Meanwhile...

Posted on Wed Apr 22nd, 2009 @ 4:18pm by Captain Elsie Halliwell

1,756 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Wolves in Sheep's Clothing
Location: Unknown
Timeline: Current

ON:

About a hundred lightyears from Citadel Prime, a man sat alone in a cell. How long he had been there, he no longer knew. It had been months, at the very least, possibly even years. Time seemed to drag on endlessly in this place.

His cell was small and spartan. There was a bed, a small table, two chairs, and a tiny adjacent room that barely passed for a bathroom. Sitting on the table was short pile of PADDs that the man had managed to get his hands on. Most of them were novels; reading was one of the only things he could do to keep from going crazy. He was a prisoner, to be sure, but his captors treated him relatively well. There were no beatings or anything of that nature, but he was still being held against his will; escape prayed on his mind just as much as any other prisoner.

A sound could be heard coming from the hall; the guards were about the deliver his afternoon meal. The man smiled, as he knew what this meant. There was only one thing in this place that he could look forward to, and it happened just about every day, half an hour or so after the upcoming meal. A moment later, a voice filled the cell. "Prisoner number 342, you are about to be served." The man got up, and walked over to the cell's door. A small compartment opened, and a tray was handed to him through the opening.

The food wasn't very bad, but 342 had no idea what it was. As he ate, he looked forward to the impending arrival of his friend; it was the only exciting thing that happened these days. His captors didn't have as much of a use for him as they did in the early days of his imprisonment.

Elijah Wendess walked along the darkened corridor, his heavy boot-cladden feet knocking a hollow sound against the stone cobbled flooring beneath him. The ring of keys jangled at his waist with each step, tightly fastened about his leather belt. As he walked, streams of fractured light coloured his face, striping past his piercing green eyes as it penetrated through the high letterbox windows that punctured through the darkness. No electricity was pumped into this detention centre, and only the soft and repetitive drips and flow of water could be heard echoing in the near distance.

"Prisoner 342: Brace yourself to be beaten," he said, a sneer creeping across his flustered and dirt-engrained face.

He inserted the rusted key into the lock, and the sound of metal scraping across metal reverberated down the damp corridor. Twisting it, it ground against the mechanism inside and the lock slotted out of its hollow. As the door heaved open on its rusted hinges, the colossus of the man dragged a wooden stool from outside the cell door and placed it in the opening. Heavily sitting down onto it wooden platform, the frail wooden legs creaked under the weight.

The chessboard was already set up; the only luxury the prisoner was allowed to keep in his cell once the warden had left. "White or black?" he asked, surveying the soldiers that were lined up before him on the chequered board. "Your choice this time since you beat me yesterday."

Wendess shuffled himself to get comfortable on the hard seat, and then fluidly reached down in the chasm of his leather boot, plucking out a silver hip flask from its darkness. He swiftly flashed it to the prisoner, it glinting in the cracks of light as it switched hands.

"Something to keep the cold out during the night," he said, with a friendly wink. "The best I could smuggle in here past the boss."

A weak smile spread across 342's face, the most he could manage these days, as he graciously accepted the flask. "You know, traditionally, white is assigned to the player who lost the previous game." He sat up in his chair, and slowly positioned the board as he spoke so that white would need to be placed in front of him. "But, if you think I'm going to give you an advantage like that..." Another smile appeared. "Think again."

"Also, technically, alcohol doesn't actually make you warmer. It just makes your skin feel warmer, because the blood that would normally be heating your internal organs is diverted to the skin," the prisoner droned on, as he meticulously positioned the chess pieces for the game. After a moment, he looked at the other man, who had a stifled grin upon his face. "I've explained all of this before, haven't I?"

A strained expression drifted across 342's face, as his companion nodded. "Well...never mind then." Silence fell across the room, as the men played the first few moves of their game. "Elijah, have you ever read The Master and Margarita?"

A slight smirk drew across Elijah's face, and a twinkle in his eye, one that had long disappeared since his wife's death, returned, gleaming from beneath his brow. "'Manuscripts don't burn'," he muttered, noting the sentiment. "One of Russia's finest novels, if you don’t listen to me," he said, after clearing his throat. "Not a fan of the satire, myself. However, cowardice and the devil are themes that thoroughly ring true to my heart. What of it, 3?"

