Sensations of the space meandered into his hazy consciousness. He was sat upright in presumably a chair of some kind, he could feel it made of a leathery, spongey material. What were those bands of coldness surrounding his wrists and ankles? For that matter, there were thirteen such bands encircling his body in various points from the top down. A certain clinical silence hung in the air, like a waiting room with no lights or fans on.
Almost... tomb like...
There was something like a linen material obstructing his sight. Coldness had begun settling on his skin by a chilly draught in the air, and it was now he realised the only clothing he wore was a pair of non-descript boxer-briefs. The blackness was torn away by an unseen force. He forced his eyes to shudder open, and he almost screamed when the sight of his situation collided with his sight.
The dimly lit chamber was some three metres across and ten metres long in front of him.
The floor, walls and ceiling of the space were an undeterminable material, pitch black, and rendered the place like an endless abyss of nothingness, save for strips of silver lighting on the floor that outlined a walkway of sorts.
The item that caused him the most disquiet were four towering black figures that were faceless completely, and stood sentinel by the large steel door at the other end of the chamber. They all wore the same pure black gear that seemed a little medieval, with gauntleted hands, pauldrons and a strange symbol adorned on the centre of the chest piece. A silver raven nesting atop a red skull, surrounded on the four corners by a silver diamond. They almost seemed robotic, like twisted parodies of knights with their eyes only represented by two bright, electronic blue lights emanating from the hooded head piece.
They seemed to radiate coldness.
For the first time, he found his voice. 'W...who are you people?' he inquired, stuttering slightly. Three of them remained silent, however the left-most one, spoke. It was a harsh, languid voice that raked the air with a sharp combination of contempt and spiteful satisfaction.
'That, is not your concern. What is your concern, however, is The Master's will.'
'The master?'
He seemed to be about to continue when the large steel door swung open with a heavy hearted groaning sound. He was taken aback by the energy the one called they called The Master presented himself with, as an immense - athletically built figure swept into the space. On one hand, the long burgundy-red hair and glinting emerald eyes gave an impression of one who was highly outspoken and individualistic with a developed instinct for showing off. But on the other hand, the cold and thoroughly pragmatic voice impressed upon him the quality of an ice-blooded tactician, though he could not possibly have been older than thirty. The voice sliced through these thoughts, and commanded his attention immediately.
'Fairburn and one other of you, come with me. This is a matter for which I will need additional hands.' He said, businesslike in tone. It wasn't a loud voice, yet the command still held an icy softness to it. The one whom had spoken earlier -- evidently called Fairburn - and then another of the four joined the master as they turned to face him. Clad in a denim buttoned shirt with rolled up sleeves and similarly coloured business trousers, he stepped across the threshold and into the shadowy chamber. His eyes of pure, glimmering emerald settled on him. A small smile, no, smirk grew outward from the lower corner of his jaw.
'At last I look upon my enemy... Ah Justin... so good of you to join us tonight...' he began.
Justin.
Yes... that was his name.
'I am Raymond Vaughn, The Deceiver, head of the state's counter-intelligence, and Leader of the Blackguard, the Fist of the Crown or so they tend to call us.' He declared, a note of derision in his tone. 'And you, Justin... you hold many valuable secrets that myself and my colleagues would be very interested in acquiring...'
Wait a moment.
That name indeed rang a bell.
'No way...' Justin breathed. 'Raymond... I knew you at school, remember?'
'Indeed you did.' Raymond said, becoming nostalgic. 'Or rather, you thought you did... I distinctly remember even in those days I had quite a crush on you. So imagine my shock and rage when I learned you -- of all people after all those years - were a leading activist for social reforms. When I saw your face in the headlines a few weeks ago I knew straight away you were HIS son. Your father...' he broke off, and a fleeting look of disdain crossed his face.
Without warning, Justin's consciousness was torn from the present and cast back. A vision came to him of large crowds in the rain-soaked streets of London, brandishing great profane signs and howling hoarse to the heavens with promises of retribution. There was a figure at their head who turned around and it was himself. This second version of him had hatred etched into every inch of his face, and pointed a finger accusingly at the current Justin.
'You killed me!' the other Justin half shouted. The crowd, numbering in their thousands at least, joined in.
'YOU KILLED US!' they chanted, and the sound made Justin's heart spasm. There was something wet on his hands; red and warm, and at once, everyone in the crowd was covered in it.
Their blood. His hands.
Mercifully, the scene dissolved and he was returned to the chamber, still fully bound to whatever kind of chair this was. In front of Raymond, Fairburn and their unnamed colleague.
'Enjoy that did we? A taste of things to come... You see, this is no ordinary interrogation chamber. If you could look up -- alas I know the restraint is stopping you -- you would see a swirling tangle of gadgetry and things connected to that chair.'
'Why am I here?' he found himself inquiring tentatively. Raymond lowered his voice to a dangerous softness.
'You could say that it is business in a sense... but it could also be something.... Personal... That chair and this chamber can grant visions and waking dreams - or rather... nightmares - to whomever is unfortunate enough to find themselves bound to it. Welcome to your future... what little there is left of it...' he broke off, allowing himself the satisfaction of savouring Justin's fear.
'Sooner or later, either you will tell us everything you know about the plot to seize Downing Street, or we will rip the knowledge from your mind. A most painful process that will surely leave you insane and broken.'
Justin finally found a small voice. 'I...you... can't hold me here. There are international laws against this, and they will have your head for this.' he said, hoarse and almost in a whisper. He said it more to himself than to Raymond but he heard it all the same. He leaned in close to Justin's ear.
'Dear boy...' he whispered in a mockery of reassurance, and his smirk only grew larger, more arrogant. 'They never learn of what we do here. After all, I am not sure you are in any position to talk about making and breaking rules.' The trepidation on Justin's face gave way to confusion.
'What do you mean by that?' he inquired, having difficulty in keeping the fear out of his face. Raymond looked at him appraisingly, and motioned to Fairburn and the other one that flanked him on his right.
'We have ways of finding out who you are, who you really are. Don't you get it? I know everything about you. Your ordinary enough upbringing and education, your law degree and now your place as leader of... whatever that little radical gang used to call itself...
I don't quite know how someone like you would get drawn in to their lot, but someway somehow, here we are.'
'Y...you don't understand, you've got this wrong!' Justin said. He and Raymond had neither seen nor spoken to each other since their high-school days, and those had ended more than ten years ago. They'd hardly ever interacted back then anyway. This seemed strangely personal. Whatever was going on, this had to be a huge mistake. He looked down at the ground and spoke in a small voice.
