The Enthusiasts

35

"Little children, you are from God, and have conquered them; for the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in this world." – Yeshua (Jesus, the Christ) of Nazareth

The double doors at the back of the holding container swung open shortly after the vehicle came to a stop. Emerson felt a pair of hands grab and then pull his body out from his temporary steel prison box. He attempted to cooperate with his captors as best he could while in his blind, confused state. He soon realized that his staggered steps were of little consequence when being manhandled by his flanking partners. His body was pushed and pulled in whichever direction his unidentified captors wished. As they plodded together down what he assumed was a long hallway, he eventually let them do the work. His body slumped to one side as he let the men drag him toward his final destination. Emerson felt his legs hit something solid at the end of their walk, and then he immediately felt himself being hoisted into some kind of apparatus. He felt his legs being captured, held in place on what he thought might be stirrups. Then he felt cuffs clench around him. The curved metal locks seemed to gauge his body. Set to a range potential between feather touch and the fist of Zeus, they were programmed to apply pressure that was sensitive to the dimensions of the captive's limbs. Emerson sensed them lock firmly into place at two points over his thighs and calves. Forceful arms pushed his upper half forward, his wrist ties were hastily severed, and then he sensed both his arms being pulled out from behind and then secured to what felt like solid steel plates. Emerson felt several more locks engaging tightly around his arms as well. Finally, a hand was planted firmly on his forehead as he heard the click of a final restraint lock around his neck... He was incapacitated to be sure. It seemed he wouldn't be moving a muscle out of place in whatever these masked men had contained him in.

He felt the straw sack covering his head being pulled off by the seething fist of his captor. Where is Sasha? he wondered. What have they done to her? The bright light puncturing his vision struck him blind; his pupils dilated momentarily and he could see nothing. He hadn't seen this much electricity in one place for a long time. Looking down at his body, now paralyzed in this most extreme restriction of movement, he noticed he was on a thick steel chair. He felt ill knowing that this was not any way to treat someone you were planning on being kind to. Emerson's eyes were unable to fully adjust to the bright interrogation spot radiating from above. Finally, after an extended moment that was possibly intended for effect, prolonged suffering, or both, the overhead lights shifted. The spotlights pandered around the space as several independent motors churned above before the lighting eventually landed to illuminate their subject, placed at the center of a near perfectly circular room. The exterior was formed of cement, and the interior consisted almost entirely of polished sections of varying elementally composed metals: titanium, stainless steel, and aluminum. The sense of implied theatrics was strange to say the least.

Emerson took notice of a man standing in front of him, at center stage. The dark man. The shifting figure of black smoke who has haunted me, only made manifest into the realm of men, came Emerson's fearful guess. He was tall and of white complexion. He wore a black pair of dress pants with crisp lines centering each leg and a starched, dark turquoise-collared dress shirt fitted and tucked to perfection showing zero crease lines or bagging at any bodily offsets. On his feet were a pair of near-sparkling polished black dress shoes. A dark leather belt centered the impossible-to-critique ensemble. He looked fairly handsome by Emerson's perception. Thick black hair, parted to one side, was swept back over his ears. He looked like he'd recently received a spa treatment and possibly just had his hair cut to style. Deep blue piercing eyes gazed out beneath black thick eyebrows plucked to some perfectly desirable thickness. Something was going on with his facial hair too. A thick line joined from his sideburns and continued down, meeting at the bottom of his chin, and then spawned upward to his bottom lip in some creepy trademark look for someone who straps people down in steel-enforced gynecologist-inspired death-chairs before speaking to them. Emerson was positive he already knew who this was. No introduction was required. He must be this Maxim character he'd recently heard about.