word count: 3k

My eyes fluttered open, and the awareness of my surroundings ensued. I immediately felt the cold concrete floor beneath me. Goosebumps emerged on my skin, God it's freezing.

I slowly sat myself up, a searing headache reminded me of what had happened hours prior. I lightly rose my hand to my head and felt around for the source of the pain. With a soft touch, my fingers found the large gash on my forehead and I lightly winced in agony. I could feel dried blood caked all over my face, gross.

I slowly looked around the tiny cell as any sudden movements caused my brain to scream in anguish. The walls were bare concrete with tiny cracks running up from the floor to the ceiling. The dim lighting casted long shadows on the few things I was graced with in this shithole. And by things, I mean thing, and by that, I mean a mattress, and by that, I mean a long strip of padded fucking cardboard. How kind. Not to mention it smelt like shit in there.

I sighed in misery. I'd choose death over this torture any day. 

My gaze then became fixated on the large iron door in front of me. After visually examining it for a second, I quickly realized the locking mechanism was on the other side. Whatever. I didn't know how to pick a lock anyway, and I doubt the lock would've even been that simple. I rolled my eyes and sighed again.

The sudden urge to pee caught me off guard. My eyebrows furrowed in confusion before I noticed the tiny drain on the floor and a used roll of one-ply toilet paper laying next to it.

Oh. My. God. Not even two-ply? I didn't even know they made one-ply toilet paper.

My dignity was much more important than a full bladder. Well, that's what I told myself for the first couple hours at least, before I started bargaining with my own mind, which ultimately ended up with me crouched over the drain with a large wad of one-ply in my hand. 

And there's no trash can, "Great," I mumbled to myself. I decided that was going to be a problem saved for another time.

I slowly stood back on my feet and walked the extremely short distance to my piece of cardboard before sitting down on it. I rested the back of my head against the cold wall behind me and stared up into the dim fluorescent light. The sharp pain wracking my skull seemed to subside, at least a little.

More hours passed and boredom seemed to consume me. My eyes wandered aimlessly around the small space I had been confined to, tracing the same patterns on the walls and floors that had become all too familiar. The passing of time became an agonizingly slow and indistinguishable blur.

I found myself lost in a deep thought, the darkest corners of my mind were the only thing to keep me company.

I wondered about Blaze, if he was okay. How long did he wait for me before he realized I wasn't coming back? Does he think I'm dead? Does he know I was captured? The same sort of thoughts raced through my mind before landing on the scariest one, one that made my blood turn cold. Did he die waiting for me? I chewed at my lip. No, no. He was resourceful, like he said. But the hours began weighing on me, and it was getting harder for me to argue against my own mind. 

I needed a distraction, something, anything.

I surveyed my limited options and finally narrowed it down to two. Workout, or bash my head into the wall.

I chose the former.

I slowly stood up and stepped a few feet to my left, placing me in the middle of the cell. Bodyweight exercises would have to suffice. I dropped to the floor and placed my hands firmly on the cold concrete, holding my body in a plank position. I began to lower and raise myself rhythmically, push-ups quickly became my staple exercise. Each repetition past my limit allowed my mind to remain focused on one thing, pain.

I inhaled sharply through my nose, and exhaled heavily out of my mouth, keeping my rhythm steady. My heartbeat thrummed wildly in my ears with each rep. Exhaustion began to loom over me, my muscles ached in pain, but I didn't stop.

My arms shook wildly, my core tight, sweat poured down my face mixing with the dried blood leaving a pool of light crimson under me. 

Ca-che. The iron door opened, and a tall figure appeared in the doorway. I averted my gaze off the floor below me and slowly trailed my eyes up the man before me.

"Get up."

I could immediately recognize his London accent. His skin was a light mocha color and he looked to be around 5'10, maybe 5'11 on a good day. The British flag emblem contrasted against the dark black color of his vest. He wore cargo pants, and military styled boots.

Wait. British SAS? What the fuck? I thought it was the Americans?

My stomach dropped, why the fuck was I in SAS custody? My mind geared into autopilot once again. Instincts kicked in at full force. I launched myself off the floor, stretching my arms out, I tackled the man in front of me to the ground. We struggled against each other for a moment, my arms screaming in protest, before I caught glimpse of the knife attached to his thigh. Bingo.

The pain in my muscles dissipated as surges of adrenaline pumped through my veins. I unsheathed the knife from his holster and pressed the blade against his throat, a small trickle of blood cascaded down his neck.

"Where the fuck am I." I spoke lowly through gritted teeth, my wild eyes darted around his face, soaking up every micro expression he made. I pressed the blade harder, "answer me, British fucker," venom dripped from each of my words.

