Jarod was struggling to stay awake, trying to avoid falling asleep. In a normal situation, Jarod was fearful of what nightmares his sleep would bring him. But here, in this cell, it was infinitely worse. He was terrified to sleep in front of all of these men and the guards who never seemed to be far away.

The heat in the room was unbearable, and he longed for water more than he ever thought would have been possible. He was so hot, so thirsty, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to stretch out on the concrete floor, anything to find relief from the inferno. There wasn’t any room for that, not the way that they had crammed eight men into a cage that wasn’t much bigger than his old room at the Centre. He wasn’t sure what was more intolerable, the stench that filled the room or the overwhelming heat.

Jarod had spent the last few hours discreetly studying the other men in the cell with him. They all wore the same bland coloured pants that he did, no shirts. Clearly none had seen daylight for many weeks or months. They were the personification of the expression “skin and bones.” He had cringed at the sight of the bare backs of some of the poor men, the scars of abuse that no person should have to suffer through. Most were just sitting or rocking with blank stares on their faces. An older man with dark pepper hair who sat huddled in the opposite corner had been the only one to make eye contact with Jarod, but only for a few brief seconds.

Jarod knew that his own body was likely betraying the amount of abuse he had been subjected to since arriving in Africa. He could not bring himself to inspect it, just as he had yet to explore the brand he knew was scarred into his back. As long as Jarod didn’t acknowledge it, he could believe that it wasn’t really there. It was what he did best, pretend. It was his way to survive.

Suspiciously, not one of the men in the cell with him bore the brand on their left shoulder blade. Jarod wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but he knew it was significant and wondered if Lys had suffered the same fate. They were trying to enforce the concept that he was theirs, a faceless animal amongst the many projects the Triumvirate controlled. The permanency of what was seared into his skin made him different, worthy of no more respect than a lowly zoo animal, if even that.

Jarod was desperately fighting against the exhaustion that was trying to pull him into unconsciousness. As long as he was awake, he was in control. His nightmares were becoming progressively worse as his stay in Africa lengthened, and Jarod was apprehensive about exposing his vulnerability. As each new horrid day came to a close, it added a different and vivid chapter to the ever present nightmares his life had become once again. He couldn’t do it, not in this cell, not in front of all these men and the two guards that paced up and down between the four cages in the room. It would be an almost unbearable humiliation.

However, his body was terribly undernourished as well as dangerously dehydrated; Jarod was mentally exhausted from combating their head games. With a tired sigh, he finally submitted and allowed himself to fall into oblivion, not able to prevent himself from falling asleep any longer. He fell almost instantly into a dream, reliving a past memory from his early twenties.

“Jarod, you need to complete the simulation.” Sydney informed the young man in his best exasperated tone.

Jarod sighed heavily. It was obvious that the psychiatrist was reaching the end of his patience, as was he. Next would come Sydney’s lecture about why he had to complete this SIM, followed by a weak attempt to guilt Jarod into completing his work. It had been the same dance for as long as Jarod could remember.

“Sydney, please don’t make me.” Jarod pleaded, although he didn’t know why he bothered anymore. He had finally worked up the courage to outright refuse a simulation a few months back, only to be dragged off to some dark corner of the Centre for a week of personal time with Mr. Raines. No matter what he said, how much he pleaded, they always found a way to coerce him. Jarod shuddered as the memories of those long seven days resurfaced, as he absentmindedly traced the faint marks on his arms, the only remaining physical evidence of his time with Raines.

“Jarod.” Sydney warned.

“Please Sydney. The children were terrified; I don’t want to feel that. It’s too much. Please don’t make me go there, please!” Jarod begged. In reality he knew he was just stalling, but the pain from what little he had completed of this SIM was already tearing him into two. Jarod didn’t know why he bothered; Sydney never seemed to protect him anyway.

“Jarod, please our client needs to know why this school was targeted, who did the shooting. The parents deserve answers.”

“Do you think my parents got answers Sydney?” Jarod demanded. “Did they even want them?”

“This is not the time Jarod.” Sydney chided. “Focus on the simulation.”

“It never seems to be the time.” Jarod muttered. He knew full well that Sydney could hear him, but the psychiatrist ignored him.

