Kat and mouse


Finder of things, Doer of stuff
Hungry.... so hungry.

Prisoner 3567 could only think about his stomach as he stared at a bowl of... something. Whatever it was it certainly couldn't be called food, but his captors certainly intended him to eat it. He had resisted so far but now he could barely sit there over the metal dish without collapsing onto the cold stone floor, and now he willed himself to lift the disgusting gruel to his lips. The taste was terrible and his stomach hurt when it hit, but that was the hunger, which subsided only a little after he forced himself to not vomit it all back into the bowl.

Prisoner 3567, or rather John as he had once been called, shifted over to the other side of his damp cell, which was really only an arms reach away. Some straw had been layed there as a bed but it did little to keep the cold from his body. No one in this place called him john. In fact they didn't call him anything. They gave him a number and shoved him to the ground in his cell - after a vicious beating and interogation of course - And had then closed the door, only to open it to give him "food" which he had till now refused to eat.

From the floor of the cell, John stared blankly at the door in contemplation of his fate. His hope of a rescue was fading though his captors had yet to destroy his determination.

Who were his captors? He hadn't really been able to get a good look when their ship was boarded. Many of his friends tried to fight back. He remembered watching as their attackers fired energy weapons. Some kind of molecular disruption tore their cells apart, and melted their internal organs. John shook at the thought of the young navigations officer hitting the deck after a bolt struck him in the head. The bolt disintegrated his scull and blew his brains into a paste that covered the display at which he had been working. The remainder of it oozed out of his gaping skull onto the deck plating after his remains slid out of his chair and hit the ground with a sickening thud. The Captain met a similar fate though she had the pleasure of watching as a similar effect was exerted on her torso. John couldn't shake the thought of the life dimming from her knowing eyes.

Yet, for whatever reason, John couldn't recall the faces of their attacker. Sure, they had space suits on, but their faces should have been visible in the visors. All he could remeber were the eyes staring at him. They were the same eyes he could see staring at him now from the darkness outside his prison cell. The figure seemed large and menacing but he could no more make out any distinguishing features than he had that fateful morning of the attack.

How many had survived?
he wondered? Was anyone even looking for them? The minutes faded into hours and eventually it was all just a blur.