The room was cold and he couldn’t breathe. The smell of pungent perfume made the very act impossible as his senses cried out for reprieve. It was like breathing in smoke from a forest fire as he sat there in agony wearing only a pair of short, dark brown shorts, his body shivering, and his senses mired in grogginess. Everything appeared distant but the coldness from the floor shot up his bare feet as he tried to move them away from it; a jarringly cold, metallic floor that felt harsh to the touch and made sitting uncomfortable. His efforts, however, were to no avail and he felt like Hell itself.

A grinning man in sunglasses stared right at him as he slowly woke up from what felt like a long, deep sleep. He wished he were still sleeping as the dingy room closed in around him like a nightmare; his vision hazy as a blanket of oppression choked his senses. A solitary, exposed lightbulb illuminated what looked like the interior of an industrial storage facility. It was a cold, dank and dark place with grey, metallic, featureless walls that were stained from many years of use and covered by a low, grey ceiling which stretched overhead and terminated in riveted support beams at its far end.

They were lit from below by a dull glow which emanated from below the room's false metallic floor, creating a sickly feeling that shook him to his core. It was a sensation of being caged and boxed in from all sides. A perception not helped by the restraints around his wrists and ankles, which left him unable to move as he realised there were actually three tanned Caucasian men sitting on bare chairs in front of him.

All three had bright, blonde cropped hair, which stood out so incongruously from the very bleak surroundings it was ridiculous. Thick sunglasses covered their eyes, resembling a fly-like visage of watching darkness as they sat like identical statues in the gathering gloom. Each of them wore military issue combat boots, a pair of black combat trousers and a black blazer beneath a long, leather overcoat. No visible signs of identification could be seen anywhere on these phantoms from another world.

The grinning man sitting directly in front of him wore a smile so exaggerated it was unnatural, carved into his face like a feature on an aerial photograph. It unnerved him so much he could barely maintain eye-contact; the grinning man standing out in sharp contrast to his companions who remained stone-faced and cruel-looking. He noticed a camera resting atop a tripod in the far-right hand of the room, which did little to appease his anxiety, and increased his sense of uncertainty and danger in equal measure.

As he looked in the opposite direction he noticed, in the far, left-hand corner of the room, a strange, black pedestal, waist height. A small, black pot, with smoke rising from it, was balanced on top. The grinning man noticed his gaze and turned to the pot, before turning back to him and laughing gently.

“Wondering what that is, hmm?” he asked in a slight Mexican accent, seeming to take great pleasure in the man’s befuddlement. “No clues, no guesses? You’ll like it; I promise you that. Welcome to The Pit, my friend, our special room for people like you. I hope you enjoy your time here.”

He seemed to take an almost morbid delight in saying those words before two more men came in through the thick, metal door to the right side of the room. He nodded to them and they stood near the door, one of them holding a black, unmarked, document folder and each of them clothed the same way as the grinning man and his associates: no colour, only black overcoats and blazer tops with cropped haircuts and sunglass stares. The grinning man’s gaze remained fixed on him as he continued speaking, a more formal tone taking root in his voice.

“My associates and I would like to ask you a few questions. Shouldn’t take too long and you’ll be glad when it’s over.”

Unnerved, he stared at the two men either side of the grinning man. Each of them was as animated as a sphinx, showing no signs of movement as a gentle breeze moved slowly through the room. Not enough, however, to dispel the pungent perfume which grew stronger until the man felt he could not breathe at all. The grinning man noticed his distress and reached out, touching his face.

“Uncomfortable? I’m not surprised but, frankly, it has to be this way otherwise we’d get no truth from you, see? Now, this shouldn’t take too long and, depending on how well you cooperate, we can make this whole mess disappear once and for all. First of all, I have some photographs to show you. You may recognise some of the people in them but I will be curious to see your reaction to them. Does that sound okay, my friend?”

The man tried to reply but could not, his voice lacking any strength as the perfume began to choke him further, breathing now becoming barely tolerable.

“A nod will suffice, my dear Sir. I realise how hard this is for you right now but we are under orders, so anything to make this more pleasant for all of us would be greatly appreciated. Agreed?”

