Lost Carol

Removed for reasons.

Here's an elephant as compensation.

'Who Are You?'

It was a question.

Interrogation?

Helpful?

Possibilities flowed through her head in rapid consideration. She had been rebirthed, that suggested she had died. She had died, that suggested she had failed. If she had failed she was fallible, that suggested she needed to be better. A simple equation.

She hated the rebirth, the twitching, the spasms, rolling around on the floor like...meat. It was a period of uncontrol, already she felt the danger present in the situation. It was hard to focus fully, but focus had to be achieved. She rolled over onto her knees, pressing her forehead to the cold metal of the floor. The icy painfulness stabbed into her head, cooling the roiling maelstrom there. Focus...calm...center...

She allowed herself a moment. Her body was still coughing, still wracked with spasms as newly formed muscles sprang to full awareness and power and as new lungs tried to gulp in mouthfuls of air.

But the mind was quicker than that, it had to be. Autonomic functions, respiration, heartbeat, the pumping of the adrenal gland to prepare the body for the shocks it was going through. The brain was already focused on it's path. That allowed her to consider the situation. Currently she was blind, weak, helpless...she was not fond of this.

The voice was strong and insistent, and the voice had serviced the rebirth. There were possibilities in that, of course, many of them. Two sprang to mind quickly; the obvious considerations.

Either she had been reformed by the Kabal.
Or she had been reformed by an enemy.

Logic dictated that it was most likely the Kabal of...Final Breath? The thought clicked into her head slowly. Too slowly. But the thought was there, yes, she would most likely be with the Final Breath and the question had been asked to help her refocus after the pain of rebirth and to make sure her mind was still her own and working.
But if it was an enemy of some sort, than the question was to attempt to get information prior to her own ability to understand what information was or wasn't preferable to have them know.

She was Syndibaar’untax Fill’ithilaryn called 'Syntax' by people she chose to allow to think of her as a friend. She had performed the equation of the situation, it was a simple answer.

She began to very quietly attempt to form words, her thick feeling tongue making it hard, but her ability to speak would soon be back - but her first words would not be her name.

Her voice came out in a hissed whisper, her throat too damaged for anything else. Still, she spoke before any of the other quivering blobs had managed to pull themselves together enough to do so. This did not surprise her, whoever the other figures lashing about on the floor were, she was hardly surprised that hers had been the first mind to focus itself, it was as expected.

"I am Eladrith Ynneas," she said, the words meaning 'Dark Eldar'.

It was an answer more true than her name. It was an answer that said she was something to be feared, not something that felt fear. It was an answer that said she knew her purpose in the great game, not something as bandied about as a name. It was an answer that told her purpose without revealing her point. She was Dark Eldar, she was a predator, and she was awake.

He had mistaken the rebirth for an overdose. It was all so familiar. The burning vision, the severe nausea the untamed thrashing.

The harsh cold of the chamber burnt at his flesh, and for a moment he hadn’t realised that any body else had been near by.

“Who are you?”

He tried not to panic but attempted to focus his vision.

He needed to focus his thoughts.

He could still taste the fluids of the rebirthing chamber in his mouth and could feel it polluting his lungs. This was not like any symptom of his past that he had ever felt before. This was unfamiliar, unwelcome.

Looking up he assumed that whoever was questioning him did not have any intention of harming him, or at least harming him yet. If he had anything of value that this voice wanted then he would not be awake to hear the man.

He needed a way out, he wanted a way out. He did not want to be here. He had noticed the others through fogged over sight and anxiety that could cause the greatest of orators to hide away reclusively in his own home set in.

Slowly, he curled into a ball, not for modesy’s sake, just because he loathed his proximity to these unknowns, especially out in the open where he was vulnerable.

He clenched his jaw, resisted the urge to answer and thrashed the ground in rage. He was compelled to speak, his monasticism broken through a mere urge that could not be denied.

His mind was blank but there was one thing that he could remember:
“Helyurt Kellion’esh.” He gave in, clasping his hands over his face.He had no wealth, he had no clothes, he had no weapons.Where was he? Why was he there? Who would dare to question him?


He was Helyurt Kellion’esh, the loathed, the scorned, the betrayed.

The question pierced his clouded mind like a knife through soft flesh.

'Who am I?'