Jarod looked at the mass of photos before him, shuddering as unwanted snippets of what had occurred slammed into his mind. An affluent children’s private school in Washington D.C. had been the target of a hostage situation, followed by a violent bombing that had allowed the culprits to escape. The children had been held hostage for over twelve hours, before the criminals had escaped through the sewer system. The children and teachers had been locked into the school gymnasium, located strategically in the middle of the school. All had been killed in the subsequent explosion, at least those who hadn’t already been murdered, as the men took possession of the school.

Jarod had been asked to perform a simulation to try and find reason behind this seemingly fruitless attack, and if possible, to identify who was responsible. However, every time he began the simulation from the eyes of the young victims, he was bombarded with the emotions of fear and desperation from the small children that were held in the gymnasium. He couldn’t separate himself away from them, whether it was simply to similar to the emotions his own childhood brought up, or if he simply was also unwilling to get inside the heads of the men who could brutally murder such young and innocent children. Jarod just could not comprehend how any human being could so callously dispose of the lives of young children as they did, let alone SIM it.

“Jarod, you have to do this.” Sydney scolded harshly. “You have no choice.”

Jarod clenched his fists in frustration, taking a deep breath, trying to cleanse his mind of the fear that was overwhelming him.

“Ok.” He stated softly, as his mind began to travel back into the school. Jarod let out a gasp, as he was once again inundated by the terror and the desperation the children had felt.

Jarod could feel his eyes start to burn and grow misty, as tears slowly began to escape. He couldn’t get past the children, there were too many, their emotions were overwhelming.

Shaking himself back to the here and now, Jarod looked up to Sydney. “Refuge.” He whispered desperately.

Sydney gave the pretender a concerned look, clearly taken aback by his use of the safe-word; something the pretender had not used for some time. “Jarod you cannot focus on the children, they are not the target here. Focus on the men with the guns. You can do this. I know you can. Do you need a few minutes to gather your thoughts once more? Perhaps go through a relaxation exercise?”

“Sydney, please. It hurts too much. Please do not ask me to do this.” Jarod begged, wiping away the tears that were forming in his eyes and giving them that glassy look just before spilling down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry Jarod, but, as I’ve said already, I have no choice. The Tower is impatiently waiting for the results. The parents of these children are relying on us to give them closure. I know you can find the answers if you really want to. Focus on the perpetrators, the hostage takers in this case. These types of events we need to prevent from happening again. Surely you can understand this. Ignore the children as they are not important to the answers you are trying to find.”

Jarod clenched his fists, as utter helplessness coursed through him. He simply could not do this, his despair increasing at Sydney’s apparent disregard at his use of safe word. He felt emotionally backed into a corner. With a quick glance at the distracted sweeper who never was far from the pretender’s side, Jarod decided to do the only thing he had left to do. He ran. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t stay in there anymore. He just had to get away; he couldn’t face those terrifying and painful emotions.

“Jarod!” He heard the angry cry of the sweeper that had followed him out of the lab. He headed towards an air vent that he and Miss Parker used to hide in, when he was much younger. Jarod desperately turned the corner, conscious that his guard was quickly gaining on him.

Jarod urged himself to go faster, he needed to get away. The thoughts of the poor children that had their lives cruelly stolen from them were consuming him.

Steps away from the vent, Jarod was tackled from behind. The pretender groaned, as he came crashing down, but he refused to submit. He angrily clawed at the floor, trying to get the sweeper off his back. He just wanted to disappear and be left alone.

“That’s enough!” The sweeper yelled, smacking the pretender on the back of his head. But Jarod was long past the point of no return. He continued struggling, violently elbowing the sweeper in the face, as he fought to get out from under the sweeper’s grip.

“Jarod, please stop.” He heard Sydney’s pleading from behind him. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Jarod ignored him. That was Sydney’s way of saying stop before the sweepers force you to. The only way he was ever harmed was if someone else did it to him. He threw another elbow at the sweeper, as he pushed himself upwards. The sweeper fell back and Jarod propelled himself forward, finally free.

He took two desperate steps forward, only to be stopped by two new sweepers who were approaching from the opposite end of the hallway. The two men took no chances, instantly knocking Jarod back down to the ground.