The man nodded and felt his distaste for the situation growing more and more unpleasant with every ticking minute, which now felt like slow steps on a long march to infinity. The grinning man smiled at his reply with a grotesqueness that made the man shudder, making him look like a grinning gargoyle ready to devour him in an instant.

“Good. Then we may proceed but be careful. You give us a reaction we don’t like…” he pointed to the pot behind him, bubbling along at a steady and hypnotic pace, “then that will go right down you. A most unpleasant drink to end our session with, yes?”

The man’s eyes widened. He could not tell what the pot contained from this distance but now realised that it sat on top of a heating plate, that perhaps formed part of an oven, which seemed almost indistinguishable from the cold, black metallic surroundings of the industrial looking room. His eyes were taking in more detail now; the room appeared less hazy as he adjusted from the shock, and he did not like what he saw.

“Yes, my friend,” the grinning man smiled, nodding. “It is something special we have brewed, just for you: liquid tar, at its highest boiling point. Most unpleasant to swallow, as I have heard from the last person who tried it. Your insides?” He snapped his fingers. “They melt away like butter and you die a horrible death. So, let us proceed, yes?”

The man began to panic at an incredible rate and although he tried not to show it, the grinning man’s associates merely glanced at each other then back at him, smiles creeping slowly across their faces.

“Amusing,” the grinning man said, his grin perpetually ingrained on his face. “Very amusing. Especially when one considers what you did to our people, no?”

The man looked puzzled and the grinning man’s expression turned venomous in an instant.

“Oh, you don’t know, little man? I’m truly shocked. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be. You see what you did to our people is...” he made the cutthroat gesture, “unforgivable and one could argue downright monstrous. We intend to return the favour but all in good time, of course. For now, you must help us with these photographs.”

The grinning man motioned to his associate by the door, who handed him the folder before returning to his post without saying a word. The folder looked worn yet professional and as the grinning man took out several bundles of Polaroids to show to the man, he raised his right eyebrow in expectation. He then proceeded to show them to the man who started shaking as he tried to focus on them. The black mass in the background did little to improve his focus and taunted him like a witch’s cauldron. The Polaroids were in black and white and seemed to indicate people of military rank, before changing to photos of war crimes which shook his bones to the core. The grinning man eyed him coldly as he showed them to him one by one.

“You don’t like your handiwork, I see. Interesting,” the grinning man noted, as one Polaroid appeared to show a little girl who had been strung up like a doll on a long piece of wood; her limbs bent unnaturally out of shape, with a cross burned into her forehead. He felt like throwing up but kept his composure as best he could as image after image came up in front of him.

“You left quite a mark my friend,” the grinning man said, now putting the Polaroids down. “You know that little girl was still alive after your men did that to her? No doubt you view these as your masterwork. But I have another idea. I will now show you some pictures of your high-ranking officers - the Sharpez we call them. Your most favoured who we are still hunting and wish to eliminate, just like you. All we need is a simple nod or a shake of your head as I list their names. It shouldn’t take too long and after that you are free to go."

The man looked relieved before the grinning man leaned in closer to him. “For now, anyway.” A hint of malice crept into his voice as he showed the first Polaroid of an elderly looking man in a military uniform, looking suitably patriotic in front of a vivid flag that stood out even in monochrome.

“Colonel Louis Rodriguez. Correct? Your most prominent enforcer, I believe, and orchestrator of many deaths. Some of the most gruesome kind. We have special things planned for him. Yes or no?”

The man looked puzzled and tried to rack his brain. Nothing came.

“Colonel...Louis….Rodriguez...yes or no?”

The grinning man looked at him with growing venom as the words came out of his mouth like a quiet but growing thunderstorm. He tried to think of a name but couldn’t.

“I will ask you one more time...COLONEL…”

He suddenly nodded, not sure if he was right or wrong. He seemed to remember the name with the face, like a distant memory crawling back into view after a long sleep.

“Excellent, Sir. Very good. You can cooperate after all. Let's see the next one.”

