Fragments ALW225 Assignment 1 Alastair McGibbon Sunset eyes glitter in the bright summer haze.

. The laughter lines around them crinkle further as a head is thrown back in a rapturous laugh, a sound not unlike the crystalline chime of steel against ice. A picturesque field sprawls out across the landscape, as perfect as any masterpiece by the most esteemed painters. Two lovers embrace, giggling and whispering their adoration for one another. Giggles turn to gasps as the sky blackens, soot raining from the sky. Thunderclouds appear, lightening raging across the sky like a tidal wave of pure energy. Terror builds, bile rising in your throat as you realize that your loved one has frozen on the spot, shuddering as the flesh and bone melt away until nothing but a small pile of dust is left. Your body finally springs to life, shaking off the oppressive, hallucinogenic grip of utter terror. There is only one impulse RUN. Get away from here, and hide away in the dark - safe, warm and hidden from the phantoms of the night; your home, your familiar, happy place. Nothing else matters until youre there adrenaline seethes through your veins and sending your body into a haze that seems to bend the very nature of time. You look back to see the ground behind you collapsing inwards, the hungry earth swallowing itself in its frenzy. The sun seems to scream as fire descends upon the earth like the wrath of an angry god. You continue to run, desperately trying to escape the cavernous gash forming on the face of the world. Your heartbeat reaches a terrible crescendo, and a scream escapes your lips as you stumble, falling heavily. A wave of ice flows through you as a hand clamps your ankle, dragging you down into the chasm. * 617 woke with a start, his lean frame dripping with an unnerving cold sweat and his arms flailing wildly, as if trying to fight off the demons in his head with strength alone. His rough, razor-cut hair stuck up at uncanny angles and his charcoal ringed, sunken eyes had a slight flash of madness. All in all, he had the appearance of a demented wraith, desperately clawing at the world. His body curled automatically into the fetal position, the sobbing man cradling his head in his arms. After several minutes, the post-dream haze cleared, and he sat up, chest heaving. He ran through a series of breathing exercises, silently slowing his heart rate until it was at a manageable level. A loud beep from on high brought him back to reality he was being monitored, watched every moment of every day by an unblinking guardian. The dark globe that was the surveillance camera was at odds with the majority of his surroundings a dark, all-seeing intruder inhabiting the roof of an otherwise stark room. Every wall a polished barrier of cold, unforgiving white metal, there was no escaping the sheer emptiness of the room. The only furniture in the room was a single, battered armchair that looked as if it was once made of leather, but had been worn to the point of almost being unrecognizable. No bed, no table just the chair. Or, as he knew it, Chair. Chair was his shelter, his dining table, his bed and his hiding place. 617 slowly rose to his feet, stumbling slightly as his legs acclimatized

to moving once again. From the very beginning, this battered chair was his single link to the outside world; the one thing that he clung to, that kept back the roaring tide of insanity. Should you see 617 in the street , the first thing you would notice about him would be not the tangled mess of hair, nor the baggy, striped pajama pants that were his only clothes. 617 had an unusual, tough and truly alien right arm. From his shoulder to his fingertips, every square inch was gleaming steel. His metal appendage whirred as he clutched at Chairs high, pockmarked back, steadying himself before collapsing into it. He sat sideways in Chair; back pressed against the left arm, legs splayed across the right. This was what 617 called Relax. He wasnt really sure what the word meant anymore, but the Voice in the Screen mentioned it once when he had a seizure in one of the sessions in another room, outside his cell. There were a lot of things that 617 couldnt remember anymore not even his own name. The only clue to his identity was the number etched onto his arm the three precious digits that gave him his identity. His lack of memory occasionally made him sad; not for long though, as the Voice wouldnt let him be sad. It would tell him that he needed to behave, and that if he didnt stop, the Machines would come and hurt him until he stopped. He quickly learnt the value of listening to the Voice. The Machines made sure of that. They looked human, at least with their armour on. 617 could hear the clicking, the whirring and the buzzing coming from them all the time, just like from his arm. At the thought of his horrifying, silent jailors, 617 cringed, curling up into a ball on Chairs worn seat. He reflexively rubbed at the welts on his arms, hissing softly each time he hit a sore spot. As he gingerly went over his old wounds, 617 wondered what time of the day it was. He wondered what month it was. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had no idea how long hed been in this place. The mere thought was maddening. A loud siren from hidden speaker startled him, and he fell heavily from his perch on Chairs seat. He could hear boots stamping on concrete, a sound that got louder and reverberated until it reached the level of an armys charge. The hidden door to his cell slid open with a hiss, and the venom that resonated from beyond it made 617 quake with fear. Towering over him like a semi-human monolith, the Machine seemed to absorb light; the stark white room appeared darker simply because of its presence. Clad head-to-foot in matte black armour, it was a terrifying sight to behold. If it had a face, it was obscured behind a reflective visor when looking it in the eyes, all 617 could see was his reflection; the shrunken, maniacal figure that was a shadow of its former self. The Machine entered 617s cell properly, allowing several of its kin to follow. Unusually, they didnt drag 617 to the Pain Room right away. They stood around the door, as if waiting for someone, worse, something. Sure enough, 617 could hear the dull thud of another pair of armoured boots on the blackened steel floor, but it was different to the sound of the Machines in front of him. He couldnt quite decide what the difference was; he just knew. 617 could feel a cold sweat