His fractured mind tried to put his rogue thoughts back into place. He searched deep for his name, and yet saw nothing. Distorted Images flashed around in his head. A tower on fire, the screams of people being burned alive, some sort of craft, no, a Raider, flying away from the scene. A dark hole, a child curled up, crying. A sinister creature reaching from the shadows, frost apearing on the side of the hole from his mere presence. The child with lightning quick reflexes pulls out a serpetine blade and slices off the hand of the being, a Mandrake if he remembers right. The Mandrake coils back in fear.

That blade stood out in his mind. He felt as if he should know the blade, like it was a old friend. As he focused more on the blade, memories flashed by. The years of training with the blade, using the blade to fight off scavagers trying to get his food, his first murder, all the while holding this blade. The blade was his weapon, his life!

The blade was called a Karath, and it was given to him by his families' Kabal apon birth. He remembered using it for his work, but what was his work? Faces started to flow through his mind. He knew every one of their names, their age, their occupation, their habits, their likes and dislikes. He remembered the hunt. Waiting in a bar as one of them drank. Breaking into another's room and waiting for him to come home. He then recalled the sensation of his blade going through their soft flesh, and the exhilaration he felt as their blood spilled out.

'I know the answer'

Yarin Dahal flexed his muscles. The pain of rebirth was greater than he had imagined. This was his first time, and he would make sure he would never have to go through it again. His mind quickly sorted every memory back into place. He hated this disjointed feeling, even more so than the feeling of helplessness. With much struggle, Yarin slowly sat up to one knee. He felt the cold eyes of the interrogator stare into what seemed like his soul. With his throat still raw from the rebirthing fluid, it was difficult to even get a whisper out, but the answer still must be given.

"I am Silent Death"

The perfect way to describe a true assassin.

The birthing chamber.

No.

The Prophets had finally caught up to him it would seem.

Panic and cold terror ran through the core of Zeklas being. A millennia of torture awaited him, for the Prophets did not take betrayal lightly.

The amniotic fluids were familiar to him. Many times through this process had brought about a certain... familiarity... Zekla knew his name, and knew what would come next. The pain, the disorientation, then the torture would start.

Are you ready to be born anew?

Zekla swallowed his fear and nodded. Nothing to be done about it now. To quiver in fear would only excite his captors.

As the chamber opened and washed him to the floor, lungs heaving to clear themselves, no control over his body, Zekla considered his escape possibilities. It would be only moments before he regained full control of his body, and if his captors were not on their guard, perhaps... perhaps...

tap... tap... tap...

Plated boots. Unusual. Not typical of those in the employ of a haemunculous. Zekla lay still. Around him he could hear others squirming in the aftermath of the rebirth. He searched his memory. There must be something there to explain this. An archon... Zerith?, service in a military, weapons, Kabal of the Final Breath, Corpser Elite... other flashes and fragments here and there, but nothing substantial.

Who are you?

That voice. Someone familiar? Zekla didn't know. Around him a mutiny of noise pierced the near silence. Military doctrine took over. Zekla scrambled to his knees and sat up as straight as possible. Though nearly blind Zekla looked in the direction of his captor with a gaze that would wither Khorne. When he spoke the sound escaping his throat was horse and barely audible even to his own ears...

Zekla Ororos, ID number 85568426, Kabal of the Final Breath, Corpser Elite division. Torture me if you will, you'll have nothing else from me, except your death...

With those words, his minute energy spent, Zekla collapsed and faded into unconsciousness.

Pain.

Pain so great it caused actinic flashes to bloom behind the eyes at every movement, wracking the senses and forcing half-choked screams from a throat raw with ichor and the first, painful breath of cool air. Pain beyond rapture and horror, a harrowing, numbing, humiliating lash of weakness across perfect white skin. Keshariel blinked stinging eyes, blind heliotropes giving him nothing but the barest glimmer of dark and light. His back arched. There was light above him, and he grasped vainly for it, his first instinct to possess and hurt that which had seen him suffer.

Had Malixtris been overzealous with the agoniser again?

Keshariel struggled to search his memory. At first, there was nothing. A brief flash of the arena was the first scene to assert itself, then - blood, the sound of a dying breath, the feel of smooth skin parting like silk, the soft droplets of blood falling from a severed head held high. The rush of death, the elation of the kill. He was a Wych, he was an assassin. He was a falling star of retribution on all of those who ever doubted his skill or held him back.

