TRIUMVIRATE HEADQUARTERS –THE CONGO, AFRICA

Henrik brought his head up from his mountain of notes, as Dr. Masoud entered the room. He was admittedly fearful of the tall, dark man, but he needed information that only Jarod’s new handler could provide him with.

“You require more information?” Masoud questioned tersely, sitting down across from the pretender.

Henrik nodded, tugging nervously on his neutral coloured scrubs, as he stood up hesitantly, turning towards the two-way mirror on his right. It was easier to look at Jarod than the angry man who sat before him.

“I’m having some trouble piecing together Jarod’s motivation.” Henrik stated, staring at the pretender who was sitting, cross-legged and restrained across the lab. He could help but cringe, as his eyes took in the deep bruising, the gashes and the welts that were on the pretender’s body. Sometimes Henrik would feel slightly empathetic towards Jarod and his motivation would wane; However, as soon as he began to question the work he had been assigned, he would only need to glance at Jarod’s bare back. The sight of that alone was enough to strengthen his resolve, to remind him of the looming consequences if he dared not obey. His assignment was to best Jarod. He could not fail, for his own sake.

“Sir, I need to know exactly why Jarod ran away from the Centre. I’ve been told he simply grew to no longer accept his captivity and rebelled in the most despicable of ways. But I can tell, just by watching him, that is not the case. No one would fight this hard, would subject themselves to that level of abuse for something so trivial. There has to be more, the puzzle pieces don’t fit.”

 “Jarod’s will is strong.” Dr. Masoud countered.

“I understand that.” Henrik replied before continuing with a submissive tone. “Sir, please, I need to know why. It’s the key to what made Jarod leave, the key to his rebellion, the key to why he helped all of those people during his freedom, and what I think will be the answer to his undoing.”

Dr. Masoud narrowed his eyes, striding over to the younger pretender until the young man shrank away. “Sit down.” He ordered, Henrik noticing the small smile of approval that was present on the man’s features, as he scurried over to his seat obediently.

“Jarod was raised by very different principles than you were Henrik. Your handlers were always very forthcoming about any potential applications of your work. You understand that the world is far from equitable and occasionally people have to do bad things to be effective, to bring voices to those who cannot protect themselves. Much of this continent is in turmoil because of this lack of equality. Conflicts with government, wars against corruption; Good men forced into doing bad things for a greater good. You understand this right?”

Henrik nodded intently.

Jarod was raised on the belief that the applications of his simulations had only the purest of intentions. Somehow, the actual purpose of some of his worked was leaked to Jarod. Take an outbreak scenario for example. A small terrorist group in Western Africa infects a small village with the Ebola Virus. Jarod only sees death and destruction, not the ultimate goal. He sees the 40 deaths that were caused by the SIM, but not why it was done. He doesn’t see the oppression that the insurgents are forced to live with, how the government refuses to listen. The outbreak shows the government that the group has strength, that they will fight until they are heard, until they are respected. You and I understand this concept Henrik, but Jarod he does not. He is stuck counting-bodies. It was for this reason that Jarod ran away.” Masoud informed the younger pretender. “It was his misguided belief that we were abusing the results of his simulations to do harm, not good.”

 “So your goal is to get Jarod to see the big picture?” Henrik asked the doctor curiously. It seemed like such a simple thing to comprehend.

The dark skinned doctor laughed. “Jarod is far beyond the point of return. He is harbouring anger and resentment towards the Centre. I highly doubt that his outlook on life can be changed this late in the game – and that is why you are here. You need to get into his head, and take away that piece that makes him care about what we do with his work, or at best destroy what gives him the strength to resist our demands.”

“Understood sir.” Henrik replied, shrinking into his seat slightly as Dr. Masoud’s eyes bore into him.

“What have you concluded about Jarod so far?” The doctor pried.

“Honestly Sir, he has strength I have seen in no other before. As I watch him in this lab, his despair and frustration grows with every hour. However, in the morning when he is brought here, his determination is renewed. He believes he is fighting for something greater than himself. His mind is a very powerful weapon, and he is using it to battle against the will of the Triumvirate.” Henrik answered truthfully, the confidence in his voice surprising even himself.

“Do you feel his resolve dimensioning at all?” The doctor asked hopefully.

“Slightly, but nothing that will give you what you want. As I said, when he leaves the lab in the evening, he emanates feelings of humiliation and hopelessness. However in the mornings, although he is tiring of the routine, he has new strength.”

“Why do you think that is?” The African asked impassively.

“Because he is fighting for something. His file says he has been in contact with some family members? Perhaps it is for them, or even as simple as saving the lives he believes are destroyed by his simulations. He uses his time alone to remember.”     

