teams 'investigate' paranormal activities. You probably ran into one of those 'investigations' yourselves, from what I heard..."
A fit of coughing interrupts the basso voice. Dry coughs, gasps, wheezing and finally almost a whimper, surprising from the deep-voiced Mitts, fill the air for a few minutes. After a pause much longer than the previous ones, he finally explains, sounding much weakened: "Sorry, broken ribs."
"I'm six years old" says Marda. "And I don't know who's in the other cell, but Mr. Nigel came with me here. I hope he's OK. These people are mean. Are you OK?"
"I've been better." Mitts wheezing and gasping slowly subsides, but his answers keep coming in clipped sentences, like short bursts of distant rolling thunder. "Six years old. That's really young... to be here... Do you know... why they got you? And what about you... Nigel, was it? Can you hear me?"
Marda thinks for a moment through the pain. While she can't do much for her miserable medical condition, she has managed to hobble over to the toilet, kick off her left shoe and place her foot in the toilet - providing some level of comfort from the burn on the sole (although it isn't the most sanitary method.) "It had something to do with Tata being in trouble and a thingy I made they called a Type 12. And the fact that they're just mean."
A dry rolling laugh comes from the direction of Mitts' cell, but quickly stops before another fit of coughing can develop. "Mean," the basso repeats. "Christ and Buddha on a roller-coaster in thong bikinis! You've got a way with words, neighbour!" He sighs carefully. "They're very, very mean. Not that there aren't meaner folks on Al Amarja, but they're right up there."
Pause.
"Marda, I don't know what CPC calls a 'Type 12'. What thingy did you make?"
Marda pauses and thinks for a moment. "Well, that's kinda the problem - I don't what it does yet. It kind of looks like an electronic flower so far, but I only got a little of it done before they took it away."
"Mmmmm..." rumbles Mitts. "I imagine they'll want to examine you inside and out, then." A bit of silence. "They may even want you to finish the Type 12 thingy. Or..." The next pause in his speech is pregnant with unpleasant possibilities. Finally, he says carefully: "...or they may want to finish your education. You're young, gifted; they may decide you'd make an excellent Neutralizer in a few years."
He lets Marda consider this for a moment, then adds in a detached voice: "I, of course won't be there to see if I'm right. They'll probably kill me within a few days, at this rate."
Nigel comes out of his funk and decides to join the conversation... "Mr. Mitsy, what is it that you're in here for?"
Marda just lets out a long whining moan. Whatever happens in this place, she is not under any circumstances returning to the situation she has left in her old center.
She pipes up a little when she finally hears her partner in misery has surfaced. "Mr. Nigel - you're here! Good! And, yeah, why are you in so much trouble Mr. Mitsy, and what are they doing to you?"
"Must be my political affiliations," grumbles Mitts. "I think the régime didn't like my anarchist Web site and newsletter." Chuckle. "I might have mentioned a few means of anti-authoritarian non-violent protest that were... unusual." More sharp dry chuckles, containing more sadness than humour. "I imagine their conspiracy paranoia won't be satisfied no matter what I say. No one believes in the lone gunman theory."
Another pause.
"What about you, Mr. Nigel?" Mitts finally asks. "I heard that voodoo doll make quite a bit of noise, in there." His voice becomes sardonical. "I don't recall receiving that impressive a treatment... What are you in for?"
Nigel takes a deep breath as he looks at his surroundings. Not exactly the Ritz... "Let's just say that it's a case of mistaken identity, they think I'm someone that I'm not. So I suppose they have all kinds of neuro-dampeners, and other devices to inhibit pschycic activity? "
Mitts' laughter holds genuine amusement this time. "Oh, yeah, I'm familiar with the problem of mistaken identity," he comments. "I don't know about those neuro-dampeners of yours, but I don't think the voodoo doll was dancing in your cell because the gym was being vacuumed. I don't know, you tell me..."
"And you still haven't answered why you would be held HERE," continues Nigel. "Are you someone special?"
Mitts speaks very quietly, so he won't have to breath deeply. His speech still commes in very slowly, with pauses every few words, but the rythm flows progressively better so the prisoner can work in long sentences without choking again.
"Like I said, I think some of the protest methods I suggested were WAY off the beaten path... Like something that could be only taken seriously and happen on Al Amarja. Think about it, neighbour Nigel, with all the psychic powerhouses on the island, if they decided to try anarchy for a while... Then authoritarianism would see the power of the masses. And the government knows it, make no mistake... As you can see here, they're getting ready to fight back on the same level.