He was also, undoubtedly, coming back to life.

Now that the pain of rebirth had asserted itself over the former Wych's tired mind, Keshariel had to concede, in a savage burst of agony overcoming denial, that in order to be reborn, he must first have died.

I ... died? Inconceivable! Intolerable! I cannot, I will not be made to endure such humiliation! The illogic of it all was slowly melting away as his mind gelled, and his thoughts became more ordered, if not more calm. He could not remember how, but he had met a fatal end and someone had the grace - or more likely the acumen - to bring him back, He couldn't recall any arrangements with a Haemonculus, so it must be someone for whom he worked, someone from his new Kabal. A slight touch of pride made itself felt through the pounding of his newly-minted heart. Someone, at least, had seen his value, his unique skills, and recognised them for what they were.

The pain eased, and his new alabaster skin shivered fitfully, as if he were coming down from Heavenspire or Black Lily. One finely-sculpted left hand brushed hesitantly over its opposite number, up the forearm and to the shoulder. No restraints. Also, no clothes. Only the noxious, cloying amniotic fluids slowly drying on his naked body. Keshariel knew he had a perfect physique, honed by long hours training for the arenas and cared for with the attention that all top predators must give to themselves. So he felt no shame in finding himself bared for all to see, only a spike of outrage that he did not control the who and where of it. There were sounds outside his own narrow compass now, groans of pain, rasps of clotted lungs, and the precise clack of armoured boots on the cold floor. That was not the staccato tap of high-heeled boots, but a more pedestrian warrior's footstep. Keshariel tensed. Whatever this was, it was not his former Cult's idea of a playful and exacting vengeance.

"Who are you?" There were voices, others making their answers, all harsh with the newness of fluid-stained throats, some wrathful, some proud. One was lighter than the rest, a more feminine timbre. He sat up, testing the movement in his limbs before moving into a crouch. It made him a smaller target to missile fire, it let him protect his more vital centre - heart most of all - and it allowed him to spring into a more guarded stance the moment he felt a blow coming, or, by the Void, his damned eyes began to focus.

Spitting out the last of the artificial womb's liquid, he took a deeper breath of the air around him, tasting the scent of others amid the currents swirling in the unseen questioner's wake.

"I am Keshariel Ilestrion, the Severer." he gave a slight tilt of his head, the barest nod of acknowledgement. "I hold more kills with the garrote than anyone in my squad. I regret that you find me so poorly dressed; I can assure you that I more normally conduct myself with much better style." To one raised a Wych, to present oneself at anything less than one's best was anathema, as well as being in shocking bad taste. It signalled either that one was sloppy, or that the enemy was so far beneath one's notice as not to even merit an elegant kill. That might not be wise. He paused, for the barest moment. His chin tilted higher. "Who are you?"

There was no response at first after each warrior gave their answer to the unseen interrogator. Time elapsed for a mere handful of seconds yet it seemed to drag on for minutes. Your ears were the first to adjust to the new world, the ringing slowly dying down to a dull buzz that would linger for a few more minutes. For here, you could pick up the feint echoes of screams in the distance. It was a familiar thing that stood out among such an unfamiliar situation that it was almost comforting…

Your mind snapped back to reality as the figure began to move. Ever so casually, the metallic thud of kabalite boots trailed before each of you. It paused before Syntax first, allowing silence to once more ease its way into dominance before gently reaching out and pressing a single claw to her forehead. It was no more than a mere pin prick yet every nerve in her body screamed in absolute agony. Even for one so used to pain as a True Kin, the sensation was excruciating. She screamed, more out of surprise than anything else as she collapsed to the floor, her muscles spasming just as they had done before when she was released from her birthing chamber. The pain was unreal yet its origins were unmistakable…. The touch of an Agoniser.

Yarin was next to feel the sting of pain, this time the figure’s claws gently caressing the prone warrior’s cheek as a lover. Such brief contact with an Agoniser was not lethal yet still it would disrupt the nervous system to the point that even a masochist would weep for mercy… Neither worry did such begging.

”Take diction ‘Patient analysis: Subjects 1 and 3. Subjects fail to comprehend basic questionnaires. Further medical attention… Pending… Failing subjects succeed to withstand pain threshold at 15%. Enthusiasm will not be required.’ “

The voice spoke again to another figure in the room as it paced towards the very center of the room.

