"My Name Is"
"What is your name?"
The voice is calm, methodical, and so neutral that I can't tell if it's a man or a woman. I can't tell where it's coming from; the room is a perfectly featureless white cube. I can't even tell where the light is coming from--it seems directionless and omnipresent, obliterating all the shadows in the room. It's a little disorienting.
"My name is Louise Ross," I reply hesitantly. I look around for a loudspeaker, but my fingers are busy trying to find the door I came in through. Even by touch, though, I can't locate the edges--it's as though the opening never even existed. "I came in for a job interview, I have an appointment for three o'clock..."
"Your name is not Louise Ross," the voice responds. I turn around, straining to get clues as to its gender, its tone, its location, but it seems as omnipresent as the light. I turn back around, suddenly worried that I'll lose track of which wall the door was on. "What is your name?"
"My name is Louise Ross," I respond irritably, hoping my irritation covers my fear. "I don't know what this is all about, but if you think there's some kind of mistake, I can show you my driver's license once you let me out." I run my fingernails along the wall, hoping to catch at a hidden seam, but the surface is perfectly smooth.
"Your name is not Louise Ross," the voice says again. The inflection hasn't changed even a little from the last time it spoke; it might as well have been a recording. "What is your name?"
"My name is--" I kick the door, or at least the spot where I think the door should be, hard. It doesn't leave a mark. "My name is Louise Ross, damnit!" I shout loudly, but something about the walls seems to deaden the sound, depriving it of an echo. I don't even get the satisfaction of scuffing the walls with my shoe. In fact, I almost lose my balance--the weird lighting makes it hard to judge distance. It's hard to tell where the wall meets the floor. I fight a slight wave of vertigo as I look down and can't quite figure out where the floor is. "Listen, you can't keep me here! I've got friends who know where I am, and--"
"Your name is not Louise Ross," the voice says. It sounds like the speaker is absolutely certain of that fact. She (but it could be a he) could just as easily be saying that two plus two is four, or that the sky is blue. I feel a tiny chill of panic run down my spine at the certainty in that voice. "You do not have any friends. What is your name?"
I try to pretend I don't hear the question this time. "What do you mean, I don't have any friends? How do you know if I have any friends?" How does he (but it might be a she) know that? Have they been watching me? How long did they know I was planning to come here? How long have they been planning for my visit? I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. Too many questions, not enough answers. The most important thing right now is getting out of this room. I lower my shoulder and charge where I think the door was.
There's no give at all. I wince in pain at the solid, jarring sensation that goes all the way up my shoulder and leaves a dull ache behind. The voice doesn't help. "You have no friends. Your name is not Louise Ross." It's not actually mocking me; it hasn't changed tone even a little. But somehow, it feels mocking in the wake of my humiliating failure. It's sort of like adding a lack of insult to injury. "What is your name?"
"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," I say flippantly. I don't actually expect a response, but maybe it'll shut up whoever's speaking for a moment while I try to figure out a way out of here. I reach for the wall again, feeling that wave of dizziness stronger this time--I realize it's not just my imagination, the effect is getting stronger. The light is getting brighter, not enough to be painful but enough to make it virtually impossible to tell where the white light ends and the white wall begins. The effect is an illusion of a featureless void, and I close my eyes for a moment to center myself, then open them again. It doesn't help much.
"My name is Slavegirl 95," the voice says, surprising me. It surprises me on a lot of levels, actually. It surprises me that she responded at all; I expected her to ignore me and repeat the question again. Endless repetition can be a very effective interrogation technique, and I didn't think she'd stop using it just because I was getting snarky with her. It surprises me that it's a woman's voice; I'd just started to convince myself that it must be a man on the other end of the connection. And it shocks the hell out of me that she only thinks of herself as 'Slavegirl 95'. The chill running down my spine becomes a torrent of ice water. "What is your name?" she asks again.
"Oh, so we're back to that, are we?" I mutter. I start feeling for the wall, but a flash of motion out of the corner of my eye causes me to spin around. But when I do, I don't see anything there. Was it my imagination? Perhaps it was just my brain trying to fill in the blankness with something tangible, or...no. I spot it again. It moves just a little bit faster than I do, but I'm good at tracking fast-moving things. I turn to where I know it's going to be, just in time to see it fade away. Just an image projected onto the wall somehow. Why would they...
