Numbers

One.

“They won't let you go. They don't just let people go.”

Two.

“They're using you. I swear to God that they're using you.”

Desdemona lifted her eyes up to look into the half-lidded gaze of the man in front of her. He could see him drifting like a boat set into the sea without a sail. He was bound to capsize at any moment, but she staved off that event as best she could. When she touched him, no matter how light, she could see a flicker of light in the middle of his pupils. She moved some of her white hair out of the way and took in a slow, deep breath.

“I know that,” she replied while she drew her hands away and crossed her arms over the back of her chair. She had taken to sitting in them backwards recently.

Three.

He flinched when she prodded him afterwards, but he was fading. Typical. He was a spy, but hadn't been trained to be one.  How unfortunate. When it came to being used, Desdemona didn't mind too much as long as she didn't find herself in his position. The air was saturated with a loud crack as she brought the back of her hand against his face. He blinked a couple of times and his head rolled to hang forward.

“You were about to say something,” she said in that usual soft tone of hers. It felt awkward using her mouth and her weak vocal chords were barely able to make anything other than a whisper. She didn't need to yell, though.

His answer came just as weak.

“Why? I asked why.”

“I'm not here to chat about me. I want something very specific. Something that you know.”

Silence.

“So, are you going to give it to me?”

“Why...”

Four.

Five.

Nothing.

Six.

The metal door behind her opened with a hiss and a shadowy figure stood. Desdemona stood up and walked over to her table without giving a glance over to the person. Instead, she busied herself with putting a pencil to paper. Numbers. Things were slowing down. Had she reached the threshold already? The numbers never lied. Her brows furrowed.

“Do you think you've pushed him too hard?” the figure asked.

“It's only been two hours,” she said while she double-checked the numbers.

“You've been oddly persistent with this one. Only, what? Two breaks?”

“I don't have time for this right now,” she said.

“No, I suppose that you don't. We admire your dedication.”

She looked up and shoved the pencil and paper away so she could put her full attention to her guest. Desdemon was still reluctant to integrate into their society and she had never been fond of the back-handed compliments that the citizens of this new Age practised extensively.  Desdemona's annoyance must have been obvious for her guest approached her slowly and with their hands clasped in front. They had learned long ago just how little it took to be considered a threat to the Atlantean.

“But?” she inquired. This was bound to be good.

“There's no 'but'. Can we not show appreciation for good work?” they asked while a hand gestured to the barely-conscious man. “How much have you learned?”

“Enough. Not enough.”

“Do you think you can get more?”

She scoffed and walked back to her chair. She did not have to deal with this and talking was becoming a pain.

“I see. I'll leave it up to your professional opinion, then. It's still a surprise and an example of your abilities that you got him to speak in the first place.”

Seven. She didn't reply.

“Remember why you're doing this. That is all we ask.”

Eight.

“Understood?”

Nine.

The man groaned. He was still alive. Desdemona scowled and muttered something that her guest could not hear. Instead of requesting clarity, her current source of annoyance made for the door.  There was only near-total silence that remained. So close to precious silence. Even the 'spy' had been so quiet and still that not even his body trembled as the Atlantean slipped an acid-dipped scalpel into his skin and cut a quarter-sized V that sizzled in tempo with the eager whispers in her head. She took the corner between her fingers and slowly pulled up on it, gradually ripping his flesh in a grotesque line until it hung at some randomly chosen length.

'Never pull the same amount twice in a row. Don't make a pattern of it. Don't let them get used to it,' they thought as blood poured from his wound and the black licked out from her pupils as thin wisps of acrid smoke.

When she had started, the bees rushed to fix the damage that she had done. In a  swarm, they had surrounded each wound. An instant later and he had been fully healed. Now, only a single dot of light made its way into existence and drifted around the man, but neglected to touch him. It had been 30 minutes and that single bee was his only visitor whenever she inflicted a wound upon him. It stayed for about 30 seconds and then disappeared again.

They had given up and now nine ribbons of flesh hung from various parts of the man's body.

When she finally decided to kill him, she was confident that he would not be returning or, at the very least, would not want to return.

The door hadn't closed.

Desdemona stopped her worked and looked over her shoulder to her spectator, but not directly into his eyes.

“We are not in the business of saving individual lives. Humanity is at stake. Until we speak again.“

She didn't reply. As the door finally closed, she knew that the words from the Templar weren't for her. They were trying to convince themselves. The Atlantean didn't need any convincing, anyway. She had spied into the deep blackness of the Outer Hunger and had seen a terror that had had managed to wriggle its way into her head. When she slept, which she rarely did, she swore she could feel it writhing its way between the wrinkles in her brain and burrowing into her deepest, most precious memories.

Her blue eyes looked towards the half-conscious 'Bee'. She dipped the scalpel into the glass of acid, leaned forward and reached down towards his crotch.

What was a little torture in comparison to awe-defining horror? Burn the village to kill the demon... she was well prepared to do so.

Ten.

This time, a scream rippled into the air.

“Good. You've another few hours in you.”