202. Losing at Life
The following is a response to this week's topic AND an open RP thread for captdannyross and/or detmike_logan, if they so desire to respond here.
The room was cold and dark but she’d gotten used to it. She could hear the sounds of rats or mice in the walls and prayed that none would come crawling on her in her sleep. So far she’d been lucky.
Not being tied up any more was not the help that it could have been. She couldn’t get out and there was nothing in the small, windowless confinement but a urine-stained mattress. Occasionally she was given some stale rice. Even if there was a way out, at this point she was weak. She could feel it in her bones, she could feel it in the way everything was starting to get hazy. It took forever to hold a thought, to concentrate on small things.
It had been a little over a week. They were still deciding what to do with her.
Megan tried to focus on the crack in the concrete ceiling above her. She peered up, sitting on the cold floor. Her jeans were dirty and torn. Her jacket was long gone and the blouse that she’d been wearing was now grimy from both the room and the fact that she hadn’t bathed in days. There was a pot in the corner-she strained her eyes to focus on the jagged line that went across the lefthand corner of the ceiling-it hadn’t been emptied since she’d been here and the smell-the smell of her own waste-was occasionally overwhelming. She was ashamed to admit she’d become used to it.
She wondered if she’d die there, like that. Never to be seen again. She tried to convince herself that she’d be rescued…but thoughts like that took concentration and it hurt her head to do that for too long. She put her head back down, knees pulled up to her chest, her eyes growing heavy.
Before she could grow comfortable, there was the sound of chains, of the door unlocking. She shifted, tried to blink her eyes alert. Someone grabbed her by her collar, shouted at her in a tongue she didn’t understand. It wasn’t Chinese. She knew that much. She recognized it…god, what was it? Why did everything take so long to figure out?
Whoever it was dragged her by the collar to standing position and continued to lead her out of the room. She felt the cold metal of handcuffs at some point. She felt wobbly on her feet. They placed her in a chair, gave her index cards with decently written English on them, pointed her toward a video camera.
The following video is sent to the overseas taskforce. Eventually, a copy is given to Danny Ross at One Police Plaza.
The video starts in a dark room, lit only by a lamp near Wheeler’s face. Her face is dirty, scratched up and bruised. What’s visible of her clothes are grimy, torn. She looks at the camera, her eyes glazed with exhaustion and lack of food. When she speaks, her voice is monotonous.
“This is…Megan Wheeler…a detective…with the New York Police Department. I’m…being held…against my will…by the same…people…our organization…seeks…to…eliminate…they will release me…when our group…backs off…of their territory…they want…Su Chang…freed…and they want…”
She pauses, knowing that Su Chang, one of the ringleaders of the operation, will not be freed any time soon.
“…they want him freed and they want the rest of the taskforce out of the country.”
On the presumption that her captors don’t know much English-and that they’d had to get one of their group members to translate the message into English-she pauses, and then speaks quickly, mumbled, trying her hardest to hold her thoughts long enough to form sentences of her own making.
Her words rushed, almost incoherent at times, “It’s not the whole group. It’s…a sub-sect. They want power from the group as a whole…they’re doing this to show their loyalty…the whole group…may not even be aware…I saw him…when he got me…”
For no immediately apparent reason, Wheeler pauses, makes a mark across her face with a finger, dragging her index finger from the top of her cheekbone diagonally, stopping midway to her lips. She looks at the camera, urgently.
“Find him…don’t…give up our operation…for me.”
Her eyelids flutter briefly and before she can say any more, the screen fades to black.
Word Count: 702
The room was cold and dark but she’d gotten used to it. She could hear the sounds of rats or mice in the walls and prayed that none would come crawling on her in her sleep. So far she’d been lucky.
Not being tied up any more was not the help that it could have been. She couldn’t get out and there was nothing in the small, windowless confinement but a urine-stained mattress. Occasionally she was given some stale rice. Even if there was a way out, at this point she was weak. She could feel it in her bones, she could feel it in the way everything was starting to get hazy. It took forever to hold a thought, to concentrate on small things.
It had been a little over a week. They were still deciding what to do with her.
Megan tried to focus on the crack in the concrete ceiling above her. She peered up, sitting on the cold floor. Her jeans were dirty and torn. Her jacket was long gone and the blouse that she’d been wearing was now grimy from both the room and the fact that she hadn’t bathed in days. There was a pot in the corner-she strained her eyes to focus on the jagged line that went across the lefthand corner of the ceiling-it hadn’t been emptied since she’d been here and the smell-the smell of her own waste-was occasionally overwhelming. She was ashamed to admit she’d become used to it.
She wondered if she’d die there, like that. Never to be seen again. She tried to convince herself that she’d be rescued…but thoughts like that took concentration and it hurt her head to do that for too long. She put her head back down, knees pulled up to her chest, her eyes growing heavy.
Before she could grow comfortable, there was the sound of chains, of the door unlocking. She shifted, tried to blink her eyes alert. Someone grabbed her by her collar, shouted at her in a tongue she didn’t understand. It wasn’t Chinese. She knew that much. She recognized it…god, what was it? Why did everything take so long to figure out?
Whoever it was dragged her by the collar to standing position and continued to lead her out of the room. She felt the cold metal of handcuffs at some point. She felt wobbly on her feet. They placed her in a chair, gave her index cards with decently written English on them, pointed her toward a video camera.
The following video is sent to the overseas taskforce. Eventually, a copy is given to Danny Ross at One Police Plaza.
The video starts in a dark room, lit only by a lamp near Wheeler’s face. Her face is dirty, scratched up and bruised. What’s visible of her clothes are grimy, torn. She looks at the camera, her eyes glazed with exhaustion and lack of food. When she speaks, her voice is monotonous.
“This is…Megan Wheeler…a detective…with the New York Police Department. I’m…being held…against my will…by the same…people…our organization…seeks…to…eliminate…they will release me…when our group…backs off…of their territory…they want…Su Chang…freed…and they want…”
She pauses, knowing that Su Chang, one of the ringleaders of the operation, will not be freed any time soon.
“…they want him freed and they want the rest of the taskforce out of the country.”
On the presumption that her captors don’t know much English-and that they’d had to get one of their group members to translate the message into English-she pauses, and then speaks quickly, mumbled, trying her hardest to hold her thoughts long enough to form sentences of her own making.
Her words rushed, almost incoherent at times, “It’s not the whole group. It’s…a sub-sect. They want power from the group as a whole…they’re doing this to show their loyalty…the whole group…may not even be aware…I saw him…when he got me…”
For no immediately apparent reason, Wheeler pauses, makes a mark across her face with a finger, dragging her index finger from the top of her cheekbone diagonally, stopping midway to her lips. She looks at the camera, urgently.
“Find him…don’t…give up our operation…for me.”
Her eyelids flutter briefly and before she can say any more, the screen fades to black.
Word Count: 702