 “Do you think different accommodations might help our situation Henrik?” Dr. Masoud proposed bluntly.    

“How could you possibly make them worse?” Henrik questioned suspiciously. He knew Jarod was being kept in a small and barren cell, with the air-conditioning purposely turned off. The pretender was already denied free access to any bathroom facilities or water. Henrik could simply not fathom how they could possibly make the conditions of Jarod’s accommodations any less pleasant than they were currently. Stealing a glance over at Dr. Masoud, Henrik could see the smile of satisfaction on the dark man’s features.

Of course there was something worse. 

TRIUMVIRATE HEADQUARTERS –THE CONGO, AFRICA – SIM LAB B

Lysander shook her head as the black hood was pulled off, settling her focus on the floor. The Africans sure knew how to play the game. She had been here for weeks, and had seen nothing but the inside of her cell and this laboratory. Everywhere in between she was shackled and hooded, paraded around like an international terrorist. In a twisted way, she was; by their design of course. The act of just looking up resulted in instantaneous punishment.

Last night Lys had come to an important decision. She was tired of jumping out of her skin every time a door opened, whenever she heard a new voice. She knew it was only a matter of time before they made an attempt to destroy her will. The little dance of being sheparded between her cell and an endless stream of work wasn’t going to last forever, not that she wanted it to.

Enough was enough. Her mother had always told her if she didn’t want to sit around and wait for things to come to her, that she needed to be active rather than reactive. Lys was tired of waiting, tired of the fear. The solution had come to her with a stroke of clarity last night, as she had lain on the hard concrete floor.

She and Jarod only had a few precious moments to speak before they were recaptured by the Centre. The pain the pretender felt over the exploitation of his work was obvious. She knew there was no way that he’d be doing what they asked of him, and now she would join him. Call it courage, call it stupidity, or call it suicide. Whatever it was, she didn’t care. The waiting was done.

“Sit.” Her British handler commanded, obviously annoyed that Lys hadn’t yet taken her seat at her large worktable. The Triumvirate clearly recruited the best and brightest from around the globe.

Lysander fought hard to suppress the smile, as she brought her eyes up to meet his face. “No.” She said with resolve, enjoying the look of surprise that became plastered on his face. She didn’t care as one of the guards behind her roughly smacked the back of her head.

“What do you mean, no?” Her handler asked with irritation clear in his tone.

Lys shrugged her shoulders after shaking off the residual pain from the painful blow she had just received.

“Simply put, I think I’d have to say at this point; make me.” She flashed him a daring look. Inside she was trembling, but her expression and posture demonstrated nothing but determination and strength.   

Her stomach knotted as the man smiled. “That’s a challenge I’m thrilled to take on.”

Lys wasn’t given a chance to respond, instead she found herself encased in the familiar darkness of the hood and restrained. She was petrified of the pain she knew was about to come, but it was time to face her demons.

She had it coming either way, at least this way, it was on her terms.

LA PLAYA RESORT - MAZATLAN, MEXICO

“Jay!” Emily cried frantically throughout their rented penthouse suite. She and her younger brother had gotten in the habit of taking early morning walks along the beach.  They enjoyed watching the day come to life with the beautiful sunrise. It was their private time, where they could take a few minutes just to savour the colours and the sound of waves gently crashing onto the sandy shore. Relish in the few peaceful moments in which Jarod, and their father’s anguish, could be put aside, almost forgotten. This morning however, she had poked her head into Jay’s bed, only the find the bed unused, their suite filled with an eerie silence, a familiar feeling of dread consuming her instantly.  

“Jay where are you?” She called out frantically. Her little brother was nowhere to be found. Her heart stopped as she caught sight of a piece of paper carefully placed on their small bistro table.

She squeezed her eyes shut as her brain registered the words she was reading.

“Em?” The gentle voice of her father sounded from across the suite. She brought her head up, clutching the note to her chest.

“He’s gone.” The Major stated knowingly. Emily shook her head sadly.

They stood like that for several minutes; a father and daughter struggling to keep their precious family together. It was beginning to seem that no matter what they did, the Centre always managed to rip them apart.

TRIUMVIRATE HEADQUARTERS –THE CONGO, AFRICA

Jarod remained curled up on the ground with disinterest as the door to his cell was opened. He had only just been returned here after another fun day in the SIM lab. He was exhausted, his legs were only just beginning to regain their feeling. His stomach was rumbling with hunger, and despite the blandness, he was eager to eat.

“Get up.” Was the terse command, Jarod looked up only enough to recognize the form of his African torturer, not some faceless guard bringing his nightly tray of gourmet goods. Whatever this was, it was not good. The break in routine was sending off alarm bells in his head.