Jarod flinched, as he felt cold metal around his wrists. He shot up his head, as he heard Sydney protesting behind him.

“Those are not necessary!” He heard the angry voice of his mentor behind him.

Jarod realized he had been handcuffed. He gave an angry tug on his wrists - which were now secured behind his back. He had never felt so helpless and vulnerable. He had been restrained occasionally in the past, but only as props for his simulations. As far as discipline, he had been isolated in the dark, slapped around, dragged unwilling, but never before had he been chained up like a common criminal. Humiliation washed through him, as he was pulled to his feet.

“Tell it to him.” The one sweeper replied to Sydney, gesturing at the other guard who was nursing a bloody nose, likely from one of Jarod’s elbows.

Jarod let out a cry, as his arms were grabbed and he was pulled down the hallway. He grimaced, not wanting to hear the lecture from Sydney he knew he was about to get. He knew the routine so pathetically well that Jarod was sure he could recite the words himself.

“Jarod, you are getting too old for these childish theatrics.” Sydney started, as the pretender was returned to the SIM lab and forced to sit down at his workspace by his escorts. Jarod refused to look up, his eyes trained on the floor. “You cannot run away from your problems.” The psychiatrist continued on gently.

Jarod trembled, as he heard the squeaking wheels of Raines’ oxygen tank enter the room. It was like a Pavlov response at this point.

“Problems Sydney?” The man wheezed.

Jarod heard his mentor sigh in frustration. “Jarod’s having trouble getting into this SIM Mr. Raines. It has been dealt with.”

“Only because my sweepers saw fit to reign in your project. The Tower wishes me to supervise you on this one.” Raines replied with a little too much satisfaction. Jarod didn’t know how the former doctor seemed to magically appear every time he showed a little backbone

Sydney flashed Jarod an apologetic look, “Are you ready to begin Jarod?” He asked, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Jarod nervously glanced over at Mr. Raines, remembering what had transpired last time he had refused to complete his work. Nothing was worth experiencing that again.

His gaze back on the floor, Jarod nodded his head in defeat. He wished, just for once, he could win one small battle.

“Alright Jarod. Stand up and we’ll get you out of those things.” Sydney stated, motioning to a nearby sweeper.

“The restraints stay on.” Raines wheezed, as Jarod has started to rise from his seat.

“They will distract Jarod. This SIM is difficult enough without unnecessarily adding physical discomfort.” Sydney replied, clearly upset, despite his tendency to not reveal his emotions in front of Jarod.

Jarod was intently aware of Raines’ eyes on him. The man closed in around the pretender, the wheels of the tank squealing, as it lurched along behind him.

“Jarod needs to be aware of the consequences of his actions.” Raines retorted. “He will remain restrained until I am certain he won’t try to bolt out of here again.”

Sydney threw his pencil on the table. Jarod could see the psychiatrist was furious, but trying hard to hide it from him.

“Start the simulation now Jarod.” Raines threatened.

Closing his eyes, Jarod forced himself to relax. He shook away Sydney’s offer to run through a relaxation exercise. Nothing his mentor could do would spare him from the emotions this SIM would bombard him with.

As he drifted back into the simulation, he was overwhelmed by the onslaught of the screaming of children, as the hostage takers randomly fired, wounding teachers, while children were falling dead. Jarod was so immersed; he didn’t even realize his own screams were now mixing with those of the children.

“NOooo… Nooo… NOooo...” He shouted, as his brain was overwhelmed with the emotions from a roomful of terrified children.

“Jarod get into the minds of the men. Ignore the children.”

As he was suddenly overwhelmed with intense pain, Jarod murmured out loud, “I can’t Sydney. Please I can’t. It hurts,” as if his back was on fire.

He was starting to stir from the state of sleep to consciousness. He was oddly disoriented; the nightmare seemed so real.

“Quiet monkey.” An angry voice from nowhere screamed at him as he dreams slowly began to mix with present day reality.

“Please don’t make me.” Jarod gasped for air, still caught in the throes of the nightmare.

“Silence.” The voice yelled.

“Refuge.” Jarod instinctively pleaded in pure desperation.

