The Messenger

The Messenger: I See Your Future

The Messenger heard the door open and close, letting in someone, another interrogator most likely. In his vision he only saw darkness, but he could tell that this man was dressed in the same clothes they all wore; an expensive black suit for a high paying job. He waited for the man to speak, anticipating what his voice would sound like.

"So, what's your story? What's your real name?" the voice finally came. It was a deep tenor, something smooth and melodic; a lady charmer certainly.

He chose not to reply, giving his interrogator silence.

"You're going to have to talk sooner or later. Personally I'd prefer to keep from torturing you, but for that to happen you'll have to give me what I want."

More silence...

An angry shout rang out; suddenly there was pain on the left side of his face, then on the right side, before he felt a burning pain on his chest. He was being punched repeatedly. Was that last one a kick? He felt the blood on the tip of his tongue as it swished in his mouth, bruises formed on his face and burned like they were on fire. Still, he didn't speak. This was a newcomer, he could tell from the man's voice alone, though his punches were no less aggressive than the last interrogator who had been in the room to 'ask a few questions'.

The punches stopped, giving the Messenger some reprieve. It wasn't long before the smooth tenor found its way to his ears again.

"I know you're the one they call the Messenger. I know you've killed more than a hundred men in the name of your so called 'god'. If it were up to me, you'd be in ashes right now, cremated alive as dictated by law. My superiors think differently though, they think you can lead us to your other colleagues, so they want you to talk."

So they wanted him to talk? How absurd, as if this was the first time he had been told that same thing. He had already been told that for 'killing more than a hundred men', the punishment would be for him to be cremated alive. Nothing stayed the hand of the executioner; that was the law. They had no leverage; he would be executed as soon as he told them what they wanted to know, so why talk? Loath though as he was to admit it, his hatred for his three 'colleagues' -as he called them- did not invalidate the fact that they did his master's bidding just the same as he. No, he would not turn against them.

"Are you even listening to me!?"

Another blow hit him straight in the face, and he blacked out for a second. His ears rang in agony and he felt blood pouring down his nose. He was still blindfolded, as he had been for days past. When the month came to an end, they would take away his blindfold and expose him to the brightest of lights, just as they had done in the months prior. It was a method of torture that very easily caused psychological trauma and a high chance of blindness; a method that had yet to reap any benefits for them, but it certainly had not benefited him either. He had been kept in this room for five months and still he refused to talk. This was the sixth month, yet the same questions were asked of him every day.

They wanted him to tell them his story, his real name. They wanted to put a personality to the face that had brought about death in every corner it showed, right up to the point when law enforcement sacrificed twenty five of its elite officers to apprehend him. They wanted to know why; was he a psychopath or just a normal person with a hidden agenda? How clueless they all were. Perhaps he would decide to speak; tell them how foolish they seemed under his scrutiny; the eyes of a man who had ascended petty humanity.

Yes, yes he would just do that. He hadn't spoken in a while, so he used some of the blood that was still in his mouth to clear his throat, swallowing it after. Long and drawn out, his voice came in a whisper of cold apathy.

"Why would you want to know who I am when you're not even sure of your own identity, Michael?"

The interrogator gasped audibly, probably stunned that he, the captive had decided to talk. A whole minute passed. The Messenger decided to speak again.

"Who are you, but more importantly, what are you? Why are you alive and living each and every day? What moves the breath in your body and the beat of your heart?"

The interrogator growled in annoyance; not wanting to hear anymore of his random drabble. "What are you blabbering on about? How do you know my name?"

How? Well, every living man had a part to play in existence; each a pawn to fate and the branches of life the commoner would term 'destiny'. He had known as soon as he had heard the interrogator's voice a few minutes ago everything he needed to know. That was his power, his gift. The one thing that made him stand out from the rest. His superior ability, gifted to him by his so called 'false' god.

The interrogator's name was Michael Striker of Squadron X, Interpol. Aged 33, born in England and raised in the USA. Married to a woman who was about to be widowed with two children -none of whom were going to be present at his funeral.

A small but sure smirk played across the Messenger's bruised and bloodied face. He spoke once more.

"I am not blabbering, Michael. Listen attentively and you will understand. I know all about you and your story. You were born in London to Michelle and Chris Striker in the year 2018. Your mother abandoned you and your father for another man and his children, so your father took you back to the States. Your father remarried when you were 15 years old, but his new wife was not fond of you. No, she hated your guts. So, you joined up with the military after you graduated high school and excelled so much that you were transferred to Interpol and assigned to the prestigious Squadron X whose sole objective was to capture me, the mass murderer who had just begun his killing spree at that time. That was eight years ago."

"So you know about my family history, big deal!" the smooth tenor was now raspy and vicious, more so than the voice of anyone who had come in to question the Messenger previously. "Anyone with your skill-set can access that information, and it doesn't have anything to do with who you are!"

The small smirk morphed into an evil grin that threatened to break his bruised face in two. He was so close now, he could taste the outcome.

"Patience, patience, during that time you got married to Hillary, a beautiful woman of blond hair and blue eyes. She was so much in love with you, but you were just using her to get to her brother, a man who was an accomplice to my crimes, and solve the case. You never did manage to get him though, because he was killed in my last skirmish with the Reagent. Now you are stuck with a wife that you do not truly love and two children who both know that you regularly cheat on their mother. Am I getting somewhere?"

A hard blow hit him in the face then the stomach. Another blow hit his face and he grunted, spitting out more blood.

"Where did you get this information? Where's your proof!?" the interrogator -Michael was rattled, and he unintentionally made it known by showing more aggression than he previously did.

The Messenger finally decided to reveal a part of what he really saw to the frustrated interrogator.

"What you do not know is that at this very moment, your wife is also cheating on you with her best friend Jacob, a man you wrongly think is gay. Your first born son who has gone abroad in pursuit of his CIA career was killed last month in Brazil. Your last born, still in her first year in college will go missing tomorrow during her hiking trip to the mountains with her boyfriend and some other friends. The saddest thing is that you won't be able to do anything about it because you won't live to see tomorrow. You will die today, Michael Strike of Squadron X."

The man -Michael gave one last snarl, his breath going in and out in angry puffs. Yet, the Messenger did not receive any more physical abuse. The sound of rushed footsteps echoed through the torture room as the man in the expensive black suit hurriedly left.

The Messenger's evil grin turned into one of triumph as he heard the sound of the door slamming shut. His victim had left.

"I forgot to mention the part where all of what I just said only happens if you succumb to my taunts and try to return home now. You'll want to catch your wife in the act of cheating, just to prove if I can see the future. You will never make it, though. Destiny assures me of that."

The Messenger's cold voice broke into laughter as his bruises started to heal at an abnormally fast rate.

"Far be it for mere mortals to tread on the path of gods, or their messengers."

Thirty minutes later, Michael Striker would die in a car accident, exceeding the speed limit in a vain attempt to arrive home in time to catch his wife cheating on him. Indeed, she was cheating on him but he would never know for sure. Just as the Messenger had foretold, his life was over. The next day Michael's daughter would go missing and a week later his already grieving widow would receive news of his son's death in Brazil.

So the Messenger would continue to rot away in his cell, locked in and never to be interrogated again. Six men had tried to get answers from him; five died without getting him to say a word. The sixth died after he was told that he would.

No one would find out why the Messenger killed so many people both before and after he got caught, or how he managed to do it; his story as well as his methods, would remain mysteries unsolved.

But for how long?