Dano Tortured

November 8, Thursday

It was dark and through a thick red mist of throbbing pain Dano had trouble breathing. He felt sick, like he was on bad dope, maybe some Razr4 bathtub garbage. He thought he remembered going somewhere, but he wasn’t sure. There was an image, something... it was vague, blurred... a reflection, a glass door? He struggled to clear his head but it ached too much. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed. He drifted off into a dull, dark haze of black-clad masked operatives and nanoDrones.

A searing pain in his kidney slashed through the asphyxiating fog. He thought he screamed but it felt muffled. He desperately tried to inhale but there was no air. A fear of suffocating overwhelmed him. Strong hands dragged and shoved him forward. A second blow to the kidney brought him to his knees. He struggled to breathe. A third blow to the kidney. He passed out.

Air, I need air! Utter panic. Desperate, gasping, retching, blind, he was shivering uncontrollably. Was it freezing cold? Dano’s brain was too confused to know. He came to, and sensed he was sitting. Something was cutting into his wrists. He was tightly bound, his arms behind something solid. The back of a chair? He ached all over.

“HOW’S THE GRRRL DOING?!” Screaming in his ear, but he couldn’t concentrate. All he could do was fight for air and try not to vomit.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” More screaming, this time the other ear.

“NOT FEELING JUICE?!” yelled the first voice.

“We shouldn’t be so rude. Perhaps an introduction would be in order?” a third, calm, voice suggested.

The sack was brusquely removed. Air! Fresh air! Dano saw he was in a cold dank cellar. His teeth were chattering and his clothes were soaked wet. Two bruisers dressed sharp in flashy black suits stood on either side of him. Facing him, on a cheap metal folding chair behind a cheap metal folding table, sat a very proper and polished gentleman. He was somewhere in his fifties, slim and hard. An expensive grey suit matched his grey hair, silk tie and silver cufflinks on flawlessly starched cuffs.

“I trust you’re comfortable?” the Grey Gentleman asked with an icy concern and cold grey eyes. “We’d like this experience to be as agreeable as possible, given the circumstances. You may call me the Grey Gentleman. To your right is Carlos, to your left Duane.

“Now let’s see what we have here,” the Grey Gentleman continued, as he pulled an app out of his pocket and scrutinized the holoScreen with apparent interest. “Ah, yes, your dossier, as it were. Dano Kalen. Dysfunctional family, alcoholic father... abandoned by your mother? That probably explains a lot, don’t you think? Then, we have rebellious tendencies, flunked year eight at Hejn Secondary, guitar chair in The eXitTrip, a band that, it says here, are beginning to get noticed. Congratulations. And, perhaps important for our purposes, it seems that you are an unapologetic gRazer. Would you agree with all of that?”

Dano’s choked breathing was slowly returning to normal, but convulsive shivering made it difficult to reply.

“The gentleman asked you a question!” Duane, on the left, smiled contemptuously and slapped Dano’s face. “ANSWER HIM!” His accent sounded like he was from some Middlands UK industrial edgeZone.

“Why... ? I didn’t do anything, you can’t...” Dano managed.

“Answer the fucking question, ASSHOLE!” Duane slapped him again.

Another spasm of uncontrollable trembling made it impossible for Dano to answer.

“Why?” the Grey Gentleman inquired sarcastically, “Why? Carlos, explain it to him, please.”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE A TERRORIST SHITHEAD!” Carlos screamed in Dano’s ear as he pulled his head back by a fistful of hair, “and because you’re a little grrrly cunt WHO’S IN WAY OVER HER FUCKING HEAD!”

“No, not me, I’m not—” was all Dano could say before Carlos punched him in the stomach. Dano almost blacked out, but a bucket of freezing cold water brought him right back. He tried to puke, but only managed some dry heaves.

“Thank you, Carlos,” said the Grey Gentleman, “that will be all for now.” He then addressed Dano. “You see, we need you to stay awake for a while. Please, relax and make yourself comfortable while I explain your... predicament.”

The Grey Gentleman slowly pulled a large forty-five caliber Taurus semi-automatic pistol out of a black leather shoulder holster hidden under his suit and with a heavy thud placed it on the table. Then he lit a cigarette.

