X357

X357

Blinking, his eyes attached to the old, cemented cell ceiling, the soldier tugged at his chaffed wrists, struggled to remove the gag on his mouth and twisted his body releasing his limbs from the bonds as he tumbled to the floor like a rag doll. He looked like a digger straight from the trenches with his decrepit denim overalls, calloused palms, and soles, and insignia, half scratched out. His stomach churned as the prison smells - the damp murky stench of poorly built walls and unusually refreshing smell of rain - reawakened his senses from drowsiness. An outcast informant, and disowned by his own regiment, his absence would not phase his commander. The damp prison cell wore an unwelcoming aura that struck unease into visitors' hearts. A sense of cautiousness hung in the air. Spined vines became restraining chains in the dim moonlight, snaking, grimy, unyielding. What cared they for the sorrows of inmates? A gentle breeze whispered through tiny hollow dusty crevasses in the mortar. A shaft of moonlight bathed a primitive compost toilet, sending shivers down his spine as he attempted to rest his mind. Stumbling back, the soldier grasped his lower arm in pain as a hidden pin protruding from his makeshift splint pushed deeper into his skin. Immediately, the mercenary unwrapped the ripped cloth soaked in blood, revealing a shamrock bruise with hints of purple atop the swelling. He felt nausea overwhelming his senses; old memories. His expression seemed blank his distant consciousness reliving moments before his arrival. Glass shards scattered across the begrimed floor, puce colored fluids seeped into the ground. Regaining awareness, he crawled towards the bars separating him from the outside world. Rubbing the lump on his forehead, his mind rewound a fragmented forty-eight hours. Lights blared through the apartment's pine shutters, the rumbling of a ford-deep navy blue vehicle rolled down the street. He nestled his face deeper into the pillows - a muffled tune; perhaps Van Morrison's Moondance played in the background. A knock on the door pulled him back from his dreams. An explosion of glass erupted from the french doors in the bedroom wall. Three men bolted across the carpet. Calloused hands grabbed him. A damp cloth muffled his screams. Arms restrained by rusted cuffs. Ankles locked in place by fetters. His last sight of his room blurred by a sharp needle piercing his skin, yet he couldn't grasp his fingers upon his wife's appearance nor his captors clothing. Before long, his eyes battered open, his mouth dry with the taste of rust, his lungs reached for air in panic; the thought of kidnapping rushed through his mind. Slowly recollecting the fading images, his eyes blinked at the dust descending from the roof. Moments passed whilst he retraced his confidence and decided to move on. It wasn't long before he forced his body through reached a lengthy hallway with a faint, twinkling light accompanied by vague murmurs flowing from what appeared to be a doorway; slightly ajar. Intuitively, he approached the incandescently glowing threshold before pressing his face against the disused keyhole revealing an astonishing sight. As though it were instinct, he kicked the entrance before attempting to attack the bewildered scientists screaming orders at gang like hoodlums. He held onto the belief that in that moment, he would exact his revenge upon his enemies. "Return my wife!" In the moment he dropped his guard, the inevitable brought itself upon him as an all too familiar jab to the neck. His arms felt limp and his vision began to wane. As he felt his consciousness slowly slipping away, his ears, as attentive as ever heard the many scientists behind him as their latex-gloved hands slowly picked out a memory chip with the code Clone X357 roughly sharpied on from a freshly made wound in the back of his neck "He really is a success, he really thinks he's the real guy."

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