#cjs'series

***

The small cell was dark, the only stream of light coming from the lamp at the desk where a figure hunched over notes and scans. The young woman let out a tired sigh, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her eyes. After three years, she had gotten used to the lack of natural lighting.

Three years.

Three years she had been stuck in the hell hole, witnessing horrible acts; she couldn’t tell if the screams she would hear at night were real anymore. Three years ago she was blissfully unaware of how terrible the world could be - the nightmares underneath every surface, lurking in every shadow, hiding in every corner. Which, she thought, was saying something considering her childhood. She never imagined she could ever long for those nights taking shelter under her bed from her father’s drunken rage, covering her head with her pillows to block out her mother’s pleadings and shouts of pain. Yet, here she was. Longing for the freedom that would grant her.

Then again, it was her father’s fault she was here in the first place.

She looked over, snapping out of her thoughts, at the sound of her cell being unlocked. “He’s back.” The agent at the door growled out.

Raising her eyebrows, she checked her watch; it was late, after midnight, but that wasn’t what she was checking for. He was back quicker than usual. She didn’t think anymore of it, standing up and walking over to the agent. She had lost her curiosity her first year being held there, quickly learning that her only business was the mental state of their soldier.

She followed the agent out into the hall, blinking at the bright hallway lights that flooded her sight. She had memorized the route by this point and could probably walk to the familiar room with her eyes closed. Take a left here, go down the stairs, pass through the hall, right turn, wait…left turn again.

They finally got to the room, which she reluctantly entered. It was large and, like most of the base, was blinding with artificial lighting. There was a room in the back separated by glass with more computers. In the center, surrounded by computer screens, was the cursed machine. If she never saw it again, it would be too soon. She couldn’t help her visible surprise when she saw the man sitting in the chair, agents hooking him up to the machine.

This was the worst part. Studying him. She had to watch - note every minor tick and major squirm. Listening to him was even more heart wrenching.

But it was her job. Her job that she was basically sold to, but her job nonetheless. She couldn’t help him, as much as she wanted to. If she so much as spoke to him without permission, they’d both get in trouble.

She often wished she never got a degree in psychology. It didn’t help that she studied kinesiology and linguistics, either. Maybe if she did music or art she wouldn’t be here. But, then again, she had always been a quick study. She supposed she was doomed to be here one way or another. Being born a genius sucked.