He smiled at me, a bought of confusion knocked me off guard. A low growl escaped my lips, "did you hear wh-" before I could even register what had happened I was ripped off the floor and slammed hard against a wall. I felt large hands restraining me in place. I struggled against the grasp of, well, whoever the fuck it was, but of course, to no avail.

"Feisty one, aren't you?" I heard a thick Scottish accent speak, "you broken Gaz?"

Ah, the London fucker is Gaz.  

"Wasn't expecting that one," Gaz spoke again with a soft chuckle, "fucking firecracker she is," his words trailed off for a moment, "and yeah, I'm fine. Just a scratch."

I heard the ever so familiar sound of zip ties being fastened tightly against my wrists, I could almost feel my blood circulation being cut off. I craned my neck in the direction of their soft chatter, "سأفعل ذلك مرة أخرى إذا استطعت (I'd do it again if I could)," I spat. 

"Yeah, yeah, save whatever the fuck you just said for the interrogation room," the Scottish man retorted with an annoyed tone.

Ripped from the wall I was then marched into the compound from behind, a hand pressed firmly against my back as we progressed forward.

My body remained on high alert. I tried taking in as much detail as I could, studying every visible aspect of the base. I took note of the different facilities and structures. Soldiers passed by talking indistinctly about a variety topics I probably wouldn't give a flying fuck about.

We passed different sections of the base dedicated to their own purpose: a mess hall for subpar food, barracks for housing soldiers, training grounds, armories, med bays.

Fuck this place is huge.

My gaze then landed on the tall concrete walls that lined the perimeter of the compound. Sniper towers stationed at each corner, and a high-tech surveillance system that could probably find an ant on the ground if it tried hard enough. My chances of escaping were looking pretty slim.

Finally we approached a door with a keypad that was connected to a large building. "Turn around." I rolled my eyes and followed the Scottish man's instructions. I finally got a good look at him, one that didn't involve trying to catch a glimpse as I was being thrown against a wall.

He seemed around 6 foot with a muscular build. He had dark brown eyes, and a light beard on his face, oh, and a fucking mohawk. I grinned at his choice of style. He wore the same thing as the other fuckface did, the only exception being his shirt was short-sleeved.

I heard the soft beep of the buttons on the keypad before a light click. "Come on firecracker," he lowly chucked as he pushed the door open and allowed me through.

We made our way through a series of hallways before reaching yet another iron door. Once again I was told to turn around while he clicked a series of numbers before the door unlocked. I was then guided once more inside.

Immediately the atmosphere felt heavy with uncertainty. "Sit." The Scottish man mouthed while motioning toward the chair on the farside of the table. A sense of unease washed over me as I headed toward the chair. As I sat, the door then slammed, letting me know he had left the room. I let out a shaky breath and took in my new surroundings.

The room was quite bigger than my cell, with not many similarities, the only one really being the structure of it. The walls were bare concrete, the color faded and marked. A single, harsh over-light hung above a cold metal table fused to the ground. I then noticed my chair was also fused to the concrete floor, much like the other one across from me.

The air in the room was stagnant and heavy, smelling faintly of mildew. The room was devoid of any windows, and the ventilation system seemed to be broken. My gaze then shifted to the 2-way mirror on the opposite side of the wall. Behind it, unseen eyes were probably scrutinizing my every move, studying my actions closely like some lab animal. 

My wrists burned in pain, I tried moving them around to bring back the circulation, but nothing seemed to ease my suffering. My lips curled into a faint frown.

I spent the next 30 minutes or so anticipating nervously on what was to come. I tried soothing my nerves by softly humming a song my mother used to sing to me when I was young. I closed my eyes and tried to allow my mind to wander somewhere nice, somewhere peaceful and serene. Anywhere but this mildew infested dungeon.

My train of thought came to a halt when the door opened once again. Alongside the Scottish man I was expecting, there was someone entirely new. My eyes locked onto his as I watched him slowly move to the far left side corner of the room, where he remained stationary. The Scottish man then walked toward the table, placing his hands firmly against the cold metal as he leaned his body forward, his golden brown eyes meeting mine.

"Heard you caused my friend some trouble." The man in the corner spoke, his British accent thick and husky. One I recognized all too well from earlier.

I looked toward the source of his voice and I could finally put a face–well, a mask–to the fucker who whacked my head with the butt of a rifle. My eyes studied his piercing blue eyes before they began wandering down his body. He was tall, taller than the others, 6'4 to be precise, and very muscular. He wore the same boring shit as everyone else, except for the skull balaclava covering his face.

"You're one to talk Mr. Skullface," I glared. 

He let out a deep chuckle before the Scottish man spoke up, "do you know why we captured you? Ms. Knife?" I shot my head in his direction and my eyes widened for a split second before I regained my composure. I wasn't going to have a man with a fucking mohawk make me sweat.

