9

As much as humans may complain about the mind-numbing routines they fall into, any disruption of that routine can produce immediate terror.

I had timed to within minutes - every day was the same. The same breakfast, the same featureless shuttle to the same kind of hard labor. The same half-edible dinner, the same electric buzz when they turn the lights out, every night.

They came to get me an hour early, this morning. Physically dragged me out of bed, set me on my feet - I woke up fast, like I always do, but it wasn't fast enough for them. Took me, at gunpoint, through the halls. Some people were already awake - not many, most are so exhausted they sleep as long as they can, but some still stick to the military discipline that kept them going through the war.

Those - the ones that still had a fighting spirit - saw me marched out, at gunpoint.

It's difficult to keep one's dignity, in that sort of situation. I stayed calm. I'm nothing but calm these days.

When we reached the front office, he was there.

{Archivist's note: Here, several scratched-out sentences are illegible. Possibly some sort of false start.}

"Are you ready to go?" he asked me.

I could feel my heartbeat in my chest - fluttering, too fast. My entire body was tense, nervous. When there's a routine, a human being can learn to live with it. This wasn't routine, this was the unknown, and it was absolutely terrifying. No way in hell did I want to leave here, with him.

He nodded, once, and looked towards the guard. "The car, outside," he said.

It was dim, outside. Rain had churned the prison yard's dust into mud.

A military car idled in front of the entrance. This was the one, obviously; they held back, for a moment, hands loosening on my wrists. Like they hoped I would try to break free, try to make a run for it. They hardly ever let us outside. I don't know, maybe they were afraid that the sight of the open sky would incite rebellion, and who wants to deal with a rebellion of dozens of trained military prisoners?

I didn't move. Calm, stay calm, even though my breathing was starting to accelerate.

One of the guards cursed under his breath, and he shoved me into the car, so I landed at an angle, braced against the far door.

"Sign here," I heard, from outside.

A moment, and I shifted upright, tracing the cuffs around my wrists.

"The keys, Corporal," he said, to one of the guards.

"Sir," objected the corporal, "he's dangerous, you don't know -"

"Keys," interrupted Angilo. "Do I have to make it an order?"

"No, sir," came the mutter.

I looked outwards, towards the prison wall.

The door closed, and he moved to the other set of seats, the ones facing backwards - the back of the car made a compartment, limousine-style.

"Give me your wrists."

I wanted to say no, but I didn't.

{Again, several false starts, here. Illegible.}

As he unlocked them, his fingers skimmed the skin of my wrist. I don't know whether it was on purpose.

"You're being transferred to a different location," said Angilo. "You'll have an apartment to yourself."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Angilo responded. It was a lie. "It'll be better," he added, after a pause. "Not like the work camp."

We made eye contact - he was looking for something, in my expression.

{Another false start, scratched out.}

We didn't speak much, for the rest of the trip.