Whatever was about to happen was important; the African would not be personally present for something as trivial as escort duty.

With an apprehensive sigh, Jarod pushed himself upwards, keeping his back to them, as he knew was required. Although defiance was tempting, he simply did not wish to add a pounding migraine to his physical ailments.  He was truly afraid.

“Someone’s learning.” The African praised, in an attempt to further antagonize Jarod.

“Don’t count on it.” Jarod replied grumpily, not caring as he was smacked on the head. Begrudgingly, he placed his hands behind his back, feigning indifference as the cold metal of the handcuffs bit into his skin and the hood was placed over his head. It was the same dance, day in and day out.

Jarod curiously counted the steps, as they led him down the corridor. He noted that they were neither heading in the direction of their torture chamber, nor the SIM lab. At least it was a change from the monotonous routine he was forced to follow, although he had no doubt he would be regretting his thoughts.  

Three right turns later, Jarod was pulled to a stop. He heard the unmistakable buzz of an electronic lock disengaging before he was pushed forward. Jarod sighed heavily, the increased security making him wary. Two left turns later, Jarod was pushed through yet another electronically controlled door.

He bit back the questions that were circling his brain, knowing that the answers would be denied to him and he would only be punished for speaking. Jarod had a sickening feeling that he was being moved to new accommodations. The increased security and the presence of his handler were leading him to that conclusion.  He had a small glimmer of hope that they might be an improvement to his current conditions, but things in Africa never got better – they only got worse.  Deep down, Jarod knew it was just wishful thinking, but he allowed himself to relish in the optimism for a few short moments. It was nice, having something positive to hold on to, even if just for a few short seconds.

Jarod was pulled to a stop, and his hood was quickly yanked off his head. Jarod looked around curiously, but was hit on the back of his legs with a large baton, causing him to fall forward onto his already lacerated knees with a grunt.

“Rules.” His African handler warned.

Jarod sighed, successfully suppressing his urge to fight. It was hard to give in and obey the dehumanizing rules they had dictated to him. He had to remind himself that as long as he was not doing their Sims, he was still the one in control. Their cruelty was nothing more than a ploy to give them access to his genius. He instead sank back into a kneeling position as a midsized African man emerged from what looked like an office. 

“What’s this?” The man questioned gruffly.

“New monkey for the zoo.” Jarod’s torturer replied.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Jarod look upwards, meeting the glare of the new player in his life. The man’s eyes flashed in anger, and he lashed out with his foot, giving the pretender a hard kick, straight into the gut.

“It’s not often we see one with some fight left in him.” He commented dryly as Jarod struggled to find his breath.

Jarod grimaced as he felt a foot tap his back from behind, pushing him forward slightly. “Don’t worry, it won’t last for long, will it now?” His African handler taunted.

Jarod remained silent, keeping his eyes downcast, ignoring the humiliation that washed through him as the two man shared a chuckle at his expense.

“Alright, I’ve got it from here.”

Jarod flinched as his head was pulled sideways from behind. “Behave yourself monkey.” His handler warned before painfully pushing Jarod away.

As the footsteps behind him retreated, Jarod was yanked upwards by his hair. He let out grunt of pain, struggling to gain his footing as he was pushed forwards, and into a small room on the left.

The man behind him undid the handcuffs. “Strip.” He ordered gruffly, before exiting the room.

Giving his shoulders a roll, his muscles painfully tight due to the abuse they had been subjected to in the past weeks, Jarod looked around the room. It was disconcerting how little of the Triumvirate complex he had seen, only his cell and the SIM lab. They were doing it on purpose and he knew it. Knowledge was power, and power was something they did not want Jarod to have. Every act in here was constructed as to remind him that he was powerless. Jarod knew enough about the Triumvirate complex that a dash and sprint escape was likely not going to work here. Still, there was a small part of him that clung onto the hope that one day, he might be able to find his way out. The longer they kept him hooded and unaware, the more that part of him died each day. Of course that was the point. 

Looking down at his pants, Jarod debated internally, deciding if he would obey their command or not. With disgust at himself, he quickly yanked the material from his slender frame, he would not give them reason to punish him tonight. He needed to know that he could swallow his pride, to submit, that his ego would let him survive.

Almost after Jarod had removed his clothing, three men entered the room, including the dark man who had dragged the pretender in here.

“Center of the room. Spread your legs and lace your fingers on your head.” The familiar voice commanded.

Jarod sighed as he moved in front of the trio, doing as they instructed. He wondered if the strip search had any purpose other than to yet again attempt to humiliate him. He had been restrained his entire time here, except for when he was left alone in a barren cell, hardly conducive to harbouring contraband. 