He looked at the board while he spoke, lifting the wooden knight, painted black as the corridor behind him, and moved it forward, taking a stray pawn of the prisoner's."

342 moved his bishop in front of his King, opening an opportunity to castle on his next move. "I've just been thinking a lot about the Master's plight lately: a man locked up in an insane asylum, which was simply a veil for the Russian gulag. You could say he and I have a few things in common..." the prisoner trailed off. "You needn't worry, though. An intelligent, beautiful lover willing to make a deal with the devil to free me isn't one of them."

"I've always thought that, if he hadn't have gone off with Woland at the end of the novel, the Master never would have been able to function in society again. You know, you might be the only thing keeping me from reaching that point myself," a hint of quaver was audible in 342's voice. What was truly on his mind was whether or not his last statement was true.

"To play chess effectively," Wendess replied, "I find that you have to be openly aggressive and yet defensive in balance." He flicked his eyes up to the prisoner, and then back to the board. "With you, 342, I think that you have to treat your time with us here with the same strategy: Keep your head down when you need to, but your eye on the ball should any… opportunities arise."

Wendess placed his thick fingers onto the same knight and moved it forwards across the board, defiantly and strong.

The prisoner's eyebrow perked up, ever so slightly. "Well, it certainly is easier to keep a low profile these days, now that my expertise isn't really needed anymore." 342 moved a piece; he chose not to castle. "Speaking of which, how are things for VISTA corps these days?" His question was met with a cautionary look. "Oh, come on Elijah, who am I going to tell? The wall and I have fairly rousing conversations, these days, but I hardly think you should be worried about that."

The look of trepidation was washed clear away from Wendess's face. "They seem to be moving on with things, thanks to your input," he said, with a congratulatory nod and a slight smile. "But you know that I can't discuss the specifics of the mission with you. Only that the transfer was successful, and that the agent is onboard that Federation vessel orbiting Citadel Prime." The warden's face dropped, and he looked at the chequered board before him with a sad glisten in his eyes. "I – uh – well, it took six years to overcome the death of Angela, my wife... and I was left with unmanageable anger when she was taken from me. VISTA offered me a channel for all that… emotion."

Wendess trailed off and quickly flitted his eyes up to the prisoner who was sat, awkwardly, on the metal stool across the board from him. In those six years of pain and hate, Wendess had never allowed anyone to touch his life or affections. And it disturbed him slightly as the realisation dawned on him that he rather enjoyed these nightly chats, the strategic games of chess, and the ever so false camaraderie with the prisoner. He cleared his throat, and focused on the game laid out on the black and beige squares. Taking his queen, he darted her outwards, striking out at a lowly bishop, knocking it down unawares.

"I'm not proud of how VISTA gets the job done, 342… But I do believe that their reasoning is sound, and justified, and the end far out-weighs the means. I don't condone the deaths of those hundreds of men and women that will be brought about because of the actions that we have set in motion, here, today, but I do take comfort in knowing that the end result will be beneficial to hundreds of millions of lives, set free from the shackles of dictatorship of the Citadel Council."

He sighed, and looked up at the man he had come to like, had come to respect. Leaning in, his face fell, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't believe that they are finished with you, yet, 342."

"I don't understand," a meek reply came from the prisoner. "What could they still need me for? The device works now, they've..." There was a pause in his sentence; a million thoughts flowed through his mind at once. "I've proven that."

"The mere reason I am speaking to you now tells me that. You're not dead and buried in that field you could see should there be a window behind you." He pointed over the prisoner's shoulder and tapped at the air with his finger. "And that means that you're still to play a part in this game, yet."

"Well," a heavier tone and found its way into 342's voice. "Then I guess I'd better do my best to keep my head down." He reached forward, and finally castled his King.

---

OFF:


Prisoner 342
VISTA Detention Prisoner
Location: Unknown

AND

Elijah Wendess
VISTA Detention Warden
Location: Unknown

 

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