The dim light flickered above the cold, steel table, casting long shadows over the room. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, mingled with the metallic tang of blood and sweat. The hum of machinery from outside was faint, but it did little to mask the oppressive silence within the room.
Across from the table, two CMC interrogators stood silent, watching as their prisoner—a young UOP pilot—sat slumped in a chair, shackled to the cold, unforgiving surface. The pilot's face was pale, his eyes wide with fear and exhaustion. He had been here for days, subjected to every form of psychological and physical torment the CMC could devise. His body was bruised and battered, his uniform torn in places, soaked with sweat, and streaked with dirt.
His name was Anders, a promising UOP fighter who had been captured during a brutal engagement on the outer rim. He had seen his comrades fall, felt the rush of adrenaline as he fought to protect his ship, and now, he found himself broken in this forsaken interrogation room.
The door creaked open, and the shadow of the CMC's chief interrogator, Colonel Varkas, loomed in the doorway. A hulking figure in a black uniform, his face was hidden by the shadow of his helmet, but his reputation preceded him. Varkas was known for his brutal tactics, his ability to break even the most hardened soldiers, and his unflinching loyalty to the CMC. He was a force of terror, and today, he had come for Anders.
Varkas stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding against the metal floor. He surveyed the room, the two junior interrogators standing at attention. One of them, a thin, nervous-looking man, held a datapad in his hands, while the other stood motionless, ready to follow Varkas's orders.
"Leave us," Varkas ordered coldly.
The two junior interrogators hesitated, but they obeyed, stepping out of the room and leaving Anders alone with the storm that was about to break.
Varkas moved to the table and stood directly in front of the pilot. His voice was a low, guttural growl as he spoke.
"You think you can fight against the might of the CMC and survive?" Varkas asked, his tone laced with disdain. "You are nothing but a pawn in a losing game. And soon, you'll understand that."
Anders swallowed, his throat dry. He knew that resistance was futile. He had seen the way the CMC handled prisoners—no one escaped their grasp without suffering.
"You've been through this before, haven't you?" Varkas said, leaning down so that his face was inches from Anders's. "I'm sure you think you can withstand the pain, that you can keep your mouth shut. But the truth is, you don't have a choice."
With a flick of his wrist, Varkas motioned to the corner of the room. One of the junior interrogators stepped forward and activated a machine. A high-pitched whine filled the room as a small, robotic arm extended from the ceiling, attaching a needle to Anders's arm. The machine hissed and injected a clear liquid into his bloodstream. The sensation was instant—his body grew heavy, his vision blurred, and his thoughts slowed.
Varkas smirked as he watched Anders's eyes widen in panic. "We've perfected this serum, you know. A mix of pain and fear. Your body can't fight it. It will keep you alive, but you will wish you were dead."
Anders tried to speak, but his voice was barely a whisper, lost in the haze of the serum's effects. His head spun, and every inch of his body felt as if it were on fire.
"Tell me what you know," Varkas demanded, his voice unwavering. "The UOP's plans, their fleet, their objectives. You've been on the front lines. You've seen their movements. You have valuable information."
Anders clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to scream. He would not break. He couldn't. His comrades were counting on him. But the serum was already taking its toll, and his mind felt as if it were unraveling.
Varkas leaned in closer, his voice now a harsh whisper. "You think you're strong, don't you? That you're a soldier? But you're just a child playing at war. I'll show you what real strength looks like. You'll beg me to end this soon enough."
The room filled with the sound of the machine's mechanical hum as it adjusted to its new setting. Varkas straightened, his hand reaching for a small device on the table. He activated it, and the lights above Anders's head flickered, turning a deep red.
"Let's see how long you last," Varkas said, his eyes gleaming with malice.
The machine's hum grew louder, and Anders felt a surge of pain shoot through his body, a burst of energy that felt like it was ripping him apart from the inside. His muscles seized, his chest tightening as if he were being crushed. He gasped for breath, but it was useless. The pain intensified with every passing second.
"Tell me what you know!" Varkas barked, his voice cutting through the agony that consumed Anders.
The young pilot's body trembled, his vision flashing in and out of focus as he struggled to keep himself conscious. He had never experienced anything like this before—this was not just physical pain; it was something far more insidious, a mental assault that was breaking down his very will to survive.
But even as the darkness threatened to consume him, a small part of his mind remained defiant. He would not give in. He would not betray his comrades.
Varkas stood over him, watching with a cold, calculating gaze. He knew that breaking Anders would take time, that the serum alone wouldn't be enough to pry information from him. But Varkas was patient. He had broken far stronger soldiers than this one. The CMC had perfected the art of interrogation, and soon, this pilot would have no choice but to talk.
"You'll tell me everything, in time," Varkas said softly, almost tenderly, as if trying to soothe a frightened child. "Everyone breaks eventually. It's just a matter of when."