I look around. I realize that in my haste to follow the spot on the wall, I lost track of where the door was. "What is your name?" the girl asks. (I'm not going to call her that name, I promise myself. I'll find out her real name someday, give it back to her. Until then, she's just "the girl".)
"Alright!" I shout, my voice petulant. "I don't know how you found out, but my real name is Toby. Toby Blair. My friend had a job interview here a few months ago and never came back. I wanted to find out what happened to her, but I couldn't afford a detective. Happy now?"
"Your name is not Toby Blair," the girl responds. "You have no friends. What is your name?" She doesn't just suspect it. I can hear it in her voice. She knows it. I don't understand why they're playing these games. If they already know who I really am, why are they asking? They're not going to get anything out of me anyway.
Still, I decide to hold onto this cover identity a little longer anyway. I liked creating Toby Blair. She had a better reason for being here, for one thing. I'd much rather be headstrong, foolish Toby than accidental victim Louise. "I do have a friend!" I shout. "Her name is Carol! Carol, if that's you, try to remember what they did to you!" I stamp my shoe hard on the floor, hoping to maybe crack the thing that's making it light up, but all that does is make my foot hurt.
"There is no Carol," the girl says placidly. Now that I've heard her speak a few times I realize it's not just calm; she sounds almost sedated. "There is no Toby." It's like she doesn't even know how to get angry anymore. I find myself wanting to shout, scream, do anything just to get a rise out of her; but I force myself to stay calm. It wouldn't help. "You have no friends. What is your name?"
The light begins to change colors as she waits for an answer. It turns gently pink, then shifts into a smooth, pastel purple, then becomes a gentle blue. I get down on my hands and knees, feeling my way along the floor and trying to ignore the sensation that I'm floating in space. I close my eyes a few times, but the light is bright enough now that it goes right through my eyelids. "I told you, Toby Blair!" I shout, hoping to keep up the pretense a little while longer. Just until I can find a wall. The air has to be coming from somewhere; there has to be a crack or a seam, no matter how well they disguise it.
"You said your name was Louise Ross," the girl says. "This was incorrect." I feel like I've been crawling for longer than I should. The room wasn't this big when I walked into it. "You said your name was Toby Blair. This was incorrect." Right now, I'd settle for just finding that damn speaker so I could put a bullet into it. "What is your name?"
I feel forward again, but there's still no wall. The lights shift a little faster now, the pattern a little more complex. "Stare bene, stare bene, fighetta," I say, dropping my West Coast tones and slipping into a rich Italian accent. "I don't know how you know, but I give in, OK? My name is Isabella Cacciatore, I work for Camden International." I can feel cold sweat on my palms as I crawl across the floor. I still haven't found a wall yet. "This, it is all just business, OK? My bosses, they hear things about this place, they think there might be something valuable." They couldn't have moved me, and I don't think they could make the walls move without some sort of machinery sound giving it away. "They send me to take a look. All just business, no harm done, right?" I don't bother hiding the panic in my voice.
The walls have to be right where they were, they have to, but-- "Your name is not Isabella Cacciatore," the girl says. How the hell do they have a file on me this detailed? How do they know I'm lying? Where the hell are the fucking walls? "What is your name?"
Then it hits me. The lights. They're still flashing, brighter and more dizzying than before, but I know what's happening now. They're drawing my attention very subtly in one direction. Not enough that I'd notice, but enough that it feels like I'm crawling in a straight line when I'm really going in circles. Oh, they must be having a good laugh watching me.
"What is your name?" the girl repeats. She doesn't sound forceful at all. I wonder how many times she'd repeat the question if I just didn't answer. Probably as long as she has to. She sounds like whatever they've done to her has given her a pretty infinite reserve of patience. She's waiting for me to break, to admit my real name. I'm not going to give her the satisfaction.
I pull my jacket off and set it on the floor. It blocks the light, giving me something tangible to use as a landmark, and as I back away from it, I hit something solid within moments, and turn to face the wall. I don't care that they can see my shoulder holster now. They must know everything about me, from the sound of things.