“Your dossier suggests you have disruptive and rebellious tendencies, and your psychological profile indicates you may harbour intense personal resentments due, I imagine, to your unfortunate family history. The upshot is that, according to my reading of the current DSM, that would be version 7.3.5, section 301, you suffer from paranoid personality disorder and, obviously, antisocial personality disorder. Psychosocial and environmental factors have clearly contributed to your disorders, and I sympathize with that, but the unfortunate truth is that there is a good statistical probability that you hold pathological pro-terrorist sympathies.” The Grey Gentleman took a long drag on his cigarette. “You have therefore been preventively arrested under the relevant statutes of the Freedom and Liberty Act. As such, and conformant with Section C of the Act, your identity has been temporarily erased, pending investigation and trial. By law we are allowed to hold you for ninety days before you can communicate with anyone or see a lawyer. That, in a nutshell, is your predicament.” He stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray.

“But, you see, unfortunately the reality is that we are both in a predicament, and personally, I don’t like predicaments. Being in one is not, how do you say it, juice? My predicament is that my life would be a lot easier if I had your confession. Simple, isn’t it? Just a signature. That’s all. And don’t worry, no work on your part.” The Grey Gentleman pulled an envelope and a pen from his jacket and tossed them on the table, next to the pistol.

“All written out.” The Grey Gentleman casually pointed to the document. “Now, I’ll be straight with you. We need a certain number of convictions per quarter to justify our budget, and at the same time trials are time-consuming and expensive. Confessions are far more cost-effective. This is business, nothing personal. Please understand that you are now officially erased and that your psychological profile will get you, in the end, convicted anyway. So, you may as well get this over with and sign.” He picked up his pack of Dunhills and tapped out another cigarette.

This is SIM... some sick gamer’s screwing with me... fuck, fuck, I gotta think, gotta think... If I sign... what the fuck happens? Am I out?... Yes, the fuck out of the game... out of here... No!... No, wait... how? No eyeVid... they put a chip! No! Fucking hell, this has to be in Real... shit, it can’t be...

Dano’s mind spun around in ever tightening circles, desperately trying to latch on to something, anything, the tiniest fragment of sanity, but despite the madness, the terror, the panic, the nausea, the disorientation, there was an insistent little voice inside saying don’t do it, don’t do it. He wished he could think of why, why fight, it’s so much work, so hard... why not just get this over with... I sign and I’m out... out of SIM... out of this insane game... but deep within somewhere he remembered something, images... confessions... trials... in Real? Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

Dano vigorously shook his head.

“You can sign, or...” the Grey Gentleman sighed. He rose unhurriedly and approached Dano.

“Like I said,” the Grey Gentleman sat on the edge of the table and blew cigarette smoke in Dano’s face, “I don’t like predicaments, so it really would be best for both of us if you just sign. Otherwise...”

There was a scream. Dano thought it might have been his voice. He felt blistering burning as the Grey Gentleman ground out his cigarette in his cheek. SIM pain never hurts this much!

“Duane, will you please bring in Jane?” the Grey Gentleman asked. “Jane is not, of course, her real name, you understand, but Jane has notions similar to yours. She’s been with us for a while and, alas, has not been cooperating. I thought you might like to witness the eventual consequences...”

A young man stumbled into Dano’s view. His hands were bound behind his back. His face was bloodied and bruised. Duane shoved him and knocked him onto his knees.

“I’ve lost patience with this jerk,” the Grey Gentleman explained as he calmly picked up his gun, clicked the safety off, and placed the end of the barrel on young “Jane’s” temple. Dano stared horrified as “Jane” cowered and pissed in his pants. In a flash Dano’s fear heightened into an almost paranormal state of mental acuity. Fuck, this isn’t SIM! His cheek still burned like hell, but he was above the room, floating, omniscient, looking down. Every exit became a clear map in his mind. He could see into the dark corners and feel the heartbeat of every rat and cockroach and individual, including the four guards he now knew stood beyond his vision. Time ground down to almost nothing. He heard the click of the trigger. Seconds later there was a deafening bang. The head jerked, the body fell, and the boy named Jane lay dead amid splattered brains and a widening pool of blood.

“He’s a holo, you assholes! What kind of a sick game are you playing??!!” Dano’s desperate screaming reverberated through the dank cellar.

The Grey Gentleman pressed the gun to Dano’s temple. Dano had never been this far, this far into fucked-up forbidden corners of whatever sick place he was in. Maybe his brain was slowly frying in some dataStream dead end. Was this what happened when tripTab-zoned Switch on a deepFreak crashed and burned? Annihilation in total madness? Fly or fry! Is this what it means? Was he finally getting it, finally getting what a Switch wipeout was all about?

“I guess that means you’re a holo too, asshole.” The Grey Gentleman lowered his gun, holstered it, and walked away.