The next Polaroid showed a woman dressed in a similar military uniform and smiling against a vibrant flag which seemed to extend out like a diagonal wall into the background.

“Lieutenant Colonel Marguerite Du Pom...yes or no?”

He felt the sweat emerging on his forehead again and racked his brain. The grinning man watched him with scrutiny as the panic spread across his face, his eyes widening like saucers as he struggled to breathe.

“I will ask again. LIEUTENANT...COLONEL...MARGUERITE DU POM…yes or no please, you sack of shit.”

The grinning man’s tone became more and more disgruntled, venom peaking when he raised his voice. The man wracked his brain before something went off like a lightbulb and he nodded in the affirmative. The grinning man grunted and pulled out more Polaroids which came up thick and fast, every subsequent question more brutal and impatient than the last as his anger rose to a fever pitch.

“I ask you one more time. No answer and that,” he pointed to the pot, “goes in. Agreed?”

The man tried to stay calm but he felt like he was going to explode and just nodded. He felt like he knew the answer but the vision of the bubbling pot kept taunting him like a vision from Hell itself. The grinning man looked like he was shaking and leapt out of his chair in a fit of anger, tossing his chair back. Gripping the man’s hands, he stared into his eyes.

“We play this game long enough and you give me false answers? The tar goes in and you melt, like the puddle of filth you are. We come back in an hour. Try to enjoy whatever time you have left.”

The grinning man moved back and stared at him before turning and backhanding him hard across the face, not once but twice, almost knocking him off the chair as the other men sniggered. They all left the room together, the grinning man staring at him one last time, before slamming the door shut.

The man wept and shook as the whole ordeal washed over him like a bad dream. He wished it were, and not the nightmare he now faced. He heard a beeping sound and the gauntlets restraining him around his hands and feet gave way, collapsing him to the floor. He yearned to caress his wrists, which felt bruised and sore, and slumped down against the wall to his left, viewing the chair and the door which lay just beyond it. He could hear muffled voices from further outside but could not tell how far away they were, which only added to his sense of unease.

He sank into himself further and contemplated many things in the next hour. The perfume was gone but he could not shake the stench it left behind in his memory as he tried desperately to search for any clues as to how he got here. He didn’t even know his own name. All he had were distant memories of another life before waking up here, into the nightmare. He felt like an amnesic as he held out hands which were now shaking and bloody raw from the gauntlet’s grip.

A strange compulsion then took hold of him and he felt an overwhelming need to look at the underside of his arm. There he noticed a distinctive tattoo, resembling a bar code. He looked at it closer before his head seemed to lock into place and he heard a strange mechanical whirring sound which grew deafening in volume and surrounded him from all sides. He then found himself staring through a dark space into a thin slit of light at the far end of a tunnel. He didn't even know where he was anymore but the light compelled him, and it seemed to move towards him until he was enveloped by it.

It felt like a dream as he observed his own body from afar, watching another life unfold in the memory of its twilight. He saw vast crowds around him and armies immeasurably huge in number marching ahead of him; conquest after conquest of feats now undone in the dying light of an empire’s fading dreams. He felt curiously moved by it all until he was hovering, face to face, above a handsome, youthful-looking man who was lain out in a unique, high-tech chamber with medical markers all over it.

The body looked youthful and full of vigour; a tall, brown-haired, deeply tanned Caucasian man, clean-shaven with a military haircut and a body carved out of granite that reeked of privilege. By contrast, his eyes looked both cold and lifeless as they slowly blinked, showing unspeakable cruelties which they had both borne and bore witness to in the furnace of a thousand, brutal deaths.

Was this him? This murderer from another world who now stared like a wild yet robotic animal, ready to suffocate the life of whomever it gazed at? He shuddered at the thought; maybe it was best he did die if this was the man he indeed was. An odd feeling, he pondered, as he hovered over the body which several unidentified people in laboratory coats transported on a gurney into a vast room, neon in colour, with all manner of technicians on unfamiliar devices.

He felt himself go inside a machine wherein he was surrounded by light shows of data which flowed around him like schools of fish in the deep ocean. He saw himself on the table as information was sent racing into his brain via masses of cables and placed deep within its recesses for discovery later on. Then, it hit him.