forming on his brow; even his battered, broken body could tell when something utterly horrific was on the move. Like a wolf on the hunt, the figure that folded itself through the doorway exuded utter confidence, coupled with a gait that made it clear that this was the dominant creature; humanitys predator had arrived, after millennia of mankind being top of the food chain. Overall, the new arrival looked very similar to the Machines that stood around it, forming an honour guard. It loomed over 617, even more so than its companions - it stood head and shoulders above the other Machines, cementing its dominance. Whatever this thing was, it certainly wasnt human. Like the others, it wore jet-black armour; a dark, protective carapace that gave no clues to what lay underneath. Unlike the others, however, the new arrival wore a white helmet, with a scarlet handprint printed on its reflective visor. Sickeningly, it also had streaks of what looked like human blood across its torso, painted in some deranged, tribal war paint. Standing before this Hunter, a primal, base fear woke in 617. Every nerve, every fibre of his being wanted out of this room, just to get away from the creature 617 knew he couldnt dream of defeating. As if sensing his fear, the Machines closed ranks around him, cutting off any hope of fleeing. 617 began to shake, and his hair started to drip with that horrible, cold sweat once again. He flinched and closed his eyes as the Hunter pressed a series of buttons on its wrist, expecting a sharp slap for his untold plan of escape. No impact, no pain, no rebuke. 617s eyes sprung open as the Voice emanated from speakers hidden in the roof of his cell. Hello again, 617. Be a good boy and follow my pets, wont you? Id hate to have anything happen to you if you didnt behave yourself. 617 saw through the pleasant, polite exterior the moment that final, terrible sentence was uttered. He could sense it; a cold, calculating and utterly murderous being had spoken, regardless of the faade that it hid behind. He frowned, and a small bead of sweat ran down the length of his nose. Could he not at least attempt to get out? Was it worth trying? The Machines shifted their stance, making it clear that if he didnt comply within the next few seconds, he was going to be nursing more bruises...or worse. Seeing the resistance he was up against, 617 shriveled. All his confidence had deserted him; any rebellious thoughts banished to the dark, uncharted recesses of his mind. He was a prisoner once more. 617 bowed his head, and shuffled forward. The Hunter nodded once, as if approving of his subservience, before turning and marching out the door. The Machines followed, pushing 617 along in front of them. Before now, 617 had never paid any attention to his surroundings. As he stumbled along in semi-darkness, he let his watering eyes wander, exploring the nooks and crannies that populated the passage. Large, dust-ridden boxes were stacked along both sides, with large, serpentine pipes winding their way along the ceiling. 617 had no idea of what foul liquids they carried, but the large skull symbol on one made it clear that he wouldnt want to find out. He was grateful that he remembered what that particular symbol meant. The group passed several corridors leading off in

various directions, but there was no sign of life down any of them. Regardless of the fact that he was surrounded by a cabal of the most vicious jailors, 617 felt totally and utterly alone; abandoned by everyone bar his tormentors. The group came to a halt at the end of the corridor, as the Hunter entered a code into a keypad coupled with a complex series of beeps. The door slid open with a hiss, and the sight beyond filled 617 with the same fear that struck him at the sight of the Hunter. The room was dark and gloomy, save a single, failing lightbulb above a chair not unlike one you would see at a dentists surgery. However, this chair was not made for operations, nor for comfort like Chair. If the bloodstained clamps werent enough to frighten 617, the multitude of vicious instruments hanging above it certainly did the job. This was the Pain Room. The Machines bundled 617 across the room, forcing his limbs into the scuffed and worn clamps. His entire body bucked, twisted and writhed as he desperately tried to free himself, dreading what came next. The Machines, whilst silent and subservient to the Voice, were masters at their craft. The Voice told him once that they had never failed to break a prisoner. 617 often wondered if he was truly alone down here, or if the Voice was merely toying with him, but he was yet to find the answer. A red-hot poker pressed against his skin snapped 617 out of his reverie. His entire body convulsed; his face became a twisted mask of agony as the sensation rampaged through his nervous system. Within seconds, the pain ceased. 617 sagged in his restraints, gasping for air as his organs threatened to fail. Moments later, the process continued, and 617 could do nothing but pray that it would either end quickly, or take his life. 617 didnt get his wish, and the torture continued for what seemed like an age. When they were done, the Machines retraced their path to 617s bare cell. This time, however, 617 didnt have the dignity of walking. As he was dragged along the cold metal floor, he began to dream of the magical, golden field once more. * 617 awoke screaming. He thrashed on the floor of his cell, teeth gnashing. The usual nightmare had been replaced by a terrifying menagerie of torment and suffering, the Voice remorselessly taunting him all the while. He shuddered as flashes of the dream tried to worm their way back into his mind, and began the long crawl to Chairs loving embrace. As he dragged himself across the floor, the room seemed to twist and bend; walls buckled and broke, only to reform seconds later. The roof dissolved into a cloud of black butterflies, scattering into the dark void above. Images and sounds bombarded him, and his cell became populated with a horde of bizarre creatures, the least strange being a tiny pink elephant, trumpeting its joy as it flew around 617s head. After a long struggle, he pulled himself up, resting his head on Chairs seat. He sat there for a while, trying to clam himself down. He turned to climb onto Chair, only for his mouth to hang open in surprise. In his absence, a new crack had formed in Chairs well-worn, weather-beaten backrest. He knew every inch of Chair inside out, and this had never happened before. As he

