The Beige Room

Chapter 2

          Archer woke up with a gasp, abrupt and jolting. His cavernous eyes rocked back and forth as they brushed over the banal room. His vision was flooded with an ocean of the stale hues, their lack of spirit infecting him with a chilly feeling of uneasiness.

          He glided off the paperlike cot and began to inspect the other four victims trapped in here. Immediately, his eyes were caught on the vivid pink hair of the comatose girl lying across the room. Its shocking color was stark against the monotony of the chamber.

          "Hey, you, you're awake too?" coughed the man perched on the cot behind his. Archer twisted around and acknowledged the man with a preliminary grunt. "Eh, you know how we got here?"

          He let out a curt chuckle. "Do I look like I know anything?"

          Archer snorted softly and turned away. He scanned the room absently, mostly out of boredom than fear. "Well, get comfortable."

"What's that supposed to mean?" the man rasped.

          "Looks like we're gonna be here awhile," he replied flippantly, leaning against his cot with an undisturbed countenance that almost resembled boredom. All of his prior angst had dissolved quickly, as it usually does. He had grown accustomed to dire circumstances, and this one was quite insipid in comparison.

"So...who are you?" the man inquired.

          "You don't need to know," Archer replied instantly, his voice breezy and clipped. He detested useless questions, and he deemed this stranger an adversary rather than an ally. For all he knew, these people were his opponents, and he couldn't afford to interact with them so freely. He casted a wall of cool passiveness over his visage, aiming for a taut hostility that would repel any shy interactions from other strangers.

"Easy, boy," he warned. "Don't get snarky with me."

          Vexation curdled in Archer's chest. He whipped around and glared at the man, his mouth steely and his jaw rigid. "Maybe you should keep your mouth shut, yeah?"

"Look, kid," he snapped, "I fought in wars. This--this room means nothing to me! I ain't scared of anyone!"

          Archer knitted his lips together and refused to respond. Instead, he scrutinized the man across from him, intimately sweeping his appearance. He was about forty years old, but he had creases in his forehead that defied graceful aging. Archer's gaze floated downward, scanning his expression. The man had a charged energy about him, wearing a tough facade but Archer could recognize the nerves behind his shaky voice and the shifty glare in his steely eyes.

         The man's craggy army clothes and wiry muscles authenticated his claim of having military background. He reluctantly supposed that the man could be a good fighter, but there was no way that he would trust him.

          Archer grunted softly and turned around again, facing the rows of sleepy people occupying the cots. He refused to delve into any kind of conversation with the man.

          Archer shoved his hands in the pockets of his loose pants, probing for anything that could distract him. The only thing he found was an old scrap of metal that he had snatched the day before, mistaking its luster for a valuable coin. He sighed and climbed onto his cot, resting to assuage his sore muscles. He tossed the shiny figment around in his hands, vacantly lost in its bouncy malleability. He kept toying with it, eventually using it to scratch at his cuticles and occupy his hands for a moment.

          His reverie was ebbing and peaceful as he had succumbed to a world of cotton candy clouds and whistling winds. However, the soft grunting of the girl next to him lurched him into reality. He glanced up with a startling curiosity as her eyes fluttered open.

"Who are you?" she asked gingerly, her voice thick and syrupy.