romance, science fiction, drama, action, adventure, supernatural, thriller, politics, war, military
Chapter i; book i.
Working chapter title: they call me 'dynamite'
There was a wet darkness, a dampness that could creep into his skin with a sick, bittersweet efficiency that baffled his senses. It catalyzed his mind. Light fizzled on the outer rims of his vision, teased and tormented him. His head hung limply forward, oscillating with every inhale and exhale of heavy breath that escaped the gaping wound of his mouth. His neck was sore with obvious prolonged discomfort. Pilot moved to lower his hand to relieve some of the strain when it occurred to him that his wrists were chained together and lifted above his head. The chains clattered above him and echoed from all directions, the sound was piercing and he realized it was because there were no other sounds around him.
He felt tired, unwilling to put the effort into finding out how he had wound up this way. From the cobwebbed corners of his consciousness, the knowledge that he couldn’t have been hung up long ago crept into the murky light of his current awareness. Neither of his shoulders were dislocated, implying that he had abnormally strong shoulders or very little time spent suspended this way. He managed somehow to peel apart his crusted eyelids. The lack of focus was nauseating as his need for clarity caused his pupils to sporadically leap from point to point in what he gathered was more of a cave than a room. A containment area. He was probably being quarantined because of his humorless personality, he mused. He was alone, that much Pilot gathered without needed visual clarification. The oppressiveness of the air around him fell flat into his lungs, weighing them down. His pupils, still searching for focus, landed on the weapons that lined the crude walls.
Pilot’s mind dragged far behind what his eyes were registering along his perceptive nerves. Dragging, inching with aching slowness through the muddiness of his confusion. He shook his head quickly, desperate to clear the fog from his thoughts, yet succeeding only in enticing forth a pain that had burrowed deeply enough in his brain tissue to be overlooked. With seemingly fresh rage, the pain seared a path from somewhere in the base of his skull to his vision. Almost instantly his vision was sharper, more precise.
Something dripped heavily onto his shoulder but Pilot barely noticed. As his training demanded, he was attempting to gather as much information as he could about his surroundings, leaving his state of being to be observed last. Everything gradually faded around the edges before completely going black.
His right arm twitched with enough force that it startled Pilot out of unconsciousness. His eyes opened slowly, the scummy crust that surrounded them thickening with every moment he ended up asleep. He was in a brightly lit room, the walls a blinding white that matched the pristine floor. The metallic taste of blood was beginning to fill his mouth. The burning in the back of his throat suggested it was not the first mouthful of blood he’d had recently. A one-way panel of glass sat in the center of the wall directly across from him. Pilot studied his own reflection in it. He was strapped into a late twentieth century electric chair, the bonds around his wrists and ankles, elbows, waist and above his knees. His face was a sweat-stained mess of broken skin and clotting blood, his eyes barely opened due to the swelling around his brow and cheek bones. He strained his lethargic muscles to sit up as much as he could and spit out his own blood.
He pulled back his chapped and busted lips to grimace at the mirrored glass. Between blood lined teeth, he counted five missing; the swollen, blackish pits made him queasy when he couldn’t resist the urge to tongue them. At least two more were badly broken and left long gashes in his tongue. His short hair was matted to his skull, turning his brown hair nearly black with the amount of blood; in some places, the darker and more raw ones, he could see gouges and pits where his scalp was missing. It may have been the gleaming lights, he reasoned, but he was nearly sure he could see bone in certain wounds. The seemingly impossible amount of blood that stained his right shoulder left him more than a little nervous; it was almost as if someone had taken a large bucketful and poured it there to trick him, but his hopefulness dissipated as he watched the trail of blood slide down from beneath his ear.
Drip. Drip. Drip. A leaky faucet, gushing with bloody capabilities that he’d never explored. His reflection shook, vibrated with some unseen force, before exploding into fragments and shards that rained down on him.