Anders's vision blurred once again, his consciousness slipping further away. He could feel the darkness closing in, the grip of fear and pain tightening around him. But in that last moment of clarity, before the world around him completely faded, he held onto one thing—his silence.
He would not break. He would not betray them.
The darkness in Anders's mind continued to grow, but the world around him was nothing but excruciating pain. His body convulsed, each breath a desperate gasp, as the serum coursed through his veins. But the interrogators were far from finished with him.
Varkas, sensing that the serum alone wouldn't achieve the desired result, signaled to his assistant to bring out more… personal methods. His hand gripped Anders's chin, forcing his head back so he could look directly into his eyes.
"You're tough, I'll give you that," Varkas said, his voice almost mocking. "But we both know you're going to break. And when you do, you'll beg me to end it."
The door behind them creaked open, and a tall, thin figure entered, carrying a case of tools. This was the CMC's "specialist," a man known only as Dr. Korran, a sadistic expert in breaking prisoners through pain. His tools were meticulously arranged, each one designed to push the human body to its limits, and beyond.
Dr. Korran moved toward Anders, his eyes cold and calculating. He set the case down with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment. Then, he pulled out a small plasma torch. The soft whine of its activation sent a shiver down Anders's spine.
"Let's start simple," Korran said, his voice soft, almost soothing, as if he were explaining a scientific process. "You're going to feel some pain, but I promise, it's all for a good cause. You're just going to help us out a little, and then you'll be able to rest."
The pilot tried to recoil, but his restraints held him firm. His breath came in shallow, frantic gasps, his heart pounding in his chest. He could see the plasma torch glowing a fiery orange, ready to burn.
"No," Anders whispered hoarsely, the word escaping his lips in a weak protest.
But Varkas was there, his grip tightening around Anders's throat. "You don't have a choice," he said. "And you'll answer me, or you'll wish you had."
Before Anders could respond, the plasma torch was brought down on the exposed skin of his forearm. The moment it touched, it was like his entire body was set on fire. The searing heat tore through the flesh, and the smell of burning skin filled the air.
Anders screamed, but the sound was muffled, as if he was underwater. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out from the agony. But no such relief came.
"You see?" Korran said, his voice almost clinical. "It doesn't have to be this way. You just need to tell us what we want to know, and the pain will stop."
Anders, despite the agony, clenched his jaw, refusing to utter a word. The plasma torch moved again, this time to his other arm, and the heat was even more intense, causing the skin to blister and bubble. His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms in an attempt to focus on something other than the pain.
The interrogators stood over him, watching his struggle with satisfaction.
Varkas leaned down again, his voice a menacing whisper in Anders's ear. "You're strong, I'll admit. But everyone breaks eventually. We'll get what we need, one way or another."
Dr. Korran stepped back and examined his work. The burns on Anders's arms were deep and raw, but he was still conscious, still resisting. The doctor wasn't pleased with the lack of progress.
"Fine," Korran muttered, reaching for a different tool. This one was a long, jagged needle, coated in a clear liquid. It was used to inject a powerful stimulant into the bloodstream, one that made the body hyper-sensitive to pain. But it also had the opposite effect—it created a delusion, a sense of confusion that broke the will of even the most steadfast.
Korran inserted the needle into Anders's neck, injecting the stimulant with a swift motion. Almost immediately, Anders's body began to convulse again, more violently than before. His mind felt like it was shattering, his vision spinning in chaotic circles.
Varkas stood back and watched, arms folded. "Keep him alive. I want to see how long he can last."
The pain intensified, now unbearable. Anders's body writhed in the chair, his mind disintegrating under the combined assault of the stimulant and the agonizing burns. His skin felt as if it were being torn apart, each nerve a raw, exposed wire. The world around him twisted, and the voices of his interrogators became muffled and distant.
But then, through the haze, he heard something. It was a voice, faint but familiar.
"Hang in there, Anders. You can do it. Don't break."
It was a memory. His brother's voice. The one person who had always stood by him.
Anders clenched his teeth harder. He wouldn't break. He couldn't. Not for the CMC. Not for the interrogation. Not for this.
Varkas's voice broke through the memory like a whip.
"Tell me where the UOP fleet is, and I'll end this."
But Anders didn't answer. He couldn't. His resolve remained firm, even as his body screamed in pain.
Then, Dr. Korran looked to Varkas, his expression dark and unreadable. "It's not working. He's too strong for the usual methods. We'll need to try something else."
Varkas thought for a moment, his lips curling into a sadistic smile. He motioned to his assistant to bring a new tool. One that was far more personal. Far more cruel.
The assistant brought over a long, thin blade, a surgical scalpel with a jagged edge. It wasn't meant to kill—it was meant to hurt. To maim. To make the victim wish for death.
"Let's see how much longer you can hold on," Varkas said softly, as the scalpel hovered just above Anders's chest.
The room seemed to close in on Anders. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling from the unrelenting assault. The world was spinning out of control. He could feel his grip on reality slipping.
But still, through it all, a tiny part of him refused to surrender.