Cold War: Before The Bell

Chapter 7

January 1969

It was his third day in the same room. His leg was injured from his scrimage with Stitch two days ago. He was holding his own quite well until the other man dragged his knife out and stabbed it into Anthony's thigh. He had tomimprovise and rip off both his sleeves to stop the bleeding. By a miracle it did stop, after losing quite a bit of it.

He was in pain. Not just from a lack of food, water or rest. But also in mental pain. He knew being in league with Perseus would require background knowledge but it still bothered him how they knew about this incident. Talking about it nearly made him want to vomit. It tore him apart. Could he even trust what Stitch was telling him? Theres no way any of his family would have surived that. They would have to have been immortal. But what if somehow she was alive? What if the enemies took her, and staged a fake body.. all the what ifs.

"NO." He thought to himself. "They are dead. All of them. Every single last one, deceased."

Within the past few days he had been beaten, starved, and nearly bled to death. Not once had he slipped up, just threw insult after insult at his intterogator, even called his mother a melon. He was curious to know what today would hold.

"We're not playing games today Petrov." Stitch huffed as he marched into the room. He walked over to the weakened boy who leaned against the wall, his head nearly limp. His eyes were heavy, his head was killing him from the many surfaces it had come in contact with in the last few days. He felt himself being reatrained back to his chair. Stitch set a candle on the table. Its the first light he had seen since he knocked out the dangeling lamp on the first day.

He kept his gaze on the dim light, he felt trapped in a state between conscious and unconsciouss. "I'm not telling you what you want to know." He mumbled.

"And why is that?" Stitch asked, sliding a metal tub of water across the floor.

"Because I'm sure you already know. Your one of Perseus' best men. You just have files on this sort of stuff, I assume anyways."

"But I want to hear it from the horse's mouth." He brought the candle close to Anthony's face.

He winced, feeling the heat close to his face. Stitch untied one of the restraints on Anthony's arm. He outstretched his arm and planted the candle on the skin.

Anthony cried out in pain. He laid his face against the cold surface of the table. He looked up to see the red door, the only thing trapping him inside of this hell.

Two hours later and another arm later he finally gave something up.

"Did you kill them?!" Stitch shouted.

"Did I?!" This was the most alive he had seemed since a few days ago. "Those Britts did! Had I made it home just a little bit sooner I could have..-" he cut himself off there, realising his main goal.

"Yes. You were too late, much to late. Your family was dying, burining, and you did nothing.."  He crouched beside the boy and spoke beside his ear. "From the reports it seemed like the tragedy was intentional. Ironic that you were the only one left alive. I guess we know who the problem is. If you were not a part of that family, they would still be alive and thriving, unburdened by your troublemaking habits." He was like a serpent in his ear. But he bought every lie.

"I.. I know." His voice broke, tears slowly trickling down his face as he looked down. "I should have killed them myself. If anyone was to ever harm them it should have been me, not them." He said calmly. "Over time I might have been able to forgive myself, call it some twisted justice. But to have mercy on the enemy, only miracles can do that." He hissed.