S.M.A.R.T. (The Subject of Mind Altering Research and Testing)

Chapter One

A slow drip of accumulating moisture was the only sound that interrupted the dead silence of Michael's cave prison. The sound wasn't much, but amplified by the blackness and cold, it gave Michael some semblance of comfort; it proved the world still turned around him as he sat chained to his chair.

The dripping was slowly overtaken by the sound of footsteps approaching. Two sets of feet, Michael thought, as the steps grew louder. There usually were two when they came, and Michael had started to know his captors walks by the clanking of their boots echoing down the halls. Their pace is slower than usual today.

The guards started speaking in thick Russian as they plodded closer to Michael's cell. It sounded like they were arguing, but the language had always sounded harsh to him, so it was hard to be certain. The voices continued getting louder until they reached the outside of the cell and then fell silent.

 The sound of thick wooden doors creaking opening. Darkness leapt the walls of the cave to show the mould and stone. The light burned Michael's eyes. New air wafted over him. It wasn't fresh, just new, but it was better than the dank of his cell.

His eyes adjusted to reveal the silhouettes of two masked guards. He didn't recognize either of them by their bodies, but he knew what was coming all the same. He was used to the beatings and interrogations. The time in solitary was worse.

He had been missing in action for over five months now, he figured, and likely declared dead, but something about having the senses of sight and sound with him always put him at odd ease. He wondered whether it was the thoughts of his family, his ability to take a beating, or sheer dumb luck that kept him alive. Whatever it was though, he was still there chained to his chair however long later.

He was tall, six foot three, only thirty-five years old. Sheila would tell him that was old, he knew, but he felt young, or had, until now. She's probably grown so much. His black hair was thick and straight, with a small widows peak on his forehead, normally kept cropped military short, but now instead it hung long and matted in front of his eyes. He was filthy. It was a wonder he hadn't gotten sick already. He had once been over two hundred pounds of muscle and now his ribs were starting to show.

He knew he would barely be recognizable to any of his friends or family. When he had caught a glimpse of himself weeks back, his skin looked pasty from lack of sunlight, and his eyes were sunken black holes. He had once been called handsome, but the sight of him now was quite less flattering, never mind the smell.

The two guards walked slowly into the room. They weren't big men. One was the size Michael had been. It would have been a fair fight if he had been in shape. They tried to look intimidating, Michael always noticed. They never hit as hard as they try to look.

Both of their faces were covered in black cloth and both were dressed in military uniforms of faded green camouflage. Their steel-toed boots looked as if they might have once been black, but were now worn down to a grey colour in most spots and too covered in mud in others to tell. Each held a rifle, gripped close to the chest and tied around the neck with rope, and both stunk of raw tobacco.

The older guard handed Michael some stale bread, which he didn't thank them for, but devoured quickly, tearing off some small mouldy bits as he went, while the two guards went back to arguing in Russian.

Michael longed for one of his wife's home cooked meals. His sparse meals in the prison camp had been mainly bread and canned beans - lots of canned beans - and once in a while when the captors were short on rations they gave him creamed corn as if it was some sort of treat. He remembered hating creamed corn in another life, but on a starved stomach it was a steak dinner to him now. Thinking about how hungry he was just made it worse, so he did his best to put that thought aside.