“I said enough!” The angry voice finally was successful at pulling Jarod out of his nightmare.

Jarod frantically opened his eyes crying out, as he was cruelly shocked from behind. The sensation of burning back pain in his nightmare was actually the real-time sting of their electric prod. “Silence.” The unseen voice commanded.

Jarod shut his eyes tightly, trying to regain control of his ragged breathing. It had just been a dream. He was drenched in sweat, his eyes moist. Wiping away the unshed tears, Jarod was conscious of how badly he was trembling. It had just been a nightmare, a terrible past memory, but still just a dream. Reality was so much worse by comparison.

With a grimace, Jarod pushed himself to a sitting position. “I was dreaming.” He said dryly, looking upwards to face the guard who had entered the cell. The dark man still held the small prod he had used to cruelly pull Jarod from his nightmares.

The guard slapped the pretender hard in the face, causing Jarod’s head to hit the bars behind him heavily. Jarod scoffed realizing he had broken both of their precious rules.

As the guard knelt down in front of him, hands reached in from the other side of the bars, holding Jarod tightly. He gasped, as the man cruelly grabbed his hair and forced a piece of black cloth into his mouth, effectively gagging the pretender. Jarod struggled frantically, but the hands behind him, obviously that of another guard, kept him in place. Jarod weakly lashed out with his foot, as his wrists were handcuffed, chaining the pretender to the bar pressed into his already aching back.

“Problem solved.” The voice behind him mocked, as the other guard left the cell. Jarod pulled on his cuffs in frustration, as he found the seven other men in his cell all staring forlornly at him.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to forget the humiliation and shame that washed through him. The lingering effects of his nightmare were still with him, that sim being one of the most traumatic in Jarod’s life at the Centre. It was the first time he had been restrained at the Centre as punishment for disobedience, but certainly not the last.

That SIM was one of the most emotionally challenging and devastating ones that Jarod had been forced to complete. It had taken nearly three hours for him to complete it, as Sydney had desperately guided Jarod’s thoughts and emotions away from the children, as best could be done and into the mind of the killers.

When Jarod had finally finished, he was nothing but a crumpled depleted mess on the floor, his face stained with tears, covered in perspiration. When he had been taken to the shower the next morning, he had found bloody lacerations around his wrists, indicating he had violently been pulling on the cuffs during the entire simulation.

It had been several days before Jarod was able to close his eyes without being overcome by what had happened to the poor children in that school. Sydney had finally clued in to his exhausted state, and ordered Jarod sedated in the evenings allowing the pretender some rest. It had been humiliating, degrading but ironically entirely necessary.

It had taken weeks and a lot of counselling from Sydney before Jarod had been able to shake off his daily nightmares of that terribly disturbing SIM.

Jarod knew sleep would not be coming to him tonight. His darkest of memories seemed to torture him at his weakest moments. He could not trust himself once asleep and vulnerable, as he knew his damaged psyche could not be controlled, never mind the fear of choking due to the gag that had been forced into his mouth.

It was beyond cruel, punishing him for crying out, when consumed by the nightmares they had created for him. With a disheartened glance around his cell, Jarod saw that the occupants had all retreated back into their own worlds, except the one elderly gentleman with the salt and pepper grey hair. He gave Jarod a sad smile of sympathy before curling down onto the floor, his back to the pretender.

Fighting against his exhaustion, Jarod squeezed his eyes shut tightly, finding that safe place in his mind. Tonight he would play in the snow with his younger brother, hear his sister’s contagious laughter and his dad’s enthusiastic stories from the past.

The Jarod of five years ago wouldn’t have been able to survive this, but he could. Jarod had risked everything to find his family, and nothing was going to keep him from seeing them again.

Survival was his only option.

TRIUMVIRATE HEADQUARTERS –THE CONGO, AFRICA – SIM LAB B

This was not what Lysander had in mind, when refusing to complete any work. She had pictured them dragging her off to some dark cell and beginning the legendary Zulu torture she had created images of in her mind.

It’s what the Conglomerate would have done. Disobedience equalled pain, the greater the degree of obstinacy, the larger the bruises. It was a simple equation, one she understood from the most basic of principles of physics.

