Prison of Puppet(eer)s

Rising

The first thing I notice is that my head throbs like someone attached a vice to it and gave it a few turns. My mouth tastes like used cardboard and my stomach is churning. I should probably just lie here for a while, I tell myself.

Then, I remembered what was going on before I ended up here, and I made a small squeak which would once have been a scream.

This can't be happening, I tell myself. I don't believe in an afterlife, and I've always assumed that when you're killed you stay dead. You just don't get booted up again after what's supposed to be a permanent crash. Blue screen, fatal error, end of operations.
But here I am, thinking and breathing and occupying my battered and slightly decrepit body and it just doesn't make sense. Not that I'm sorry I'm alive, mind you. It just doesn't make sense.

My muscles feel as weak as a newborn kitten and sitting up seems like a monumental task. In fact, the idea that I could once move under my own power seems absurd. Still, I struggle a bit.

I find that I'm strapped onto what must be a surgical table. Next, I notice that I seem to be attached to a medical device dripping fluids into my veins through what feels like a needle in my arm.
So where am I? The room around me is silent other than a barely audible hum. Inscrutable hidden devices emit a faint grey glow. I search with my mind and listen for other people's thoughts, but either I'm completely alone, or my powers have been damaged by Anastasia's attack.

Then, as if a switch had been thrown, I'm hit with the vivid memories of my murder. The back alley. The paralysis. Anastasia's knife slicing through my throat and her strange mix of pride and sadness as she walks away leaving me choking on my own blood.
If she's still alive out there she won't live much longer. I'll see to that. I'll tear her throat out with my teeth if I can.

The idea triggers another wave of nausea but I wait till it passes. I am the master; my body is the servant. Or so I was taught during my training. I know this in my bones, even though I have no idea who did the teaching and what they wanted in return.

Another lesson surfaces from the mist: If you apply the right strategy, you can always find a way to control your situation. But that will take some major shifts in my thinking. To start with, I have to accept that I'm alive.