GATE: First Encounter

Cahpter 11

I paced around my cell for a while.
Thoughts echoed in my mind—
questions gnawing at me.
How had they learned my language so quickly?
Maybe they had gotten into my mind while I was unconscious, but could that even be possible?
If they could access my mind, why bother with interrogation at all?
They could have just extracted all my information directly.
It didn't make sense.

Had they used another method?
Gradually, more possibilities began to surface.
My eyes involuntarily drifted to the device on my arm.
Could this be connected somehow?
Was it being used to monitor me or read my thoughts?
My heart began to race.
The uncertainty poisoned my mind,
and with every new thought, my panic grew.

I felt a headache coming on from thinking too much.
Finally, I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted.
Even my thoughts had worn me down.
How long had it been since I was captured?
I had no idea.
The concept of time had completely slipped away from me.
Days and nights had merged into one.
I didn't know how long I'd been kept in this cell,
nor how much longer I'd be stuck here.

What would happen when the time came for them to release me from this place?
Once the interrogation was over, what would they do with me?
Would they let me go... or...
I tried to push that thought away,
but the fear had already taken root.

I was alone in this cell, with no windows.
Loneliness had settled heavily on my shoulders,
a weight I hadn't expected.

The following days—or however long it was—
I was trapped in the same routine.
But I was sure they interrogated me at least once a day.
At first, they asked me who I was—
personal questions.
My name, what I did, who I was, what I cared about.
But as time passed, the questions changed.
Now, they were focused on humanity.

They asked about our technological advancements.
Weapons, space technology, the political systems of our nations...
They questioned everything.
It was a relentless storm of questions.
I felt like I was suffocating with each one.

I answered as best as I could.
I cooperated.
But I wasn't getting any answers.
Not a single clue, not a single explanation.

They were ignoring me.
Every time they interrogated me,
the same cold, emotionless behavior pushed me further into isolation.
The one speaking to me felt like a mechanical being,
programmed to extract answers, and nothing more.
I was nothing more than a tool to them.
Each new interrogation felt like a repeat of the last,
and my patience was running thin.

By the time the next interrogation came, I had made up my mind:
I wasn't going to speak anymore.
I wouldn't answer their questions.
If they ignored me, I would ignore them right back.
It was a risk.
I had no idea what the consequences would be.
But this pointless game couldn't continue.
I had questions of my own—
but no one was interested in a dialogue.

When I heard the door open, I didn't need to turn to know who was entering.
Three of them, just like always.
One would approach to speak to me,
while the other two would stand by the door, silently keeping watch.
The interrogation always happened here, in this cramped cell.
They had become a part of the routine.
But today, I was going to ignore them.

I kept my back to them, staring at the wall in front of me.
No matter what they did,
I wasn't going to acknowledge them.
When the interrogator stepped close enough to my eye level,
I turned away quickly.
I could feel the distance between us, but I avoided their gaze.
It felt like my last line of defense.

For a few seconds, there was silence.
I was sure they were studying me—
trying to figure out if I would break.

But they tried again.

The interrogator stepped closer, attempting to meet my eyes.
I quickly turned away again.
Avoiding eye contact was my game,
and I was determined to play it as long as it took.
They wanted to interrogate me, but this time, I was in control.

I sat on the bed, arms crossed over my chest, expression blank—waiting.

Finally, the interrogator gave up on eye contact.
He exhaled sharply and began to speak.
"Why are you acting like this?"

His voice, as usual, was flat, emotionless.
No curiosity, no anger—just a task being done.

I kept my back to him and responded briefly, with the same firmness:
"I don't want to talk anymore."

My words echoed off the walls of the cell,
but the interrogator didn't respond.
He extended the silence.
Maybe he was waiting for me to give in.

After a while, he spoke again.
"What led you to this decision?"
His tone remained the same—cold and neutral.

I didn't answer.
I was going to win this battle through my stubbornness.
Still, the interrogator waited.
He realized I wouldn't answer,
and added in a threatening tone:

"For your own good, I suggest you continue cooperating."

The threat didn't faze me.
I didn't say a word.
My thoughts were singular:
If they ignored me, I would smother them with silence.

The silence hung heavy in the room,
and the tension in the air thickened.
But I remained patient.
Who would break first?

When I heard the footsteps, I knew the interrogator had finally given up.
I felt him slowly step away.
The door opened slowly, then closed behind him.

I was alone again...
As I had expected.
I had braced myself for them to push me, to come at me hard.
But they hadn't done anything.
Their silence had made me question myself for a moment.
Had I made the wrong choice?
Was my decision wrong?
Maybe I should have spoken?

Then, with a slight shiver, I came back to myself.
No, I hadn't done anything wrong.
My silence was a response to their actions.
I was answering them in a way they'd understand—
with silence