Given this time to adjust, you are all able to finally wipe away the fluid from your eyes and pierce the darkness of the chamber. The five of you lay next to each other completely naked, your pale flesh soaked in a dark fluid that matted your hair and dripped to the floor. Almost immediately your mind understood and registered what it was; blood.

Tearing your eyes away from each other, you gaze up to meet the hollow white eyes of your interrogator. He was a creature of gaunt physique, his spindly form almost seeming to be nothing more than pale skin stretched over bones. His origins were indeed Eldar yet, like all of his kind, such things were no longer easily discernible. Several dark boned vertebras protruded from the flesh hump of his back, six long, arachnid-like arms twitching and writhing with almost a mind of its own. The Haemonculi seemed to follow each of you with blank eyes, smiling softly as he gently lowered his head.

”Welcome, Avatars of the Final Breath…. To your Resurrection… How are you feeling?...”

Misbegotten simpleton. Her vengeance would be...Syntax's eyes narrowed somewhat blurrily as she considered the Haemonculus...eventual.

She noted that training was being encouraged to express personal secrets immediately upon rebirth - a noted security lapse. She would write a paper and submit it at the earliest opportunity. Having gone through a rebirth once before she found it unwise to speak too freely until such time as mental acuity and awareness of the personal situation was assured. Perhaps she could make a few subtle comments about the Fleshweaver as long as she was circumspect...she eyed the creature again.

Very circumspect.

She sat up, still unable to stand after the effects of the Agoniser's caress - her muscles were still quivering. She tucked her legs in and covered her chest with one arm while wiping away more of the bloody birthing fluid from her face and eyes. She considered the other initiates carefully. A few she was fairly sure she'd read about. The others were apparently not worth any tales...or had been involved with things best left unsaid.

There were no clothes or equipment racks nearby.

There was no clear insignia marking this as Kabal of the Final Breath.

To a certain extent Syntax took that last bit of information as a positive - after all, any imposter organization deciding to spend the money and influence to interrogate prisoners via regeneration would ahve had the resources and the wherewithal to fake a few emblems to aid the illusion.

There had also been a question asked. 'How are you feeling?'

An innocuous question, but perhaps baited again. Still, if the interrogator was so insipid as she already believed it hardly behooved her to bother with much planning to avoid his whims on inflicting torment. She spoke through lips still quivering from the Agonizer's last visit.

"I am feeling unclothed and that I do not wish you to use your toys on me anymore."

Keshariel listened intently. In truth he hadn't much choice to begin with; his eyes were still clouded. As they cleared he heard the calm, measured speech of their captor addressing some lackey or assistant. So there was one other in the room, at least. Someone quiet and obedient, their soul barely raising a spike on his ordinarily acute senses. The former Wych cursed inwardly. Was it the process of rebirth, or had there been some more permanent damage?

There was movement to his left, and a sudden, delicious cry of agony. The effect was immediate and vitalising. Amethyst eyes snapped open, clarity restored with the effervescent sting of suffering suffusing the laboratory. A second peircing scream energised him and left him in no doubt that there was someone here with the ability to lead and the will to do so. Keshariel glanced around the room warily, and the shadow of the Haemonculus fell over him.

"Welcome, Avatars of the Final Breath…. To your Resurrection… How are you feeling?..."

Crouched at the feet of their interrogator, covered in blood, more still streaming in his hair, coating his pale skin in rivulets of crimson, a scream still ringing in his ears, Keshariel was suprised to find that he felt rather elated, Oh, certainly, there would need to be a reckoning, some kind of retribution for damaging his perfect record. But he hadn't died by losing a fight; he hadn't lost in any real sense, had taken no real damage except to his pride. And though this is a vital area to many Eladrith Ynneas, he felt that the achievement outweighed the injury. It meant that he was finally among the elite as he deserved.

Still, it wouldn't do to neglect his somewhat unorthodox midwife. Keshariel stared up at the towering, slender monster leaning over them all with an air of scientifcally-minded solicitude. For a moment, the ex-Wych was disturbingly reminded of his childhood. Being Trueborn, he hadn't ever seen the inside of a birth chamber, but he wondered how it must be to have this as your first sight of life. He was sure this wasn't how his parents had greeted him, but there was something, somewhere ... Ah well. Whatever it was would either surface or die, even as he must.

