Part 4: To Sleep; Perchance to Dream...

Darkness.

Infinite night.

Cold, silent ebony slickness ceaselessly tugging the mind into torturous curves and bends. Forcing introspection to a dangerous, soul-eating level. Deprived of all other sensation or orientation, a human will retreat, falling further inward until only an animalistic core shines out madly.

Lost in this harsh realm, he floats--alone and past fear. There is nothing left: no hope, no salvation.

An eternity gently unfolds, lazily spinning eons end over end until it happens. With no warning, he is consumed by a stellar-bright purity. Scouring the raw consciousness, it floods to every corner, exposing and destroying. Crashing waves of pain carry with them the faded reassurance of a physical form. He begins to track that thought--grasping out and, relieved, senses boundaries.

The surrounding, pervading light peels back, becoming dimmer and clouded. No, the splotches move about in front of a blank surface. Slowly, he realizes each rounded shape is a form like himself. One stoops closer, filling his field of vision, and emits a modulated sound. Speech recognition centers are prodded to life, processing the noise into recognizable images and concepts.

"I think he's coming around, doctor." It ducks away to be replaced by the other blur which gradually clears. As it speaks, comprehension dawns for the boy, dragging along the dreadful knowledge that while he had suffered at these hands before, an unholy agony likely still laid in store.

"Ah... and how are you feeling today, my good sir?" the physician queries with a brittle, glimmering smile.

Glaring in open contempt, the youth vainly attempts to move away from chill, probing hands. "Just peachy, McGuffin," he hoarsely responds.

Snickering unctuously, the spare man nods to the room's other occupant. "Such kind words our patient has to thank us for our valiant efforts in his time of need." The nurse remains in the sterile background, now as much an immobile, passionless thing as the bank of monitors she keeps an eye on. She gives no indication she heard his comment.

"Hopefully you are in a more cooperative mood this time, Mr. Winner. I do so hate using more indelicate methods to obtain information. It would be a pity to permanently damage so delightful a specimen as yourself," he says, gently running the back of his hand down Quatre's cheek.

Firmly strapped to a bed by no fewer than nine sturdy leather bands, he is overcome with a sense of helplessness. The blonde is not able to lift his head from the thin pillow to more completely survey his prison. He makes a futile furtive effort at furthering any possible escape by slowly tensing his muscles and applying force against each restraint.

Even this small movement is detected by McGuffin. He shakes his head in disapproval. "My dear boy, I thought you were so much smarter than that. If you would only cooperate, we could all have ever so lovely a time becoming the best of friends."

He walks out of the Arabian's field of vision for a moment. The doctor returns with a metal clipboard binding a sheaf of papers. Flipping through the data, he makes a decision: "As much as it truly pains me to admit, pharmaceutical advances have yielded less than satisfactory results. Perhaps it is time for a return to the more time-honoured approaches for information extraction?"

Quatre turns a shade paler when he detects the tone of unchecked malice McGuffin manages to eloquently emote. He closes his eyes in an effort to summon his remaining resolution, missing his captor's beckon.

"Most charming nurse, could you please see to it that every monitoring device is disconnected from Mr. Winner. I am afraid they are far too sensitive to withstand prudent levels of applied voltage."

Falling further, Quatre folds himself behind mental defenses. This time he actively attempts a complete severance of his corporeal and intangible aspects.

'I must not give them the opportunity... have to remain strong until I get a chance to escape.'

Although he can still sense the bright room from behind closed eyelids, he is confident he can tolerate physical discomfort. 'I guess it's time to prove how right you were, Father. I got my defiant streak from you, after all,' the blonde has time to think before a cool gel is applied to various points on his body.

"Make sure electrode contact is maximized--yes, I believe that will do nicely," McGuffin says as he wheels a small cart closer to the bed. "Eyes open, boy," he demands, slapping Quatre with an open palm. "I have a few questions for you."

With a feral snarl, he slits his teal orbs.

"We'll see how complacent you can become, won't we?" The balding gent passes his hand over a dial-studded device on the cart, sending a tingling wave through Quatre. Two gazes lock as the boy's tormentor slowly increases the voltage output.

"You should feel a most exquisite sort of pain now: countless needles pricking the flesh; a layer of heat spreading from head to toe, yet localized to within an inch of the epidermis." Phrases slotting effortlessly into place, he continues with a practiced and leisurely air.

"It's all really quite pleasant at this stage. However," he adds, twisting a knob until it clicks once, "the other levels leave much to be desired."

Grimacing at blossoming agonies, Quatre sneers. "Do your worst, but I'll never talk."

