December 18, 1945 – Classified Location, London, England
Bag over his head, hands bound to his chair, and lie detector strapped to his arm, Foster Luck sat in mental anguish—replaying the torturous scene that unfolded an hour earlier. Catching a secret government agency in the act of dissecting a fellow alien was no surprise. It was the main reason he’d avoided them so long.
Physical pain he could watch—take. What he couldn’t take was being out of the loop. If he hadn’t been so desperate for answers, he wouldn’t have risked chasing down his kind at all. He knew three things about the torture victim: 1. He was the only other alien Foster knew of. 2. They’d washed up on Earth together. 3. The guy wanted nothing to do with him. He’d run off so fast after they’d landed, Foster didn’t even know his name.
Foster tested the ropes. What the hell? Do these assholes think they’re going to torture me too?
Two pairs of footsteps walked into the room—one stopping in front of him and one behind.
The calm, raspy voice of a British man spoke out in front of him. “Take it off.”
Whoever was behind Foster obeyed without a word, marching off and shutting the door.
Losing the bag didn’t help much. What little moonlight was shining in through the room’s one frosty window gave him silhouettes to work with at best. The room was cold, dusty, and bare, save for the steel tanker desk between him and the interrogator sitting behind it. From what Foster could discern, he was facing an average sized man with a full head of hair—his hands clasped casually in front of him. The guy was all of thirty—maybe.
One thing Foster knew for sure: he was packing scrackers—scrambling devices designed as mental armor against unwanted telepathic inquiries. Their secondary function was tracking, should his interrogator ever get lost. Scramblers plus trackers. Scrackers. The Brit had at least one—maybe two. Humans. So paranoid.
Foster stared at his interrogator. “You can’t lock me up here forever.”
A pleasant lilt rolled off the Brit’s tongue. “Are you sure about that?”
Foster shook his head. “Look, I’m …”
“I know who you are. Frankly, I thought you’d be shorter—far less intelligent ... definitely harder to catch.”
Foster sniffed. “What makes you think this isn’t part of the plan?”
Foster smirked. “What are you—some kind of mind reader?”
“Hardly. Foster Luck: indestructible alien … washed up in Lulworth Cove, Dorset via a biomechanical device you call a well, December the twenty-second, 1348 … teleporting on the heels of our courageous Vica, whose other-worldly abilities match your own. Mind-control, telepathy, dream work, and remote-viewing make up your bag of tricks. However, unlike Vica, the teleportation process wiped your memory of all prior events. It was there you parted ways.”
Foster glanced away. “Vica ... so that’s his name. He’s …”
“Much stronger than he was an hour ago.”
Foster snapped. “What you’re doing back there is wrong.”
“What I’m doing?”
Foster fumed. “Indestructible or not—you can’t torture him like that.”
“My orders are to secure our volunteer.”
Foster frowned. “Volunteer? You expect me to believe that … vivisection … was attempted suicide?”