Failure

Plisken rested his head against the cold and white walls of his prison. It was Day 4 and his battered and bruised body had been taken right to the brink and it now felt like he was only 6 feet from the edge. The old man drew in a breath of cool, stale air, his dry, cracked lips stinging at the sensation.
He was in the white room from before, where he had woken, and it still had the tall cylindrical tank with the strange liquid inside. The shape was more formed know, and it was clear what it would be when the process was finished. But what did it even matter.
The sparkle that had once set hearts and worlds on fire was now drowned from his eye and even the storm that once raged within had quietened to a stand still, leaving only pale grey pebbles to stare blankly at the floor in front. It was over.
He had survived 3 days of agonising torture, being faced with his greatest pains, his greatest fears and his greatest failures. Each time he thought it would be over; that his comrades would come riding over the horizon and save him and everything would be fine. But no. That was not the case. Day 4 was to be Plisken’s last.
During the few glimpses of sleep that he had managed to catch in the wake of Day 4 held that most cruel torture. Lost in the depths of sleep, help tightly in the arms of Morpheus, Plisken dreamed. He had dreamt of a life that was perfectly imperfect. It was simple, small and all together insignificant. But it was something. He had dreamt of his past, or maybe his future, self facing Emily. She was crying, tears streaking down her cheeks. Plisken couldn’t remember why. But his dream self took her in his arms and held her tight. And that was all.
Then he woke up. The few moments of uncertainty you experience as you rise from the sea of sleep washed over him as he had sought a reality to cling to. His mind desperately searched for confirmation that his dream was real and that it had actually happened. But no. And he was once again facing the white of the walls.
There was a bubbling in his stomach and a hot acid raced though his neck, spilling from his mouth and onto the clean white floor. He collapsed. Day 4 was to be his last.

“You’ve only ever made things worse,” whispered a voice from beyond his sleep. Plisken rose from his death and found a man standing opposite him, a familiar man, with his back against the wall and one knee point outwards, his foot resting on the wall. He wore a black three piece suit, a modern style with a double breasted jacket and sharp peaked shoulders. His hair was short a slicked.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” said another voice, clearer and louder. This came from a man standing a few feet away from the man with the suit. He too looked familiar yet strange, like the man in the suit. This man wore a bright blue Hawaiian shirt, with playful orange and pink flowers. Beige chinos and long wild hair finished his look.
Plisken watched silently as the two men faced each other.
“He’s failed again,” said Depression, “He is on the brink of death.”
“What? Who can he be dying?” said Optimism, “He knows what happens in the future.”
“I said he was on the brink of death,” spat Depression, his contempt for his counterpart clear, “He can be that way until then.”
“Bah, stop being so You.”
“He brought 500 extra people onto an already struggling ship, placed them in the Arboretum and expected them to make friends with the Huzzards? This man is an idiot before anything else.”
“The Huzzards have been getting better, you know, they are not all savage monsters.”
“No, but many are. Do you think they know that?”
Optimism was silent.
“I don’t even think he deserves to die,” Depression said with a finger pointed at the old man, his eyes turned away in disgust. “He should live to face the people of his home.”
Plisken blinked, his eye still fixed to the ground.
Day 4 was to be his last day for a while.

Plisken woke with a raging scream as his eye searched around the blood stained, scorched and tear soaked interrogation chamber. He swung wildly as the harsh pounding of a baton against his legs broke though his second leg. He looked down and saw his legs smashed and broken.
“Finally, you’re awake,” grunted Solomon, “Day 5, you’re doing well.”
Plisken tried to find words but pain throbbed through his entire body and nothing but meaningless mutterings could formulate in his mouth.
“That was not necessary, Sol,” chided Emily from the shadows. The usual was in attendance, Solomon, Emily and Josef, their eyes watching from the darkness as Plisken struggled in his bonds.
“He knows that I am GETTING TIRED!” said Solomon, his voice rising to a roar, “OF HIS BULLSHIT! WE NEED THE TIME DRIVE!”
“Well he is hardly going to be of use now, is he? A soldier with broken legs is hardly a soldier at all.”
“We can replace them, and besides he can still train our new batches. Not to mention he makes a fantastic poster boy.”
Plisken’s dead eyes stared blankly at the floor as the words washed over him. He chanced a glance at Emily. She looked fed up, tired of Solomon destroying their carefully laid plans with his brutish and violent methods. What had changed in her to make her this?
“Bring in Garth,” ordered Solomon.
“We can’t,” said Emily.
“Why not?” demanded Solomon.
“Because,” Josef said as his fingers danced on the keyboard in front of him, “He is is afraid of the dark.”
A screen burst into life and showed Garth, a shadow of his former self, mumbling incoherently and his blank eyes swimming widely in their sockets as he search for some kind of light.
Plisken wished Day 4 had been his last.

<OOC - I wasn't in the happiest of moods, despite my best efforts, when I wrote this so for all I know this might not make any sense whatsoever.>