This long speech takes quite a while to unfold, apparently leaving Mitts tired. After a longer pause, he resumes:
"And have you ever heard of the HAARP? The High-frequency Active Aurora Research Project. Al Amarja's military is collaborating with those masters of imperialism, the American government, to create a new weapon system based on Tesla technology that can be used to manipulate the environment to disrupt human mental processes and health, jam global communication systems, alter weather patterns, etc. That, all that, is what I'm revealing to the masses. I'm not your average anarchist, I know too much, so I'm here. Now they want names from a conspiracy that doesn't exist, because they can't think in any other terms."
By the end of this tirade-in-slow-motion, his voice is starting to crack again and his breath has become ragged. It is a few more moments before he regains enough breath to ask ironically:
"And you still haven't answered why you would be held HERE, Nigel. Are you someone special?"
Nigel gives a little chuckle... "That would entirely depend on your definition of 'special'. These people seem to think I'm some sort of Satanist, which couldn't be farther from the truth. I'm simply a tourist, here to enjoy the peculiarities of the island. Unfortunately, I seem to be getting a firsthand example of just how different this island is... Marda dear, are you all right? Do you have any idea how we might get out of this dreadful place?"
"No, I am not OK," Marda responds indignantly. "I hurt all over, I'm burned up in a couple of places, I'm stuck in a little tiny room with nothing in it, I can't do anything anyway with these silly mittens on, I wet... never mind that, and, and, and Teddy is gone. I WANNA FIND TEDDY AND GO HOME!"
A low rumbling growl rolls is heard through the doors, apparently coming from Mitts, but he adds no comment to Marda's words.
Marda calls to the next room. "Are you OK in there, Mr. Mitsy?"
The short dry humourless laugh again, then Mitts' subsonic rumble.
"Fine, kid, fine. About as good as you."
"Pig," says a female voice from down the hall. "Why the fuck is he still on the force?"
"Because he's a connected pig," says a male voice. "So shut your mouth."
Several pairs of booted feet come closer and there is a rattle in the lock of Marda's cell door.
"Ready?" says the male voice.
"Ready." answers the female voice.
Ready." answers another male voice.
"I guess so," answers another female voice.
"All right," says the first voice. "Stay in the hallway and out of the way until we're sure its safe. On three. One..."
There is the sound of the door being thrown open and booted feet running inside, coupled with a squeal from Marda.
"OK, got her. Come on in."
On "One," the door of the cell flies open and three cops holding batons and dressed in riot gear rush into the room, eliciting a squeal of terror from Marda. The trio efficiently pin her to the floor ("efficiently" = they don't go out of their way to hurt her in the process, though in her condition being knocked to the floor and pinned there is neither a fun nor a painless process.) then roll her over on her back so that she is staring up at the single 200-watt light on the ceiling. One cop holds her feet, the second pins her shoulders to the floor, and the third stands over her with a ready truncheon. She is allowed to raise her head enough to see a young woman of around 24 step into the cell. The woman has a somewhat pasty complexion and a few blemishes, and is a bit overweight, but other than that seems ordinary enough. She is wearing a white nurses uniform and hat, and is carrying a small bag.
"Hello little girl," she says. "I'm a nurse. How are you feeling?"More footsteps, not booted, and the sound of a cell door closing.
All the while the muffled sounds of the beating continue, like carpenters hammering on a distant roof.
As soon as Marda squeals and the visitors start talking to her, a low rumble starts filling the air, vibrating like the sound of a fridge in an empty apartment.
"Shut the fuck up!" shouts one of the guards, "unless you want me to come in there and do a little dance on those ribs!"
The rumble subsumes to an inaudible level.
In her cell, Marda does her best to keep from completely breaking down under the circumstances, maintaining something of an Oliver Twist-like stoic resolve.
"I hurt bad all over, I'm really scared, and I have two big guys on top of me.
"Where's Teddy?"
The nurse looks somewhat bewildered at this last comment, and like a proper adult decides to just ignore it.
"I bet you are a bit sore right now. Well, I have something here that will make you feel a bit less sore." She opens her bag, pulls out a syringe and a vial of some clear liquid, which she begins filling the syringe with.
