Alone in Captivity (RP for Two, Jamie, and Six)
Zoe Herriot had given up hope. She had been a prisoner in Rotelesk's think tank for nearly half a year now, and she doubted her distress signal had reached anyone capable of doing anything. Six months of forced thinking and calculating had worn her down. The Zoe of a year ago would have laughed at the pitiful sham she was now and demanded her to fight for her freedom. She was ashamed she had given up so easily, resigned herself to her fate. However, deep inside her the tiniest spark burned, the memory of Jamie and the Doctor. It was all that kept her going.
She had just finished another 12-hour shift in the computer bay and had been escorted back to her cell. She sat listlessly on her cot and stared at the wall in front of her, trying to clear her mind and not think. She had no mirror in her cell, but if she could have seen herself she would have cried. Her hair had grown out past her shoulder and was limp and lank, lacking its former luster. The light was gone from her eyes and her skin was pallid from no exposure to the sun. Her gray prisoner's garb was a few sizes too big and swallowed her already tiny frame (made even smaller from lack of proper nourishment).
She was going to die here, she was certain of that. Sooner more likely than later. One could only problem-solve too much, and Rotelesk had driven her to the brink. How many of her fellow prisoners had she seen driven mad by the endless streams of numbers that flowed past on the computer screens?
Hope. There was none left. Only numbers, and Rotelesk, and the certainty that she would never live again.
She had just finished another 12-hour shift in the computer bay and had been escorted back to her cell. She sat listlessly on her cot and stared at the wall in front of her, trying to clear her mind and not think. She had no mirror in her cell, but if she could have seen herself she would have cried. Her hair had grown out past her shoulder and was limp and lank, lacking its former luster. The light was gone from her eyes and her skin was pallid from no exposure to the sun. Her gray prisoner's garb was a few sizes too big and swallowed her already tiny frame (made even smaller from lack of proper nourishment).
She was going to die here, she was certain of that. Sooner more likely than later. One could only problem-solve too much, and Rotelesk had driven her to the brink. How many of her fellow prisoners had she seen driven mad by the endless streams of numbers that flowed past on the computer screens?
Hope. There was none left. Only numbers, and Rotelesk, and the certainty that she would never live again.