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Isami had stopped counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours of every day. Everything had blurred together in laughable delirium. The interrogator's unending repetitive line of questioning was based on fallacies. He knew that, they knew that. Yet here they were still; the sick and twisted man stood sneering at him. He could feel the anxiety, terror, and exhaustion clawing at the back of his throat.
He wasn't a terrorist.
He wasn't sure when he'd started begging.
A large metal finger ran down the side of his cheek and Isami fought the instinctive reaction to jerk away.
"Isami?" [Is...aAKzt...m...?]
He was seeing double. Bravern, split in two. One; shiny, full-bodied, bursting with vigor and burning ferocity. The other; rusted and tired, his throat a gaping maw of decimated machinery. Pain radiated through his body, the location and intensity felt strangely different from before.
Isami was only certain of one thing.
Reality was slipping through his blood soaked fingers and the harder he fought to grasp it, the further it danced out of his reach.