"I am feeling ..." he paused, licking a tiny, bothersome bead of blood from perfect lips, "hungry. A little stiff, but i think that I could stand and move now, which would help. I am cold. Other than physical sensations, I feel alert and energised, curious as to what we are to do next." Whatever was in the nutrient bath of the sarcophagi was nourishing enough no doubt but he had a feeling of being sick of liquids. It would be good to wash out his mouth and - he brushed a stray lock of hair away from his temple - his ears. Naturally fastidious, Keshariel hated the sensation of a damp ear canal.

There was something else, too. If this body was new, how much of it had been remade? Was the virginal flesh clean of all its drug-induced nuances, free from all the previous tolerances one regrettably builds up in the pursuit of chemical happiness? There might be a whole new suite of experiences to rediscover.

At any rate, it would be fun to try.

The first jolt of pain from one of the others jump started Zeklas consciousness, the second gave was enough to give him the energy to get to his feet.

Zekla slowly got to his feet.

He stretched. The cramps and muscle weakness of the birthing chamber was easily dealt with, if one knew how to do so. He wipe the blood and nutrient filled amniotic fluids from his eyes. He stood naked, his glorious flesh free of the scars he had gathered over the past few decades. His eyes quickly adjusted to the surgical light of the chamber. He only saw four others in this chamber, besides the haemunculous and his wrack servent.

"Welcome, Avatars of the Final Breath…. To your Resurrection… How are you feeling?..." The haemunculous voice was thin and airy, as though he struggled to take each breath.

The first to answer was a young female to his left, with a rather snide remark to give to the one who just remade her, and Zekla though, she was lucky that the haemunculous had not harmed her further with his motivational tools.

A man who had the eyes of one who had seen a few centuries pass answered next. Surgical answers, to the point. Zekla took notes on this one. If escape became necessary, his level head may prove to have more than just thoughts of food in it.

The other two, both males, had not had a chance to fully recover. They would likely need to be much quicker on their feet in order to survive this ordeal if they had been captured.

Well, with no one left who currently had the capacity to speak, it would seem as though Zeklas turn had come. Having just been reborn, and for a purpose, he doubted much that these creatures would kill him... again... He smiled.

"Very well, Master Haemuculous, thank you for your concern. I must say, you have done a fabulous job on the reconstruction of this flesh. Why look..." he held up his forearm "there was a scar there that I had been trying to get rid of for decades! This sack of bones must really have been torn up!

A few questions of my own, if I may be so bold. First, it would seem as though we are not currently hostage, is this theory correct? Second, is there someway that I may obtain some food, as I am exceptionally hungry. Third..." He chuckled "Third, third, third, third, third, third, third..." His grin widened "THIRD... Who do I need to kill to bargain for my freedom?"

Yarin kneeled there impatiently. The room sank into a lull after the last "subject" spoke. Time seemed to drag on forever, and every second gave Yarin time to draw up an escape plan. With no feeling of a easily accessable weapon near him, he would have to use the element of supprise to overcome the Interrogator. Yarin would rock forward, jamming his shoulder into the stomach of the poor fool, and then grab for the weapon that he most certainly had on him. Once their guard was taken care of, he would have to be quick to deal with anyone else that would be lurking in the room. Yarin stuggled to try and sense if there were others watching, but his senses were still dull from the rebirthing.

The sound of boots clacking brought Yarin's focus back onto the Interrogator. The watcher moved back up the group. He stopped on the left of Tarin a few paces away. Good, his attention is on someone else. Shortly after a sharp femine scream pierced through the dull hum in Yarin's ears. He quickly rolled onto the balls of his toes, and tensed up as much as the sore muscles in his body would allow. Were they going to execute them all? No, they wouldnt do that after wasting so much time re-brithing them. Then what was it? The boots started to walk again and there was a slight whimper from the female. So their plan wasnt to kill, but to punish. Yarin still had time to regain his strength while the Interrogator moved down the ranks. He had gathered that there was atleast one more in between him and the female, and that should be all the time he needed to act on his plan.

But the boots kepted walking. Had the decided to skip the over the next subject? What had the female done to garner such prefered treatment? This was not like any interrogation Yarin had ever been a part of. They should of moved down the ranks until whoever "they" are got the answered they wanted.