With a tiny sigh of feigned resignation, McGuffin replies, "How very trite. You will see reason though--in time." He ramps up the power by a factor of three, cutting out several paths of resistors. A wan smile plays across his lips before he returns the device to a lower setting.

Anguished screams echo from the walls. Panting, Quatre slumps back against the mattress and tries to calm his rapidly beating heart. After a moment to catch his breath, he reiterates--a gasping, raspy "Never."

"I enjoy challenges, you know. We'll find something that suits you, yes?

"After all, there are still nine more settings to try."

Hours later, McGuffin wearily stalks down featureless hallways. Stopping in front of a door exactly the same as those all about, he enters a darkened room. A raised dias occupies the sole area of light. Illumination increases as he mounts the platform. Kneeling low, he bows his fringed head and waits, shrouded in silence.

An imperious voice booms from an enormous glittering image seconds after it winks into existence before him. "Report, vile worm."

Sinking even closer to the floor in groveling obeisance, he begins his appraisal of the situation.

"My Lady, I am most ashamed that I can not confirm certain areas of intelligence concerning the subject. No less than twelve potent substances ordinarily capable of rendering complete submission were introduced in as many attempts to gain the required information."

He dares to elevate his head and addresses a larger-than-life hologram of an obscured figure. "Each compound was ineffectual in non-lethal dosages, if your Grace will recall from my earlier communications."

In the pause before he receives a response, he again mulls over the time lag necessary with sub-light speed transmissions. He had tried to figure the relative position of his employer based on the short delays, but never observed a reproducible interval value.

"Yes, your failures spring readily to mind," the voice answers testily.

Assuming another posture of servility, McGuffin resumes his prepared speech. "Forgive me, Lady. Nevertheless, we are not to be discouraged for even in the insensible ramblings recorded near the end of some trials can we obtain miniscule insight into the subject. Determine a weakness, perhaps."

A slightly shorter pause this time. "Have you made concrete progress of any sort?" An underlying tone of angry accusation causes a twinge of trepidation in the white-coated man.

"As the subject is apparently well-trained or guarded against certain interrogative techniquess, I have been forced to utilize more drastic means." He produces a data disk and pops it into a handheld transmitter. The data stream piggybacks a ride on the holographic system, arriving at his employer's computer as his next words leave his mouth.

"It seems the tried and true approaches still have a place in the modern world. While the subject remains obstinately reticent, I believe he is close to the breaking point. Lady, if you would kindly review the relevant files, you perhaps will agree."

Head downcast, he maintains his position for several minutes.

"Hmm. You may proceed with the current mode of inquiry. However, do not fail me by being either too lenient or strict with our... guest. Your time runs short, but we need his health relatively preserved. Use your discretion."

The frigid dismissal coming as somewhat of a relief, McGuffin rises, bows and leaves the dias. He makes his way back to personal quarters within the compound, completely unaware of the singular meeting ocurring in a room corridors and levels removed:

"Each moment with that oaf taxes my patience, Edward. If only he weren't so damned useful with specialized services, I would be rid of him in a moment."

The same voice which so unnerved the doctor merely grates upon the nerves of her servant as he goes about at her bidding. Holographic imagers now idle, the female leans back and scans the video portion of McGuffin's latest "research."

She frowns and creases her forehead in a combination of peevishness and confusion as she replays a segment.

"So the other is that significant to you--are you actually so inordinately fond of him? You are a puzzle, Quatre Raberba Winner. I have no doubt of that." Cross-referencing older files, she makes a few notations.

Tension mounting with each keystroke, Edward breaks protocol by interrupting. "But, please, Miss... you must know what that devil's capable of. How can you let him have free rein with such an important hostage."

Steely eyes bore into him. She casts aside the reports and rears like a vengeful goddess. "Do not presume to understand such weighty matters as those which plague me, insolent whelp." Crouching pitifully, he shies from her advance.

"No, Mistress! I merely thought--" he gibbers, trying to minimize himself. "Surely a precious commodity like the boy will be useless to us if McGuffin's inquiries are allowed to continue."

With an utterly mirthless grin, she brings back her open hand and swings at him. To his surprise, she slows and gently taps the side of his face in a patronizing manner.

"After being privy to many fascinating facets of my campaign, you have yet to grasp a fundamental notion: the boy is no longer important. He is, and has been since his capture, but one piece of bait for my true quarry: Trowa Barton."

Back to Part Three: Misty, Water-coloured Memories... .

Please proceed to Part Five: Endgame or e-mail the author with questions or comments.