"This will help relax and heal your muscles so they won't hurt as much anymore," she says. She nods to the cops, who deftly flip Marda over again and whip down her pants, exposing her tushy.
Marda is more or less taken by surprise by the choreographed movements of three goons and a health care professional, only letting out a brief, but loud and high-pitched "Aiee!" as the needle sinks in. Once the pain of the injection dies down, she repeats the second half of her question.
"Where's Teddy?"
There are no further indignities (for now). The nurse straightens up. "There. That should make you feel a bit better. I'll check in on you again tomorrow." She steps out of the cell.
"OK, let her up" says the leader, and the cops free Marda (leaving her pants around her ankles) and move quickly and efficiently out of the room. The cell door slams shut.
Wishing that they would be a little more considerate (well, the cops - the nurse seemed nice enough), Marda takes advantage of the otherwise unsatisfactory situation to use the toilet. She then moves to resolve the pants situation by moving to the mattress, lying on her back, lifting her legs up as far as they will go (preferably at an angle away from the camera), and letting gravity do the majority of the work for her.
"All right," says the leader in the corridor, "good job. Now, lets get that pig Paco and go grab some coffee."
The booted feet recede down the corridor, and there is a rattle of keys in a lock. "Hey Paco, let's..." begins the leader over the sound of a cell door swinging open.
There is a moment of silence.
"Jesus Christ!" shrieks the nurse.
"What the fuck is going on here?" yells the leader. "Get offa her you sick motherfucker. I outta kick the shit outta you for..."
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" screams a male voice with a thick spanish accent, "MIND YOUR OWN GODDAMNED BUSINESS, YOU HEAR ME? JUST MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING GODDAMNED BUSINESS! SHE'S NOTHING BUT A FUCKING MUTANT ANYWAY, AND A FUCKING WHORE BESIDES! LOTS OF FOLKS FUCKED HER WHEN SHE WAS WORKING FLOWERS, SO IF I WANNA FUCK HER I'M GONNA FUCK HER! AND IF I WANNA BEAT THE SHIT OUTTA HER I'M GONNA BEAT THE SHIT OUTTA HER! AND IF I WANT HER DEAD THEN SHE SURE AS FUCK IS GONNA DIE AND THERE AIN'T A GODDAMNED THING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT, UNDERSTAND?"
There is another moments silence.
"Jesus, sarge, you can't..." says one of the male cops.
"Shut up," the leader replies.
"But sarge, that's..."
"Shut. UP! Right. Now." the leader replies.
"Yeah," says Paco, the sneer evident in his voice, "shut the fuck up asshole, or you'll fucking regret it all the way to the bottom of the fucking harbor."
"That's enough," sarge says, "Pull up your pants, we're leaving."
"Yes SIR!" replies Paco, the sneer still in his voice. "Whatever you say, SIR! Unless you want a bit of this too, heh heh heh." Then his voice changes to one of soft malice, "see you later baby. Sorry we got interrupted this time. You better be prepared to be extra nice to me next time to make up for it." The voice turns nasty again. "No, no, no ya don't! She don't need no fixin' up - nurse - so you just mind your business like I told you."
There is the sound of a cell door slamming, and booted feet move further down the hall. Someone, probably Paco, is whistling. The door at the end of the cell block opens, then closes, and silence returns, punctuated only by the occasional animal whimper.
For an entire minute, the air almost vibrates with tangible hatred, but it's a very casual-sounding Mitts who states calmly, matter-of-factly: "He dies."
Silence blankets the cell block again.
Marda, who has yet to see a definite method by which to accomplish any form of independent action at this venture, opts for a less ambitious form of aid. "Are you all right in there, lady?"
Nigel listens to the gruesome turn of events, and to the guards exiting...
"A man like that can be usefull. His urges overcome his common sense, remember that before you get your mind set on some twisted sense of revenge Mr. Mitsy. There will be plenty of time to filet the fucker's flesh after we've solved the more immediate concern of getting out of here. Marda, dearest, are you feeling funny? Did that nice lady give you a shot?"
Marda calls back, "Yeah, I feel a little better, but I still hurt everywhere and everybody's so mean here."
Nigel pauses, then addresses the other female prisoner. "I'm talking to the young lady in the other cell, are you all right? Can you talk? Do you know why you're here?"
But only whimperings answer him.
To Be Continued...