White.
Everything around him was that empty, blinding color. The four walls of his cell, the floor, the ceiling. Even the fluorescent lights on the ceiling were casting the ghastly color over the room. It was so bright, too bright to make out anything. He could see no doors, no windows. No way to escape. It was frightening; the feeling of being trapped like an animal. The thought of it chilled him to the bone.
The heavy handcuffs around his wrists were cutting into the warm flesh. He wondered if the cold metal would finally sever his arteries and send his cursed blood spilling out and end his miserable life. And there would finally be some color in this room. Now, wasn't that an appealing idea? He was tired, so tired of these games. His entire body ached, and he felt lethargic.
Tired of lying on his stomach with his face pressed to the cold marble and his arms secured behind his back. Why the hell did they bother with the handcuffs? He wasn't going anywhere. Not in this state. What, were they afraid he'd use his Craft? Perhaps. He was tempted to do so, but he was just too exhausted, and whatever sedative they'd shot him full of seemed to be taking effect. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware of the feel of the scratchy white attire he was wearing, and sometimes drifting off to oblivion. Oh, if only it was that easy.
He felt as if he might pass out. Oh, that would be good, he reckoned. After all, he wasn't going anywhere. He was trapped here, trapped like a little white lab rat. And the Organization would do whatever they wished to do with him. That was the worst part. It would've been much easier if they'd killed him. He would rather die.
Suddenly, intense pain shot up his entire body, rippling along his muscles. He bit down on his tongue to stop himself from screaming. His teeth scraped the flesh of his tongue, drawing blood, but he didn't care. Nor did he care for the source of the pain. It was obviously due to whatever cocktail they'd shot into his bloodstream. He didn't care.
He spat out the blood that was starting to fill his mouth. It tasted salty, coppery. And he watched with wonder the little drops of red liquid on the floor. There was color. He was at least happy for that. Temporarily entertained. What he hoped for next was death. Anything to save him from the hell coming to him soon, when Mr Lionel Hawthorne, the head of the Organization, decided on what to do with him. He wasn't sure what would happen, but he was sure he wouldn't be executed.
He shut his eyes, pulling in several deep breaths. The pain was starting to subside, leaving him weak and exhausted. Please, he prayed silently. Let me die. That's the only way to escape them.
The sound of something heavy being dragged along the floor caught his attention. At first, he thought he imagined the noise in his mad daze. But then there were the sounds of footsteps approaching him (Perhaps there is a door, and someone is coming into the room through it, he mused). Male voices speaking to each other. He glanced up to see two men - agents of the Organization, no doubt, but he did not recognize them - in white suits and red ties. Great, he found himself thinking sarcastically. More white.
"Ah, you're Mr Hunter, I take it?" said the first man.
So what if I am? he tried to say, but his throat felt dry, so dry he could strike a match against the walls of his throat and actually light it and set everything on fire. He opened his mouth and heard no sound coming from it. He closed it again, swallowing hard. His tongue was covered in coagulated blood, but he didn't care. All he cared about was getting the hell out of this maddening place, regardless of how he did it.
"What," he rasped, "do you want from me?"
The first man smiled. "Just to let you know a few things. First of all, on the behalf of the Organization, I'd like to thank you. You'd be a great contribution to our research here. Secondly, (you may be disheartened by the news) your son is dead. Our men have ... removed him. Can't have him start a rebellion now, can we? Finally-"
There was laughter. It was a mad, desperate sound. The sound of a man going crazy from hearing how much he'd lost, the damage done by those cruel beasts that walked in men's skins. He realized that he was the one laughing; he was the insane person who had sad tears rolling down his cheeks as he laughed.
"What have I ever done to you to deserve this?"
The first man knelt down and removed the sunglasses he'd been wearing. The agent had amber colored eyes, like Roxanne, he observed. He spared a passing thought to Roxanne, but that was it. He had other things to worry about.
"Do you know why you're here, Mr Hunter?" asked the agent, his voice cold and dangerous. "Do you know why you're in this holding cell? I'll tell you why. When perps like you are charged with manslaughter, the Organization wouldn't just stand around, waiting for the perpetrator to strike again. No. We take action on these things, Mr Hunter. Did you think you could get away with it? Five hundred dead. That's a big enough number, Mr Hunter."
"Five hundred dead," he whispered, "and you take the life of my son. Do you think that the blood of an innocent could make up for the loss?" He was on the verge of insanity; the news of his son was enough to snap him in two.
A pained scream tore its way out of his throat as he lashed out at the agent, striking out in mad rage. He forced himself up, tackling the agent as hard as he could manage. The agent fell to the floor, crying out and cursing in a foreign language.
The agent's accomplice, meanwhile, had his weapon drawn. Before he could react, several shots hit him. He wasn't sure where he was hit, for his body felt too numb to feel pain, but he could see the blood flowing, the spatters of red. Was it the end? Would he die here? But those questions didn't matter, even as his vision blurred and a wave of dizziness washed over him. Even as the darkness started to claim him, he could only think about one thing.
Blood.