watched, the crack widened, becoming a semi-circular gash that curved upwards in a strange yet warm smile. You look terrible. 617 jumped as a voice emanated from the gash, which began to move much like a human mouth. He began to circle Chair, suspicious that it had been modified somehow during his time in the Pain Room. To his amazement, Chair was exactly as 617 had left him. He poked and prodded, inspected and searched, yet Chair was unchanged. You can stop checking me out now. I just wanted a chat. 617 jumped again, still unused to the new voice that filled his cell. 617 wondered if the Voice was playing tricks on him for its own amusement or if he had been infected with some disease and died. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of Chairs worn brass buttons and gasped. The dark rings around his eyes had worsened, his cheeks were sunken and his hair had become matted he looked like the walking dead. Chairs mouth twisted into a snarl, and his tone turned from comforting to utter contempt for 617s tormentors. See what I mean? Theyre killing you. You need out, and Im going to help you get out. Ok? Chair paused, waiting for 617 to respond. He was hesitant, the fear of the Machines crippling him. But the promise of freedom was tantalizing and, in his mind, well worth the risk. He nodded, oblivious to the dark sphere that hung above him, watching his every move. Good man. My plan is simple. Now, heres what you need to do: use that fancy arm of yours, get your butt out of this cell and run until youre out. Got it? 617 nodded again, staring at his metal appendage with new eyes. Why didnt he think of it before? He was given this gift long before he came here. He started at the thought, a grin spreading across his usually despondent face. He remembered something! 617 couldnt remember the details, but it was a start. The revelation that his memory could come back galvanized him it was time to get out. He clambered to his feet, hand running across Chairs scarred surface. Chair was silent once again, its mouth curled into an encouraging smile. 617 stumbled over to the smooth section of the wall where the door was hidden, flexing his silver fingers. He brushed over the surface of the door, desperately trying to find some crack, some leverage to pry the door open. Finding nothing, he pounded his fist against the door in frustration. To his surprise, a large dent was left in the otherwise sheer surface. He hit the door again, feeling the metal crunching inwards beneath his metal fist. Confidence building, he continued to hit the door until it collapsed outwards, the

steel fracturing beneath his new-found strength. The darkness beyond welcomed him, and he fled the cell, leaving Chair behind. * 617 pushed on, half running through the shadowy passageway. There had been no sign that his escape had been noticed, despite the clamor of his exit and the unblinking overseer. He turned a corner, wincing as his metal arm clanged against a rail. A light flickered up ahead, a shining blue beacon in a sea of steel and darkness. 617 broke into a shambolic run, not caring if he was discovered. Standing in front of the door, he caught a whiff of what lay behind; a strange mix of engine oil and crackling electricity. It filled his nostrils, overwhelming him with the enigma of what lay behind this strange sheet of metal. 617 took a step forward, and the door slid open. Immediately, he turned to run, only to stumble and fall. Blood splattered onto the cold floor, dripping from his mouth and pooling as he collapsed. He squirmed on the floor, coughing and clutching his ribs. The Hunter dropped the metal pole it held, folding itself through the doorway to stand over 617. Behind it, a transparent figure flickered into view; there but not quite solid, not quite real. Take him back. * 617 turned slightly, shifting his weight to avoid damaging his tender ribs any further. Dried blood covered his mouth, cracking and crumbling as he moved. Chair was silent, his battered visage stretching his once cheery smile into a deluded grimace. His thoughts drifted, lamenting his failed escape attempt. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but 617 knew that it could only have been hours ago. The inability to properly keep track of time infuriated him, and made every second of his imprisonment utterly unbearable. The Voice hadnt appreciated his escape attempt the Hunter watched him every minute of every day, constantly standing over him. His metal arm had been removed, and only a shattered stump remained. As he sat there, draped across Chair once more, the defiant, mad flash in his eyes vanished, and a blank, dead sheen settled in its place. His spirit gone, 617 finally got his wish. He was no longer in the stark white cell he was back in that wonderful, golden field. Forever.