Zakharov regained consciousness to the sound of fading static. He wasn't in the agony he had steeled himself for when he had been captured. In fact, he was...not comfortable, exactly, but the yielding (bedlike?) surface under him was at least an attempt, save for the thinly-cushioned hard lump under his head.
He opened his eyes to find himself lying on a bed in a darkened room. He reached under the pillow, and grasped the object. In the darkness, he could barely see anything, but it felt like an old Earth-style flashlight. Pressing the button on the side cast a beam of light at the wall next to him, confirming his suspicions.
Zakharov began examining the room, the weight of the flashlight steadying his hand. The bed on the other side of the room was occupied by a man with unnaturally white hair. The room itself was fairly nondescript, with two sets of simple furniture. As more of a formality than anything else, Zakharov searched his half of the room. The journal and pens were worthless; anything he wrote down would be completely accessible to Miriam. The radio had probably been the source of the static he'd heard, and might be useful for spare parts, and the keyring would be convenient if he found any keys. The batteries and flashlight would be useful in any case.
Assuming, of course, that Miriam's simulation was anything approaching realistic, which wasn't a guarantee.
Zakharov turned the flashlight on himself. He seemed unchanged, though his clothes were institutional grey, with a smiley face on the front. It would probably be brainwashing, then. "I was under the impression that you were more vindictive than this," he remarked, apparently to nobody. Well, there was nothing he could do to escape; the best he could do was hold out as long as he could.
Strangely, the door was unlocked. Taking the flashlight, keyring, and radio, Zakharov decided to explore.
M83
He opened his eyes to find himself lying on a bed in a darkened room. He reached under the pillow, and grasped the object. In the darkness, he could barely see anything, but it felt like an old Earth-style flashlight. Pressing the button on the side cast a beam of light at the wall next to him, confirming his suspicions.
Zakharov began examining the room, the weight of the flashlight steadying his hand. The bed on the other side of the room was occupied by a man with unnaturally white hair. The room itself was fairly nondescript, with two sets of simple furniture. As more of a formality than anything else, Zakharov searched his half of the room. The journal and pens were worthless; anything he wrote down would be completely accessible to Miriam. The radio had probably been the source of the static he'd heard, and might be useful for spare parts, and the keyring would be convenient if he found any keys. The batteries and flashlight would be useful in any case.
Assuming, of course, that Miriam's simulation was anything approaching realistic, which wasn't a guarantee.
Zakharov turned the flashlight on himself. He seemed unchanged, though his clothes were institutional grey, with a smiley face on the front. It would probably be brainwashing, then. "I was under the impression that you were more vindictive than this," he remarked, apparently to nobody. Well, there was nothing he could do to escape; the best he could do was hold out as long as he could.
Strangely, the door was unlocked. Taking the flashlight, keyring, and radio, Zakharov decided to explore.