The sound of boots once again pulled Yarin back into his suroundings, but this time it was the lack it. The feeling of those cold, calculating eyes fell apon Yarin's back like the icy cold touch of that mandrake from so long ago. Here was his chance. Yarin put all of his strength into his feet to launch himself into the Interrogator.

But nothing happened. Yarin had yet to regain full muscle control, and all it lead to was him almost losing his balance. At that moment he heard the high pitched hum he was all to familiar with, the hum of an Agoniser. He felt the claws caress his cheek so very delicately, as if to not leave a mark where it came into contact with the skin. The pain floored Yarin, and his muscles began to shake violently with agony. Just as quickly as it came, the pain subsided, and Yarin's body was back onto the cold steel floor.

But while the pain of rebirth had been disorienting, this pain had focused Yarin. This pain he had felt before, and it made him sharper than ever. His muscles lost the sluggish, numb feeling from before, and he quickly was able to regain his composure and sit back up into his kneeling stance.

”Take diction ‘Patient analysis: Subjects 1 and 3. Subjects fail to comprehend basic questionnaires. Further medical attention… Pending… Failing subjects succeed to withstand pain threshold at 15%. Enthusiasm will not be required.’ “

So we are valuable enough to stay alive? This is getting more interesting. Yarin had began to piece together the situation. The group were valuable enough to be rebirthed and not killed when the answer that "they" wanted was not given, yet they wished to punish those "they" deemed deserving. Sounded like a military like organisation. Very... Kabal like...

”Welcome, Avatars of the Final Breath…. To your Resurrection… How are you feeling?...”

Ah, and there was the last piece. The Interrogator said "Final Breath". Yarin deduced that he was somewhere in the complex of the Kabal of the Final Breath, but where and for what he did not know. Testing his muscles one more time to make sure all the sluggishness was gone, Yarin stood up to full height and stretched out. He then whiped the last of the gunk covering his eyes, finally reveiling the Interrogator's identity. The gaunt ghost of a former Eladrith Ynneas stood before him, pale and fagile as a procelain doll you would find in the markets of High Commorragh. Yarin stared into the dark pupils of the Haemonculus and saw the cold, calculating madness that hung underneath the flesh of his kind. Yarin knew not what would drive one to do such things to his own body, and he never wanted to find out.

Cracking his kneck to relieve some tension in the upper kneck muscles, Yarin chuckled alittle and retorted.

"I feel like I swam a marathon in the River Khaides. Now if you dont mind, could you point me to the showers so that I may actually be presentable for you before you continue your 'questioning'?"

Yarin waiting to see how the Haemonculus would respond. If he was truely was valuable enough to live, then the Haemonculus would surely not try attacking again. And if he wasnt, well... then things would really get interesting...

His hands clawed at the ground as the pain refreshed everything in his world. It was mild pain, nothing that he felt he could not handle, and even though it provided mild discomfort he found it both exhilarating and despairing at the same time.

Why couldn’t he be left dead?

Somebody had obviously rebirthed him for a reason, and if the reason was just to be tortured then he had two thoughts:
One: He knew nothing of what they wanted.
Two: Whoever this was, they were terrible at the art of pain.

”Take diction ‘Patient analysis: Subjects 1 and 3. Subjects fail to comprehend basic questionnaires. Further medical attention… Pending… Failing subjects succeed to withstand pain threshold at 15%. Enthusiasm will not be required.’ “

Aha, Haemonculi! Whoever was behind such poor displays of power must be rich enough to employ minions. Who in the upper echelons could possibly have a grudge against Helyurt Kellion’esh?
…

What a stupid question.

He had barely noticed the others in the room as he did not care for them. He did not know them but thought that he could use them. Before looking up at the interrogator he made a quick glance between the others, noticing that he was the last to answer the question. He was the last to answer the question by far and felt that he had kept the others waiting.

”Welcome, Avatars of the Final Breath…. To your Resurrection… How are you feeling?...”

Why should I tell you? How do you think I’m feeling? Cold! Blind!

So many answers came into his head but he did not let anything slip. Once he had been a bitter and sarcastic creature, a man actively seeking trouble, but now he had changed. He was better. He would remain silent as long as possible. Nothing was needed of him other than how he felt.

How could he phrase how he felt in the easiest possible way?

What had happened? First he was not going to answer but now the stare of his interrogator had forced words from his lips.

“I am feeling disdain. Disdain for this place, disdain for this existence.”