She knew by reputation the Africans were dreadfully different. So far though, she didn’t know what this punishment meant. It was simple, it was nothing, but was painful in ways she couldn’t begin to describe.

They had dragged her out of the lab the second she had uttered the word ‘no.’ It had been so relieving to say it, her defiant nature released from its oppressive prison. She had physically fought against them, as they had carried her away, mostly because they expected it. But she had to admit she enjoyed it slightly, being the well-behaved project didn’t suit her – it never had.

Lysander squirmed slightly, wincing as the bruises that now covered her slender frame were aggravated. Bound and hooded, she had been defenceless against their abuse, it hurt badly just as it always had, but the physical abuse was something she could fight mentally.

But their little smack and bash hadn’t lasted long, it was almost as if they had been looking for an excuse to throw around a few punches and she had handed them one gift-wrapped.

Lys had lain curled up for what seemed like hours, until they had come for her once again, and dragged her back to the SIM lab. She had been surprised to find herself back in that room, figuring they would have been a bit more extreme if that was their only method of trying to coerce her.

Her handler had been there. The good doctor didn’t even ask her if she had reconsidered her defiance, Lys suspected her body language, although still hooded would had given her away anyways.

They had pushed her to the wall, and ripped off the hood before releasing from her handcuffs. Lys had been allowed one grateful shoulder roll before her hands were pulled out in front of her, and attached to a chain that was bolted to the floor as she was pushed back against the wall. They had attached two small chains around her lower legs, ensuring she stayed attached to the wall behind her.

“What’s this?” She had asked before she could prevent the words from leaving her mouth, a sharp smack to her head had instantly ensued.

“I believe you called it a game of ‘make me,’ did you not?” Her handler had responded cruelly.

Lys had remained silent, not quite sure what they were trying to prove.

“Here’s how this is going to work. Rule # 1 – no moving, rule # 2 no twitching. Think you can handle that luv?” The Brit had asked coolly.

“I think you are missing the ‘or else’ part Mate.” Lys responded thickly, not that she could move much if she so desired to. The chains on her legs prevented her from moving more than a few mere centimetres in either direction.

He had chuckled. Her newfound rebellion was probably making his day. A place like the Triumvirate could only employ the most twisted of minds. “A demonstration perhaps then.” He offered with a little too much sincerity in his voice.

Lys had watched as the guard had moved in from behind and had undone the chain attached to her hands that was bolted to the floor nearly a meter away, he had tugged down not so gently, shortening it by one quick link. Lys was still able to stand up fully, but there was a definite tension slowly pulling her forwards.

“Everytime you move, your chain will be shortened. Questions?”

Lys had bitten back anything that had threatened to escape.

He had laughed again. “Good night.”

To further antagonize the situation, her handler had found a piano timer. Its constant tick-tock back and forth was driving her insane.

It also gave her means by which to count the passing seconds. She figured worst case scenario, they would be back for her in twelve hours.

Tick-tock. The seconds passed by at a tantalizingly slow pace. She had tried so hard to stand still, knowing her comfort would decrease with every movement they caught her making.

But she had only made it for ninety minutes before her body had been screaming for relief.

She was now nearly hunched over at ninety degrees; the chain was slowly being shortened, as she could no longer fight her body pleading for release. She wanted nothing more but to be able to fall down, but the shackles around her lower legs kept her pinned upward.

Tick-tock. She wanted to scream. By her counting only six hours had passed. She was barely half way there.

Tick-tock. Why did she bother?

TRIUMVIRATE HEADQUARTERS –THE CONGO, AFRICA

Morning had finally come. Jarod took a deep breath in relief, as he felt the presence of a guard behind him, knowing he was about to be released from the uncomfortable position he had been restrained in since waking up from his nightmare. The guard grabbed the pretender’s hair and pulled him back against the bars of his cell with a bit more force than was necessary.

“Time to go.” He uttered cruelly, tugging the gag out of Jarod’s mouth and releasing him from the handcuffs.

Jarod gratefully ran his tongue over his dry and cracked lips, as he awkwardly pushed himself to his feet. His back, having spent the whole night uncomfortably pressed against the metal bars of the cage was painfully stiff.

