There were lights, and the glint of metal everywhere - metal on
metal, never ending. Millions of facets, mirrored glass, reflected light
toward him. He turned in the steel-and-glass world, and saw nothing but
more reflections. Now, reflections of himself, in different poses and
actions. Some didn't even reflect him at all, but instead seemed to mirror
his thoughts. There was... blood?
He turned again, and he saw the face of John Murphy in a piece
of polished chrome. He was dead. There were wolves around him,
worrying his body - wolves with faces of men. Among them he saw Joseph
Manderley. Then John was speaking, and his voice filled the world.
"Why?" he said.
The world moved, and the metal began to contract in upon
Steve. As a flat piece shifted, he saw that his face was now one of a
wolf.
There was a noise, as of metal grinding. Steve awoke
suddenly, gripping his shirt and winding it around his fingers. He stood
quickly and hobbled to the window - his muscles hurt more every time he used
them. Through the filthy aperture, he could see a man in a long black coat
speaking to one of the guards. Suddenly the man turned and stared directly
at Steve's window. Now he knew who he was looking at - he'd seen him on
the news only the other day. It was Walton Simons, director of FEMA.
What was this prestigious character doing in an MJ12 prison? Unless... of
course. It had to be. The corruption must have spread further than
even he could have imagined.
What have I got myself into? Steve thought. Walton
Simons, meanwhile, stepped into the opposite room and the door clicked shut.
There was silence for several minutes.
A tremendous roar shook the wall against which Steve was
leaning, and blood spattered the opposite window. He felt sick. The
door opened and the man in black, now with spots of blood on his hands and coat,
stepped out. Behind him, Steve could see a pair of legs partially hidden
by the wall, and thin streams of blood flowing steadily down the gentle incline
of the floor, down to the grate already stained with mortal red. He
trembled, and sank to the ground, putting his head between his knees.
There was no way out. This was the end.
The door slid back. The entered, and the metal door
shut with a finality that underscored Steve's fears.
The figure stepped up to Steve's hunched figure and pulled him
bodily to his feet. "Tell me what you know," he said. When
Steve said nothing, he gripped his captive's arms and repeated his
request. "Tell me what you know, terrorist." Steve
remained silent. "Fine," he growled.
He turned Steve's arms and hands palm-up. With hardly a
grunt, Simons thrust Steve's left arm down while holding his elbow
stationary. There was a resounding crack of bone and gristle.
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