He was a clone.

Where this sudden realisation came from he did not know, but it struck him like lightning which came from the very heart of a Pandora’s Box, which had lain hidden inside him the whole time. The real him was safely away in hiding; he had been designed as the fall back in case something went wrong, and they could execute him instead. It all made perfect sense now and the dream seemed to confirm this with a growing sense of realisation that washed over him like waves from the sea.

He saw carefree memories of his childhood: glory days of playing hide and seek and chasing after girls as the sun beat down on another hot day in Mexico, which seemed as distant as the sun seemed from this room. A room now haunted by the bloodshed of the revolution and his own bloody ascent to power. He was meant to be here, he thought, sadly. He was folly for another man’s games, at the mercy of those he had wronged, and powerless to do anything against them. He wondered if he felt regret, remorse. He had no memory of the terrible things he did except distant fragments which he could not make sense of, and answers to questions which seemed predetermined and calculated from the beginning - a handy diversion for a snake to move away from, unharmed.

All he had to show for his brief life was the last hour of pain and unrelenting questioning of things he had done, who he was and the biggest question of them all: why? He did not know what to think or what to feel. He only knew he was here for a purpose and he intended to serve that purpose as best he could. He almost welcomed it as the end now seemed at hand. One man’s suffering for the preservation of another. The sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. As he gazed at the bubbling pot which lay to his left he almost smiled; it would soon be over, no matter how painful, and for that he was delighted.

The men who left it there clearly delighted in such torture as he saw the stains from previous encounters all over the floor of what was, by all accounts, a well-used room. Lash marks on the walls. A bloodstain here, a bloodstain there. Various, unsavoury substances that wouldn't look out of place in a gutter. It made the room look like a sadist’s paradise. A paradise lost from the darkest hearts of men who had said too much and been too unkind. Too unkind to forgive those who trespassed against them, and those same men now marched him towards his own bloody doom as he heard footsteps approaching from outside.

His head snapped up again, awareness returning, only to notice the face of the grinning man and his associates behind him, one of whom seemed to be carrying a bag of some kind. Another man stood behind them all, a tall, balding man with glasses, who appraised him with the cold eyes of a clinician. He parted them like the red sea and approached the man, examining him like a technician would consider a piece of machinery, sniffing him and exploring every part for signs of imperfection.

He took his head and examined it slowly, not unlike the slaves of old, who flashed before him like a long-forgotten memory. The balding man gave him a long, stone-cold gaze before turning back to the other men who looked to him for approval. He walked to them, gave them a slow nod and walked out of the room. The grinning man approached him and knelt to say his next words.

“So, you have identified them as necessary. Very good. As executioners their deaths will be painful but not as painful as yours, I am afraid.”

He glanced over at the pot before glancing back again, his eyes now filled with curious cruelty which turned the man’s insides pale with fear.

“We can’t let you live, I’m sorry to say. You’re too dangerous. Although, I must say, I have enjoyed our time together enormously."

He grinned and beckoned to the others who began taking items out of the bag. One put on thick gloves and handed the grinning man a pair, one grabbed the man, hauled him up and pinned him to the chair, one pinched his nose, and the other placed a tube attached to a steel funnel into his mouth. The grinning man then sauntered slowly to the camera and turned it on, before walking over to the pot which he grabbed with one hand by a handle which extended upwards like a bucket. The man, in disbelief, began quaking with fear as he saw it slowly approaching.

“It’s been fun meeting you, Sir. Truly. I could not have asked for a better subject. And while we know your maker is still out there, we thought it best to eliminate all those who serve him as best we could. Your death will be recorded for all posterity, a death that will be seen by the proud and patriotic people of our country as a shining example of evil truly brought to its knees. A death that only good men like us can engineer. Goodbye, comrade.”

The man tried to scream but couldn’t as the grinning man poured the tar into the funnel. The last thing he remembered was the men’s grinning faces as he burned from the inside; his body and mind contorting with an agony beyond feeling as time disappeared and all turned to darkness.

Pain’s end now made real, as he cursed them to eternity’s end.