[color=6ecff6]	[b]The pain came first.[/b] He felt everything just rush to his mind. The visual representation of life was not yet arriving to the station, but the intense feelings of agony and relentless throbbing had already departed into his body. There were intense muffles in his ear, as he felt almost motionless. [i]Was he dead? Was he just a unlikely soul killed in the field of no-accomplishment?[/i] It was likely, but hearing muffles slowly echo within his head made it hard to tell the difference. His head had felt like it was smashed to pieces, concrete or marble...though from his last vision of life, the stairway might've been the cause for his death. The impact wasn't much, but with bleeding going through and a hard-hit to the face...it was likely that Marcus did not survive that incident. He could rejoin Lucinda, Luther, Shikra, the Nest 7 Victims as well as every single individual who had suffered a fateful end in the world as they did not know it. [b]The pain came first.[/b] The thoughts second, it lead to a wake-up call of sound and smell. [i]Is this a real sense of lacking life?[/i] He felt something shake him, maybe...maybe something wasn't right...He felt the muffles become louder as the eyelids he bared slightly opened into a thin-blurry slit. They had been closed for a few moments. Moments is probably an under-exaggeration, but for the man it was impossible to tell. He felt the gentlest of taps against his fragile face, which let his eyes open slightly more. The slit became thicker and thicker, his vision still getting used to the whiteness of what seemed to him as a Super-Nova. The light was blinding, as if he weren't blinded enough already. That was when the muffled sounds made sense.

"Get up!" The shouting said. The visual sight of the man looking down upon him was quite startling. Marcus stared up at him, fear within his emotions and terrified looks. The face looked hardly touched by the smaller face of the taller man. "Finally...I've been here for, Oh I don't know, thirty-fucking-minutes trying to wake your shitty arse!" He had a thick-Indian accent. His skin was a bittersweet tan that had very detailed complexities, clearly a veteran or experienced specialist in whatever he does. That reminded him, where the fuck was he? Marcus looked around, only to know that the room was almost completely white. A one-way glass, as it clearly was, looked in upon them as it acted as a Mirror. Marcus tried to remember. It was baffling to think that he managed to clearly represent the events that had previously happened in his mind. He looked closely on his right shoulder, seeing bandaging and plasterwork beneath the over-armour he was supplied before it all happened. It looked makeshift, only to be worked around what he was wearing. "LOOK AT ME!" He jumped back into gears, still trying to refocus his mind on the current situation. "Now...tell me...your name. It isn't a question, but a fucking-order!" His voice was loud, too loud and intense for his liking.

"U-uhh..." Marcus stuttered, still trying to collect the memories and focus. He stared at the brawny strength of the Indian interrogator.

"What's the matter, huh? I'm sitting here waiting my arse to get home and relax...but instead I'm dealing with your useless arse! Hurry the fuck up!"

"M-M-Marcus...M-Marcus..." He managed to finally spit out, shuddering slightly. The interlocking links of his attire moved, catching the attention of the larger warrior. His face seemed mildly confused and angered.

"Where the hell do you come from, eh? Where you working, boy?" Marcus thought for a while. He could use the idea to his advantage, this was his chance to finally manage to bring his past to somewhat use. All those times he was haunted by his past actions could finally be used to save his own fucking self in a situation where one wrong word could end up with a knife to the neck.

"I...I...I'm...a-an operative here...l-long term." He staggered out of his thin lips. The man looked oddly at him, asking him through eye contact and facial expression for a repeat of his words. "I'm...I'm a 53rd Detachment F-field Operati-" A fist thudded into his face. If only he had his helmet, it would've somewhat absorbed the pain that he faced. He moaned in great pain as the second fist slammed into his opposite cheek. He felt like this was the end. Suddenly, a doorway in the corner opened. The man stopped, turning to see who was entering. Once he had clearly gained a sight of who it was, he snapped to attention, without saluting. It was common etiquette to not salute without some sort of formal head-dressing on, like a Beret or Cap. He moved aside as faint mumbles caught past Marcus' ears, only the destructive ringing that he had heard himself.