The cage door was deactivated and pulled open indicating to Jarod he was to move out. With a few awkward steps he manoeuvred around the seven men held prisoner with him before tentatively stepping outside.

“Hands on your head.” The guard barked, as if it was the most obvious of actions, with a heavy sigh Jarod complied. It had been at least twenty four hours since he had been offered any source of nourishment or water. The dehydration, coupled with his exhaustion had left him with a lingering headache, and a feeling of light headedness he knew would make his already excruciating day that much more unbearable.

Jarod didn’t flinch as he was handcuffed and hooded and two strong hands grabbed both of his biceps. He focused on counting steps, ignoring the small beeps that emitted from the electronic device on his leg, as they passed through various electronically controlled doors.

When he was finally pulled to a stop and guided into a room and the hood removed, Jarod was surprised to find himself not in the SIM lab, but rather a small infirmary. Apparently it was time for a little check up to see how much more of their abuse he could withstand before there might be serious medical repercussions.

Jarod kept his eyes trained on the floor as the handcuffs were removed. It had been at least a few weeks since had had been allowed any free movement outside of their cages. He would not do anything to instigate the guards, no matter what the effect on his ego was.

It wasn’t long until a young African nurse entered the room. “Strip.” She ordered sternly, and Jarod complied, wishing that for once someone might allow him a bit of humanity.

He kept his eyes on the ground as he was weighed, poked and prodded. A stinging disinfectant was applied to the many contusions on his back, yielding a painful burning sensation.

“Sit.” The nurse ordered, Jarod sighed as he moved over to the exam table, hopping up onto it. The nurse checked his ears, his throat and mouth before attaching a tourniquet around his arm.

Jarod stared forlornly at his fore arm, given his bad level of dehydration he knew that finding a vein from which to draw blood would be extremely difficult. It took a few minutes of prodding before the nurse reached the same obvious conclusion.

Jarod grunted and squirmed slightly until she instead chose a vein on his hand, jabbing the needle into him. “Sit still.” She barked uncaringly as he watched his blood flow very slowly into the small tubes. Just once it would be nice to have a nurse treat him as a human being, rather than a prize cow in for its annual vitamin injections.

Jarod remained seated on the exam table and the nurse left the room wordlessly, returning a few minutes later with a Doctor and his favourite African handler in tow.

“How’s the wrist?” The doctor asked neutrally, taking Jarod’s broken and plastered wrist in his hand. Jarod shook his head slightly. It was obviously healing badly as even the strong fibreglass cast couldn’t prevent the pain and discomfort brought forward by weeks of being restrained.

“Wonderful, the past few weeks have been exactly what the doctor ordered.” Jarod replied sarcastically, flinching as his dark African handler moved towards him. He wished he knew the man’s name, even just for the benefit of developing twisted nicknames for him mentally.

The doctor scoffed, but remained silent. He obviously knew there was no point as much as Jarod did. “Another four weeks or so, and the cast should be ready to come off.”

Jarod shut his eyes. Another four weeks, he couldn’t imagine the repercussions if he was still here four weeks down the road. Not that any escape opportunities seemed to be presenting themselves. He couldn’t think about it. One day at a time, it was all he could handle.

The doctor handed him two cups and motioned in the direction of a small bathroom just off the wall. Urine sample time.

Jarod froze. Two cups.

He was overwhelmed with the rage and humiliation he had felt, when he lain eyes on Gemini, remembering the exact process they had used to secure his DNA. He’d never felt more violated in his entire life.

“Get moving.” His handler barked, pulling the pretender down from the exam table. Jarod remained frozen. There was absolutely no way he could participate in this, especially given that he knew exactly what lengths they would stoop to exploit his genetic material. He couldn’t believe it was happening again.

He shivered at the thought of another genetic copy of himself entering the world, another victim of their twisted mercenary cruelty.

His handler had obviously had enough of the pretender’s stalling and unwillingness to comply with his command.

Jarod backed against the wall as the guards moved in around him as the stark reality of his situation collapsed upon him.

He could refuse their simulations, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent what was about to happen. He found that out the hard way at the Centre.

His mind may still be his, but his genetics clearly belonged to them.

MP will be back in the next chappie, I promise!!