I hesitated before speaking again, "how do you know my callsign?" I didn't really want to know the answer, there were too many possibilities. Most of them being under terrible circumstances.

The Scottish man leaned down closer, his body weight shifting toward me, "picked it up over your radio after we captured you." His eyes narrowed down at me, his cold gaze fixated on my every move, watching me, studying every expression on my face as he spoke.

Blaze.

I decided the best course of action would be to stay silent. Composure was key in situations like these, or at least that's what I was told. We sat in silence for a moment before he spoke again, "so, I'll ask again, do you know why we captured you?"

I rolled my eyes and scoffed. I inched forward ever so slightly in my seat, "you tell me."

He sighed and released his pressure off the table, his body straightening up as he crossed his arms. "We believe you have intel that can help us." I relaxed back in my seat, for now I was valuable, I had the advantage.

"What makes you believe that?" I remarked.

The British man remained unmoving in the corner, glaring at me through his stupid balaclava. The Scottish man spoke up again, this time with a small grin, "we found your identification card in your vest, we know you're a high ranking individual," he paused a second before continuing, his eyes still studying mine, "Y/n "Knife" L/n." 

I looked between the Skull man and the stupid mohawk bitch, as my eyes darted back to the man in the corner, I could almost see his smirk through the fabric of his balaclava. My stomach dropped. They knew my name. 

My face faltered for a second, revealing the fear in my eyes, mistake number one. I quickly flattened out my expression, but it was too late. They both saw right through my fragile facade.

"What do you want?" The sound of defeat was evident in my voice.

You may be wondering, it's only your name y/n. It doesn't mean anything, it's just syllables slapped together making a word. I'd be thinking the same thing, but I knew better. They could find my mother, maybe even use her as leverage. I wasn't going to allow that to happen. I had no idea what the British SAS was capable of, the lengths they would be willing to go to, and I wasn't willing to find out.

And just like that, the safety of the so-called "advantage" I had earlier, slowly slipped away, leaving me festering with worry and fear. I was at the mercy of my captors. 

My heart felt heavy in my chest, I never wanted this life. I never wanted to be a soldier, I wanted to be an astronaut, a princess, a brain surgeon, not some captured soul that'll probably left to rot, or shot to death in British custody. 

"Everything you know," the Scottish man spoke lowly.

I chewed at my lip. Thoughts raced through my mind, my poor mother. My father whom I've never forgiven. I never even gave a shit about General Ghorbrani, or what he stood for. All the years I've spent fighting, shooting, training, killing, for a cause I didn't even believe in.  

I let out a shaky exhale, my composure slipping at my fingertips. I readjusted myself, sitting further back in the chair, squishing my wrists against my back, my sore wrists pain was nothing compared to the one in my heart. My gaze faltered away from mohawk man's sharp stare, before settling on the tiny scratches etched on the cold metal in front of me.

I could feel the air growing thick with tension with each second of silence that lingered between this interrogation triangle of hell. I thought back to my mother, over the last 5 years, I've almost forgotten the sound of her sweet voice, the delicate touch of her fingers when she'd wipe away my tears. 

I knew she wouldn't be proud of me, of the choices I've made, of the person I'd become. I slumped back further into the cold metal chair as my mind flooded with memories of her, "I know you'll always do what is right, my beautiful sunflower". I closed my eyes for a moment, a million thoughts swarming in my head, all fighting for dominance. 

The cold metal of a blade pressed against my throat snapped me out of my trance as my eyes shot open, "I don't have all day," the British man growled. 

How the fuck... His footsteps were silent as he walked, so silent I didn't even realize he was right in front of me. I gulped as the blade pressed further against my throat, how ironic. 

I stared up into skull man's eyes, studying them for any sign of bluff, but I was only met with a cold, dead gaze. 

If looks could kill, I would've dead a long time ago. 

Usually, I would lie. I would compose myself and speak straight out of my ass, my words caked in bullshit. But something about his aura, about his stupid skull mask, told me he'd see right through it. 

I flicked my eyesight back on the Scottish man, his eyes bore into mine, waiting for me to respond.

I averted my gaze back up to the British man, I had mere seconds before he slit my throat and threw me in some garbage heap without a second thought. Fuck. 

I racked my brain for anything just useful enough. I didn't want to throw everything out on the table, not just yet. If I say too much, I could be killed by AQ. If I say too little, I could be killed by fucking scarface.

My mind began racing, searching through each dark crevice of my mind for something that would make this deranged psycho release the blade from its place against my throat. 

Finally, I thought back to the conversation I had overheard between my Caption, Colonel, and other officers. A small grin curled against my lips. 

Bingo.