"Marcus? Marcus is it?" He looked up weakly, blood slowly dripping from a cut on his left cheek. "Marcus, you mentioned working for the 53rd Detachment. How long will you say you've done this?" Marcus looked up to examine the new interrogator. It was an all-out Good-Cop/Bad-Cop situation, the Indian man being the Bad one clearly. This new one, however, seemed to be more gentle. A thin and small female, with a quieter,  yet more formal accent. From what he could guess, she was German. She sounded like she had European Heritage within her, and it definitely wasn't the one's you'd expect from the old [i]Kingdom Islands[/i]. Marcus nodded slightly, murmuring his words as he let his weak mind clear the pain and process the questions.

"S-since I was...1-10...I'm...25..." She nodded. A faint hum came from behind her closed lips as she leaned away, walking around the room. She nodded to the larger man, signalling for him to exit the room. She typed down some details onto a small pad held within her hands, nodding in strange appreciation.

"That's odd, isn't it? The only match I have for an Operative within our files, for something 15 years ago, is in fact a Marcus. Which makes you Marcus...B-Brenada?" She didn't give him time to answer with words, only enough time to nod and moan slightly. "You've apparently gone rogue, this final case-study says...or at least M.I.A...once here, the next...gone? Last you were seen was at an Execution...Sergeant Arek Ultsa's...Did you know the man?" This was clearly going to take sometime.

"Y-y-yeah...H-he was...my spokesperson."

"Marcus, listen...you are placed on the Priority list, as these records go. And it happens to be the reason why you haven't been found anywhere else but at the detachment F.O.B you left at the start of that year...You were working on a case, it says, on a small Cell, formally known as '[i]Earton's Flock[/i]', strange name, isn't it? Anyway, you were at least three weeks into the Operation when you went missing. Odd experience, and it is a large stroke of luck that you have been extracted and not already shot dead by mistake." She looked upon his cut cheek. "I apologise about Richard, he's kind of like that. Punch first, then get the entire information out...doesn't always work. You are lucky I came in before he ripped you apart, not that he could with an individual like yourself." She looked down at where his eyes followed, his own right shoulder. "We tried to get our Medical team, who were nice enough to deal with an extraction like you, to do what they could to at least settle the blood-loss. Luckily enough, we could stop the bleeding. Unluckily enough, we couldn't find the bullet." She chuckled slightly. "Got in the way slightly, your uniform. Strange piece of equipment, we couldn't get it off for starters. It looks a little too advanced to be something your everyday terrorist or gunman would hold. Light-alloy, very flexible...you look more like a New-Order operative than a Double-Field Operative."

"W-why haven't I been...y-you know...shot?" Marcus slowly spoke, looking back down. His long Jet-black hair swooped downwards with his head motion, making him feel more concealed, face-wise.

"Well...originally we could've gotten some information out of a Rebel...but...let me just ask Ma'am what we can do." She stepped out of the chamber, leaving him alone again. He was to wait there for at least 50 minutes. Time slowly ticked by, and the digital clock mounted within the tiled walls helped it feel longer. The bleeding on his cheek slowly dripped to a halt, and the pain in his right shoulder seemed to have not gotten any worse. He felt like the fact he was chained to a seat made him feel more...wait...he wasn't chained to the seat...he never was? [b]Odd, isn't it?[/b] He moved his arms slightly, feeling very little pain in both arms and shoulders. He must've been out for sometime to have felt rather recovered, but not long enough to have the bandaging removed. He slowly stood up, his legs staggering and shaking slightly. The fact he'd have been laid or sat down for a long time made everything feel less able, more harder and difficult to move. Half of this didn't make sense? First the brutality of the attacking team, and the stroke of luck that helped him realise, he wasn't dead. He hadn't been shot for defecting, and they might've not even known that he had defected in the first place. Soon enough, she walked back inside. She was wearing a cap this time, more neatened in a uniform. It wasn't a New-Order uniform though, something more civilian like...The New-Order...another memory. If they said they extracted him, or that they had his files...this...this was the New-Order...worrying thought for such a frail man. "Right...I got some great news, Two-Side...you are back in Operation!" Marcus tilted his head in wonder, thinking what she was on about, if all things? Why was she so positive and had a great attitude about consulting someone who should be dead? "Oh...well...we've got this one movement coming up...you'll be able to do some little work, for your life I mean. Apparently if this is refused, then death is the punishment. Well, reconnaissance new to you?" Marcus shook his head. She was talking too fast for him. The slow timed pace of waiting contrasting to this quick and extreme pace was hard to process, but he had to, didn't he? If he was to refuse this, the white room would be his deathplace. Indeed something not everyone wants in life. He shook his head once more, to make sure his lack-of-speech was clear. "Great...well...when we are done, you'll be able to meet some of those who were just edging to meet you once again. You'll be able to do some R&R For such a long period of time on field and also some tests for your...weird costume, would be ama-"

