Captured

The first thing you notice as you awake is the total darkness surrounding you. No matter how many times you blink, you cannot work away the terrible darkness that seems to be pressing in on you. You move to rub your eyes but find yourself to be restrained. You begin to move your head in an effort to look about but soon remember the action’s uselessness. Instead, you focus on your breathing and listen.

“What is it?” A voice echoes through a wall. It’s muffled, but it’s close. You estimate it to belong to a male recently waning from his prime just outside the room. Closer listening reveals he’s shuffling his feet and holding a complex, metallic object in his arms. You suspect him to be an armed guard.

“I kind of figured that much was obvious.” Another voice makes its way to your perked ears. This voice originates from an older female, nearing seniority. The chalkiness to the voice reveals that the speaker has a mild breathing problem. She does not shuffle her feet, instead favoring to tap her fingertips on… something. You think it may be a log book. Anyone keeping watch would have to log the goings-on around her. “It’s an alien, Foster. Oh, don’t give me that look!” This minor comment reveals to you that she’s known the man, Foster, for quite some time. “If it wasn’t hostile before, then it sure will be now, after what we’ve done to it.”

You find this to be a curious comment. You can’t remember anyone doing anything particularly terrible to you. Then again, you don’t really remember how you wound up here. Thinking more toward the state of your slightly muddled mind, you imagine you were probably drugged specifically for this purpose. Whoever did so must have been unsure how your system would handle anaesthetics. Going for a memory-suppressing drug instead would be safer. Whoever drugged you must have valued your life. That’s good. You probably don’t have to worry about anyone killing you too soon, then.

“I didn’t say anything,” Foster defended himself. The female must have struck a nerve with her comment. Foster must have been involved more directly if his concern toward your innate hostility was so obvious. You hear a set of footsteps approaching. “Good evening, sir,” Foster called out. “Will you be wanting to see the prisoner today, sir?” There was a certain level of apprehension in Foster’s voice that made it clear that this was not an immediate superior. Whoever Foster was addressing was much a much higher rank than with which he was used to dealing.

You await the addressee’s response, but no one speaks. You suspect there to be nonverbal communication in effect. After a few moments, you hear the soft, screeching sound of old metal scraping over old metal. The door to your room is being unlocked. Apparently, there are multiple locking mechanisms, however, as the screeching is followed by a series of light taps and a beep, the sound of an old wheel turning, and a quick succession of clicks as latches are undone. Then, there is a metallic whine as the door opens, and you hear footsteps as someone steps into your room.

You tilt your head toward the sound, your ears turning slightly to align in the same direction. For the first time since waking, you are acutely aware of a sense of weakness. Your body is filled with pain, and you feel as though you would be little able to attempt an escape even if the opportunity arose. The scratching of carbon on wood tells you that the person in your room is writing something on a notepad.

Strange, you think. At the writing rate your ears are picking up, the writer doesn’t seem to have any trouble seeing what they’re writing, yet you still can’t see anything. Focusing more now on your own body, you begin to notice the sources of your various pains.

While you feel no warm trickling indicative of bleeding, you are painfully aware of several open wounds. You’re fairly certain that at least one wound is infected, as you can feel the swelling about  the injury. You very consciously open your eyelids again, trying your best to see, but when you close them, you notice that there is no pressure against the flaps of skin so well-designed to protect the eyes. Scrunching your face a few times, you withhold a gasp as you realize the horrible truth: your eyes are missing. Focusing on the sensation of your skin, you feel a dry warmth telling you that the room is actually very well-lit.

You decide to speak, but upon attempting to do so, you realize that a tightly fitting muzzle has been placed over your jaw, preventing articulate speech. Retaining your dignity, you refuse to simply grunt and groan through the muzzle. Instead, you merely relax your body and sit back onto your haunches. You return to simply listening, and pay attention not to reveal any emotion across your face.

The scratching comes to a halt. “I see that you’re awake.” The voice belongs to an elderly male. “I hope you’re not feeling too much pain. Unfortunately, I can’t risk giving you any pain medicine. Can you understand what I’m saying? If so, please nod.” You do so slowly, trying to make it clear that you are nodding only to demonstrate that you are listening and not in any attempt to obey. “Excellent!” The man makes no attempt to hide his elation at this revelation. “That will make communication much easier.”

You feel the warm pressure of his hands on the back of your head as he removes the muzzle. “I hope you don’t expect me to reveal any information to which you
are not already privy, Earth-child.” Your voice comes out with a fluidity no human could match despite the fact that your throat is so worn. “What do you hope to achieve in capturing me?”


The man takes a few steps back and sets the muzzle on the ground to your right. “Well, I must say, I didn’t expect you to speak English.” A light clatter and more scratching tells you that he’s writing more notes. The pace at which he is scribbling does little to hide his excitement.

“Well, I have been on this planet long enough to learn your languages,” you say. “They’re all simple enough.” A quick gasp shows that you may have revealed something of which he was not already aware. Either that, or he was offended by your comment.

“What are you doing on Earth, then?” He makes a short scribble. “Are you here to invade? Or perhaps you wish to use us as food? Maybe this planet has a good fuel source that you can’t find elsewhere?” Is this man stupid? You wonder, but you dare not ask. That would also be offensive. Your interrogator clearly has no sense for interstellar relations, however. This seems in accordance with the Earth’s general paranoia and sense of self-importance.

“I’m here for my own purposes, which are centered around protecting this planet.” Again, scribbles follow your every word. This time, the man takes a few steps toward you. “Before you question me further, however,” you add. “May I know the name of my interrogator? My own is Kahlisa.”

The man scribbles some more. “I am Dr. Tyson.” There is a certain pride in his voice as he states this fact, but you are displeased.

“I asked for your name, human, not your title or your clan.” In your culture, it is only subordinates that address one by title or clan. “Very well, though. I am Kuli J’Homerri, Galactic Monitor and Guardian, First and Last Sentry of the Fehmadadi.” There is more scribbling, and the man takes another step back. You must have intimidated him.

“You said you intend to protect this planet. What did you mean? Are you defending it from us?” This man was incredibly paranoid, though it was possible most humans may think this way.

“I am defending you from a force that has not yet revealed itself to you. That is all I shall say on that matter.” You close the issue, which clearly displeases Dr. Tyson since he scoffs before continuing to write. “Where are my eyes, Dr. Tyson, and why were they removed?”

He stops writing. “That’s enough for today. I’ll be back tomorrow. Someone will bring you bread and water later.” Well, that wouldn’t do.

“I cannot eat bread, Dr. Tyson. I require fruit or meat to sustain myself.” These were the last words you managed out before the muzzle was put back over your jaws. Dr. Tyson’s hands are shaking as he fastens it tightly. Perhaps he is scared or apprehensive.

“Well, I’m sorry. I can’t get you either of those things. I’ll see if I can get some sort of non-glutenous protein, though. You asked my name,” he adds. “It’s Colt.” Colt Tyson stands and walks out of the room. The door’s locks are restored, and you begin to meditate.

The Phoenix will rise in ten more years. Until then, you must wait and observe. For now, you focus on regrowing your eyes.

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