Phantom Opera: White Soliloquy

White, cold, sterile silence. 

Suddenly broken by two intermediaries.

With a crash the heavy cast iron door flung open, as if the interlopers claimed ownership of the room. An air of arrogance and power permeated from the two investigators.

One, a hulking behemoth of a man, every descriptor of the man was large; from the freakishly overbearing torso to his vice-like hands.

The other tall and slim, a cold logical reasoning echoed from his eyes entrapping all that came into his presence. His left hand held a black briefcase, quite sturdy and no doubt holding all manner of tools indispensable for interrogation.

Both men bore their overwhelming pressure onto the only resident of this lonesome cell.

The resident of this chamber paid no heed to either. No physical or emotional stimuli seemed to break that stupor. His visage an iron maiden entrapping all emotion and feeling.

This wasn't a result of their interrogation or the methods with which they attempted to pry the truth. No, this was an inherent trait from times long gone by. So, so long the prisoner himself finds them hard to grasp. The sensory deprivation and introduction of narcotics into his system had a significant effect on some of his cognitive functions. Needless to say, the time of day, month, year. Nor the reason for his containment, none of it mattered. At least not to him. He was only concerned with one thing.

Control.

"Wake up, sunshine. We're gonna' continue with the usual." The cruder of the two men looks down at the apathetic prisoner. Speaking with a hint of delight in his voice.

His face shown few abrasions due to the investigator's peculiar methods, but malnutrition and use of "extracurriculars" had a noticeable effect on his visage. Dimming the usual brilliant gold of his irises and causing discoloration in the skin. His body beneath his battered clothes were another story, housing many wounds and bruises from the more private beatings of the investigators and other members of the guard. The auburn locks usually styled framing his face now stuck matte-locked and slicked to it with sweat and whatever other fluids the guards had the pleasure of dispensing into the buckets.

As countless times before, the prisoner shows no concern, just slowly lifts his head from the cold table he was sleeping on and looks at the man. 

No anger, hatred, fear, sadness. Just a resigned look on his face as if it were someone else's problem. He took on the mantle of an audience member and proceeded as if he were watching a film, not a participant of this interaction.

"Lt. the usual." The slim, taller officer ordered the hulking mass to his bidding with a calm voice. Clearly demonstrating the pecking order.

The boy noticed that these two officers in particular were quite difficult to deal. They approached with clear intention. Their caution was also off the charts. Never had they referred to each other by name or directly touched the prisoner, they always acted through an intermediary such as tools or wearing gloves if the situation called for it.

The gargantuan officer took a quick step forward followed by an impossibly fast front kick, causing the prisoner to go flying backwards out of his chair and lay rather deflatingly on the ground after tumbling a few rounds. 

Pieces of the wooden chair splintered and fragmented all around the room as if a grenade had exploded.

"We'll have to replace that again... Still, I'm surprised you're even resisting at this point. It's impressive if not a bit annoying. All in all, it's still utterly pointless."

He allows the silence to permeate through the room for a moment. No-one was allowed to talk until he expressed that desire, that much he made abundantly clear.

"How long must we continue doing this same song and dance?"

"I'm getting rather bored of it, boy."

"..."

"Still not going to talk?" Knowing the prisoner wouldn't be defeated even with that show of force he understood the silent resolve of the prisoner's unrelenting will.

"Lt. get him off the ground. Apparently, he finds the floor to be more amusing than our discussion."

"Sir." The hulking mass approaches the boy and lifts him from the ground standing by at the edge of the table.

"No matter, any words you might've said are just a bonus. Sign this. I shouldn't need to explain what it is."

Taken out from the briefcase of the calculating investigator was a legal document attributing all of a heinous list of crimes in the prisoner's name. The reason for his systematic persecution.

The boy stood in silence. The same response given to basically any ultimatum the officers gave to him. Well, any input from the investigator's results in the same. Although today they were especially persistent. Even after drowning in silence for a minute or two the officers were non-plussed. However, that is all the more telling. Now more than ever they need results, they can't dally anymore.

And this is a weakness that the boy would never miss. An opportunity to take a portion of control into his own hands.

So long as you have chips on the board, you can still play. So long as you remain alive, victory is a possibility. Know yourself and your enemies and you need not fear the outcome of a hundred battles. 

The enemy has shown their first hand.

The boy has lost many things across the span of his life. But. Himself? His essence? That is the one thing he will never forget. He is incapable of it. No matter the circumstances or techniques, even technology is incapable of separating his own individuality. 

The machinations and hubris of man had created a beast capable of felling a thousand foes on completely different battlegrounds. After such events the beast would never lose itself, how could it?

No, it wouldn't. 

But losing sight of the world? 

Losing sight of the very essence of humanity?

Those are all but inevitable.

Now then ladies and gentlemen I would like to propose to you a game. A grand game with which the very fate and balance of this world will come into question. 

Two champions, accompanied by their own parties. Their past, present and future intertwined in a spiral. Parallel, the distance can be bridged, and they may meet. Yet, fate prevents marriage of their ideals.

Harsh circumstance surrounds them both, yet they will rise up above their respective challenges.

Eventually they will come head-to-head in a clash against their fates.

One is a fool, championing justice. Lacking in ability, but determination and grit in spades. A true struggler.

The other a facade, a fool in fabrication alone. Lacking in all but ability. A beast, a monster conditioned for excellence and victory. Nothing else.

Which of these fools will surmount the other? I can hardly wait to see...