The other man stood directly in front of Jarod, the pretender knowing the man was daring him to make contact.

“Rule number one, no talking. Rule number two, no eye contact. Break either of these, you will be punished.”

Jarod exhaled heavily as he felt the unwanted touch of hands exploring virtually every crevice of his body. Different people, same damn rules. He was getting tired of the same routine, the same threats; he knew they were slowly trying to dehumanize him. The jury was out on to whether it was beginning to work or not, and to what effect.

“You may or may not have a name, I don’t care. To me, you are nothing but a number. From now on, if you hear 1283, you will stand up and do as you are told, without hesitation. Remember that number, burn it into that dense brain of yours. It’s the only thing that differentiates you from my other animals in my zoo.”

Jarod clenched his jaw, biting back the numerous sarcastic remarks that were threatening to escape. He was trying hard, if only for one night, to not instigate their abuse. But it was getting increasingly more difficult.

The man in front of him stepped forward, bending down and locking a small metal bracelet just above Jarod’s right ankle. It was a tracking device, like those criminals under house arrest would wear.

“Don’t let me catch you trying to figure out a way to get this off. It’s not worth it. Few things are.” The man continued, as if lecturing a schoolboy.

Jarod fought hard to ignore the humiliation and rage that was slowly coursing through him. He let out a sigh of relief as the men exploring his body stepped back. He looked over at his discarded pants, and was grateful, when he was commanded to put them back on.

“Are we understood?” The man in front of Jarod questioned authoritatively, a reply clearly expected and required.

Jarod couldn’t suppress his pride any longer.

“Perfectly clear sir, but I have one question; do I need your permission to blink?” He questioned sarcastically.

The man let out a huff of amusement. Without exhibiting any anger, he roughly back handed the pretender, Jarod instantly feeling blood dripping down from his cheek. He didn’t care, it was so damn satisfying.

“Put him in his cage.” The man ordered the two guards that stood at Jarod’s side.

Jarod rolled his eyes as he was instructed to once again lace his fingers behind his head, before he was pushed out of the room. They walked a short distance, passing through yet another electronically controlled door. He grimaced as he heard a small beep emanating from the metal bracelet around his ankle. As if their damn cameras weren’t enough, they now had him electronically tagged like he was some Fed-Ex package. Jarod could feel whatever little hope of escape that he still managed to cling onto slowly shrinking, yet again.

Allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room, Jarod became aware of the dramatic temperature increase between this and the relative comfort of the air-conditioned hallway he had just been escorted from. Breathing in, he was overpowered by the scent of human sweat.

“Move.” One of the guards snarled from behind him as he gave Jarod a not so gentle push forward in encouragement.

Jarod’s eyes widened, as his eyes finally focused on his new accommodations. There were four barred off cages in the badly lit room. Each of the cells contained approximately eight men.

Unable to contain his shock, Jarod stopped moving. It had never once crossed his mind that he would be removed from isolation, as to him social segregation was the ultimate punishment. However as his eyes scanned the eyes of the individuals behind the bars, at least those of the ones that dared to look up, he quickly began to realize that perhaps there was something worse than being locked up alone. Their eyes told stories of pain, of repression, but mostly of emptiness. He realized that most of the people behind these bars, weren’t really there, and the parts that still were, were terrifying. He would much rather be alone, than to have to live in this environment.

To his right a man sat huddled in a small ball, rocking back in forth, his eyes not leaving the floor. Jarod could swear he saw a small pool of drool running down the man’s cheek. Another sat uncaringly, supported by the bars of his cage, his index finger tapping in a rhythmic fashion. Others were nervously shuffling, but all had two things in common: they were silent and refused to make eye contact with the guards who held the pretender tightly in their grips.

Jarod stumbled as the guard behind him pushed him towards the left, the man’s partner opening the door to the first cage. As Jarod was shoved into his new prison, he counted seven other occupants in the cell that was roughly 12x10 feet. Only one seemed to register Jarod’s presence, the rest continued with their restless fidgeting, rocking, drooling and tapping, whatever fed the fantasy world they were living in. It was a scene out right out of a nut house – and he was their newest inmate.  

Despondently Jarod moved to a small unoccupied space along the barred perimeter of the cage, sinking down until he was hugging his knees. A fresh wave of emptiness washed through him as he found himself experiencing a much different kind of loneliness. He was surrounded by nothing but madness and despair, forbidden to exchange freely with the men held prisoner around him. Not that most of them seemed to be capable of conversation in the first place.

It was isolation in the most painful of ways.