Post by Caedan on Jul 8, 2008 23:58:03 GMT -5
The lights wavered, faded, dimmed to the point of non-existence, and flickered to life again. The shrill cry that resonated down the halls had long since died out, only to be replaced with a haunting silence that was nearly deafening.
Subject 0712 was dead.
It was a jolt of adrenaline plunged into her thoracic cavity that forced her back into existence. An elongated needle full of the hormone served to coax her heart into once more beating a dull cadence that echoed against the metal chair that embraced her diminutive frame. Another cry echoed her former, that of pain most exquisite.
"Amp up the barbiturates."
She drifted in and out of consciousness, though remained oblivious to the needles that decorated bruised flesh where they had entered and unsuccessfully attempted to tap into thin veins. An uneasy moan escaped cracked lips, and she writhed in the metal bands that bound her to the chair. The medical assistants hovered, and the doctor looked on in casual disregard.
"Let's hear some scary stories, sweetheart," one of aids mumbled under his breath.
She gasped when the next needle violated her, and began to course its poison through veins and arteries alike.
"Unnghh."
She groaned as the effects of the hallucinogenic began to manifest themselves.
And then she began to prophesy.
The doctor guided her thought process, manipulating a rapidly deteriorating mind to dwell upon the subject he desired.
"The weather. Tell me what it feels like outside."
A nod towards one of the aides indicated another injection should be administered when she spoke of flowers, instead of climate.
She cried out, then, "Cold. It's cold. I have no shoes. My feet are buried in white. The white covers everything. Everyone is so cold. They just huddle together, and die."
The doctor smiled, and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
"Good girl." He nodded to one of the orderlies, who unlocked the bands from around wrists and ankles, freeing her from the chair, and helped her to her feet. She shuffled from the room, relying heavily upon his assistance to remain standing. The aide returned the distraught adolescent to her cell, lowered her upon the pallet that served as a cot, and left her alone with her thoughts of death. The bar falling into place against the door resonated down empty halls, and within a mind barely recovering from the effects of the hallucinogenic still coursing through her veins.
____________
The generals of the Army of Duran never questioned where the information they received came from. They only knew it was rarely incorrect, and in their bloated glory, they were triumphant as victory after victory quelled rebel uprisings throughout Catal. A blizzard decimated the rebel forces, a fury-laden winter storm ripping through the countryside overnight during a particularly pleasant spring season. Duran soldiers were outfitted with robes of rabbit fur, and countless trees had been cut down to serve as kindling for the innumerable regiments stationed just outside what had at just previously been a forest.
The next few days were hell for the rebels. A freezing, icy, unrelenting hell. They were ill-prepared for such an unexpected storm, and Duranian spies had long since intercepted the caravan of supplies intended to relieve already waning rations. Days turned into weeks. The death toll among the rebels rose steadily, while the Duran Army sat before their fires and played cards and sang songs of old. One night, as quickly as the storm had descended, it lifted.
A veteran general rode out with a small contingent of soldiers to the rebel encampment to survey the damage the blizzard had inflicted upon eerily silent forces.
There were a handful of survivors shuffling about, and many lacked fingers and toes, even noses.
Victory.
The psychic was summoned from her cell the next day for another prophecy.
"Let's discuss the rest of the rebel army, shall we?"