"W-wait...what...t-tests? What's...Wh-wh-why are...am...am I being moved to? Wh-what are you making me do?" She nodded, smiling to herself as she grabbed a small pistol from a bag in the corner. A beautiful handgun, slipping it into an inside clock within her dressing.

"We aren't getting you into trouble, just Ma'am wants you to get some work done, seeing as your here. We got a day or two to prepare...so...we can get you a new outfit fit for the movement!"

"W-where are we moving to, exactly?" He tilted his head, still unsure of what exactly was going on. Why he was being used was beyond his own comprehension.

"Ever been Night-clubbing, Marcus?"

[hr]

	Marcus was still uncomfortable. It had been nearly two days since the New-Order had taking him into custody, and whether or not they could trust him was on his mind constantly. He was in a danger-zone, where if he refused to go against what he was ordered by superiors then he'd be capped on the spot. Scary thought. Frightening, even more, was the fact that he was working alongside them once more, through choice. It was a choice, in sense, seeing as it is either death or work. Not forceful, is it? He could've chosen a path one would rather prefer when in a place like his own, a Resistance fighter. He should be out there, back with his own home-people...the deaths of the rooftop murder was extreme, making his own fate worry him. The past events had happened so fast, that it had almost felt like the same day that he was being sent on this work errand. Now, this still anonymous and joyful female was alongside him, both being accompanied by what they were told was [i]'A source of help'[/i]. A black-market dealer, would be the most truthful thing to say. One that works both with the Resistance and the New-Order, no matter who, just as long as the cost is high. He grinned as the two were about to enter. They approached the bouncer at the front. This was it, time to move into the darkest of times that Marcus had served in his pitiful lifetime. Something death would've rather avoided than work with, was just crawling slowly back to the useless man. It wanted to feed off of his sanity, make him switch sides. The point of this must've been to gain trust, to think that the New-Order were going to keep him alive and safe. They probably knew that he wasn't one of them, and spending so long with a Resistance force can really change someone. Field Operatives usually ended up like that, either dead or changed. And this was probably a standard procedure they had to go through in their lives.

	The bouncer looked down on everyone, noticing and remembering the Black-Market male. He nodded, explaining to him through quiet talk that the New-Order female, though identified as a Resistance Fighter, was armed and would hand her weapon over. He looked to her, signalling her a few times to hand over her beloved pistol. She was unsure at first, but for the good of her identity, it was something she'd have to do. This bouncer was clearly not dumb, but not extremely smart enough to deduce what was going on. He might've trusted the work of the Dealer, making his word easy to go by and trust. He checked the magazine, checking both Marcus, now dressed into a casual dressing, for more weaponry. He shivered. Marcus was cold, and the short-chequered shirt combination with the weather was never really a good thing. It was too cold for him to feel his hands, though assuring that the inside was warmer. He looked back as the other two slowly began to walk inside, seeing an empty street. He could run...he could run now. He could escape and return to his Flock. He could make way and find hope, make sure that he was not to be run by a pack of wild-dogs waiting to slaughter him in a pit. He could just make his life a little better and do what he believed in. He cou-...A hand dragged him, pulling him inside...

"Find a seat, while I go take a look around...act like you know me too well." Before he could comply, both the dealer and the female were gone into the loud and booming music. He stood there, like an absolute dumbass. He didn't know what to do, and so he just stood there, slowly edging himself down into a stool at the Bar counter. He tried to ignore everyone around him, but in reality, he wanted to turn to the next person, scream for help before he was spotted and shot on sight. What was coming was completely unaware to his mind, but he could think that a Reconnaissance mission meant something big was coming towards here. He could just help everyone, yell at them to run and save themselves and risk his own life, for the good of mankind. But instead, he was a whimpering man...who just rested his head into his tensing hands, contemplating life as he laid unaware of everyone around him.
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