Road to War Part I: Terrible Lie

Hey, God, Why Are You Doing This to Me?

The sky was white, far above his head.  Sometimes wisps of blue appeared between the clouds, but it was a grey day.  Not that there was much sky visible from his location.  He wasn't dead, not yet, but it was only a matter of time.  The actual temperature was unknown, but it was certainly cold enough to snow, and he was soaking wet.  He'd pulled himself out of a river, he vaguely recalled.  There was something unpleasant, horrifying, about it, which he did not want to think about.  If he pressed himself, his brain skipped along to other thoughts and refused to focus on how he had gotten here.  That was okay, he decided.  It probably didn't matter.

After a while, he didn't feel cold anymore.  Or in pain.  Everything seemed very calm, and the earlier desperation he had felt seemed silly now.  There had been a mission, it was important, but now it had gone on without him.  He could just lie here, in the snow, and wait until it was all over.  There was no reason to worry.  He watched calmly as it began to snow, soft flakes landing on his face and coat and hand.  They didn't melt.  Not even when they landed on his eyes, which he considered blinking, but didn't always.

Suddenly, noise invaded the serenity of his mind.  It caused him to wince, closing his eyes at last.  A shadowy figure appeared above him, between him and the grey sky.  It moved close to his face, perhaps inspecting him, then shouted.  He winced again at the shout, wanting to push the figure away but unable to move his arms.  The figure disappeared, and he hoped it wouldn't come back, that he could just be left alone to lie here.

He was somewhat disappointed when he felt himself being grabbed by the shoulders and dragged backwards onto a different surface from the snow-covered ground.  It was rough; wood, perhaps.  It started moving lightly through the snow, and a figure appeared, following.  It shifted in and out of his vision, but he was aware that the man was dressed as a soldier.  Russian, some part of his brain supplied irrelevantly.  They were taking him somewhere.  He didn't know what he felt about that, so he closed his eyes instead.

He is aware of himself suddenly, shockingly.  Breathing comes in deep gasps, his chest heaving.  His body is restrained to a table and there is pain everywhere.  His voice does not work, though he tries to cry out, and the pain intensifies to a point before vanishing completely.  His eyes close again and he tries to return to his earlier calm.

When he becomes aware again, he finds that he is on his feet, surrounded by metal.  A small window is before his face, and is edged in ice.  The ice is melting, and he can feel the same happening on his flesh.  His body shakes and he focuses on the window, trying to make out the room beyond.  Before he can get more than the impression of a few men in white (lab coats?), the door is opened abruptly and he falls forward.  He hadn't realized he was leaning on it.

Words float above his head as the men talk about him, but he can't focus on what they are saying or what language they use.  He has landed on the cold concrete floor, on his side, and pulls his knees against his chest.  His right arm wraps around them.  His left he doesn't think about.  The trembling is decreasing, though he is still wet and cold from the ice in the chamber.  Or was it from the snow at the base of a cliff?  Or from the river?  He doesn't know, doesn't care.  He wants to be warm again.

Arms wrap around him and haul him onto a platform of some sort; a gurney, maybe.  He allows himself to be stretched out, but then they begin to fasten straps across his person.  This causes him to react automatically and he struggles against them.  The words floating around increase in volume and insistence, and more hands appear to hold him down while he is restrained.  When these are secure, he gives up and lays back, staring at the light hanging from the ceiling perhaps ten feet above him.