Jonathan Sinclair – Resurgence

[Matthews]

Jonathan groaned, every muscle in his body aching. He awoke from one of his many, now uncountable, nights in captivity. He was kept in a small cell, just large enough for him to lie down on the ground, if he was trying to sleep and keep some sort of strength. If he had to relieve himself, there was only a bucket in the corner, the stench of which filled the entire room. Jonathan didn’t mind anymore, his sense of smell long gone. At first he had tried to keep track of time by marking the amount of meals on the wall, but he lost any hold on reality once they had altered the intervals in which he was fed. His cell had no windows, no clock, nothing to orient himself. All he saw was the wall on the other side of the hallway when a guard came by to bring him some food. All he could hope for was that short glimpse through the small hatch in the door to see something else than his, of which he know knew every stone and every corn of dust. The hatch was just large enough for a plate to slip through.
He had to eat by hand, not even a spoon they brought him. At first Jonathan couldn't bring himself to let go of his upbringing. An offspring of a wealthy Bretonian Familiy and well established Commodore of the Bretonian Armed Forces, he had the manners to go with it. However hunger and need eventually took over and Jonathan became a human being, just trying to survive and not caring about anything else in the universe. He missed to comforts and security of his cabin aboard the HMS-Sheffield, his priced Command ship. Being a Dunkirk-class Battleship she and her crew had served him long and dearly. He wondered what had happened to her. All he could remember was a mighty battle in the Edinburgh system. He hadn’t been in charge of the the fleet at that time, but had heard the calls for help. He had given the command to race for assistance. But as soon as the first flashes of light had come into view, he had been knocked unconscious. Jonathan couldn’t remember what had happened. The harder he tried, the less his battered mind could grasp. Now he just lay there, trying his hardest to keep some sort of composure and strength, waiting for something to happen.
He wondered where he was, who he was with or why he was held captive. His captors never spoke to him, didn’t make any demands or gave him any clues to answer his questions. His first instinct had been, that he had fallen into the hands of the houses enemy at war, the Gallic Empire, especially since the last thing Jonathan could remember, was the Battle of Edinburgh.


Today was going to be different, very different.
Still very groggy from his daze Jonathan now knew as sleep, he scrambled scared and surprised into the far corner of his small cell as the door flew loudly open. There stood, scarcely visible in the shimmering light of the hallway, a brought-shouldered, muscular statue. The light wasn’t bright, but bright enough for Jonathan to squint. He had been in the dark for something that had felt like an eternity. He couldn’t fully view who was standing in the doorway. Jonathan froze as the silhouette started moving until it was towering over him. Jonathan’s eyes started to slowly adjust to the newly found light. He recognized a pair of cold, hard eyes, surrounded by long, thick hair and a beard that could rival its length. In his hands the figure held an assault rifle. No new and shiny, but worn out and used, the look of war. A surge of energy ran through Jonathan’s muscles. He steadied himself against the wall, tried to focus his target and leapt.
As Jonathan came to, he was being dragged by two warriors; each had an arm underneath one of his shoulders. Jonathan’s feet were dragging across the floor. He blinked, slowly gaining situational awareness. To his right was the guy from his cell, he would recognize that beard and statue anywhere. To his left was someone a lot smaller and thinner. No hair on his face and an aura that couldn’t make him older than sixteen.
Jonathan tried to look up, but instantly regretted his choice. A scorching paint let him shrink onto the carrying shoulders. He thought his head might explode. He must have been knocked out by the guy to his right, with one fell swoop. John couldn’t fight the noise in his head anymore and lost consciousness.
Jonathan began to move-. He tried to scratch his aching head, but his hands were tied. He slowly opened his eyes. The light was blinding so Jonathan could only see shadows moving. Most of them armed or carrying heavy judging by the way they were moving in and out of his field of view.
Despite not being able to see, he began to slowly recognize his surroundings. He felt the familiar vibrations of a ship taking off, coupled with the deafening roar of engines and full chat. It was a feeling that Jonathan hadn’t known he had missed so much. Despite being something that would scare a lot of people only living on a planet’s surface, it put Jonathan at ease. He had been flying since his mother had allowed him to leave Cambridge, his birthplace and home.

John stopped fighting his restraints and tried to enjoy the feeling of going back to space.
Silence fell over the ship as they left atmosphere. Next to him he noticed movement, clothes rustled and a female voice spoke to him:
“John?”
His heart stopped. He knew that voice. Although it was extremely hoarse he would recognize her voice anytime and anywhere.
“Layla?”
His untrained vocals strained to speak. Tears began rolling down his cheeks. Jonathan had come to terms with losing his life. He never thought he’d ever hear a friendly voice again.
Before they could even think about talking anymore, a man stopped in front of them, his shadow towering over them.
“Alors.” A deep voice with a heavy Gallic accent spoke. “You must be extremely confused. Mon nom is Roderic. Je suis le commandant of this vessel. We’re now underway towards base, where we will decide what to do with you. All you need to know right now is that you are safe here. Enjoy the ride and be quiet, or we’ll knock you out.”
Roderic's voice was deep and calm. His tone however let no doubt fester in Jonathan's mind, that he ment what he said and wouldn't give a second warning.

John shuddered, his mind racing. Images from his captivity flashed before his eyes. He fought to grasp any clue to what was happening. Eventually he resigned and concentrated on Layla next to him to his right. He didn’t want to risk speaking to her. A hand touched his own, Layla must not be restrained he thought.

Jonathan had known Layla for a long time. They had met at the academy for the Bretonian Armed Forces, a time that felt like an eternity ago. They had always spent time together and had known each other extremely well. By the time they had graduated the academy they were a feared in Bretonian space. They had taken down countless enemies of Bretonia as wingmen of each other. Naturally John didn’t have to think twice, when Layla had asked him to be her Best Man at her wedding. She hadn’t asked for a Bridesmaid but for him.
The soothing memories of times passed lulled John into sleep. Not the daze of captivity, but real sleep.

His dreams were rudely interrupted by a kick to the leg. John immediatly looked to his right to search for the reassuring presence of his long lost friend, however Layla was gone. Before him stood Roderic, next to him the slender boy, who had also dragged him out of his cell and across the hallways.
“Nous sommes arrives. That is Siccard,” he nodded towards the boy, “He will take you to your room, where you can take care of yourself.”
Jonathan’s vision had come back enough to recognize a worried and yet stern look.
As Roderic left, Siccard knelt down to unfasten John’s restraints.
“You must excuse his behaviour, he’s gone through a lot.”
Siccard’s English was flawless, almost had a Bretonian tone to it. Siccard lead him off the ship and through a maze of hallways. Eventually he stopped in front of a door.
“This is it. Inside is a bed to rest and bathroom equipped with everything you’d need to straighten yourself up. I’ll come and get you once it’s time.”
“Time for what?” Jonathan scarcely asked.
Siccard only reached past him and opened the door. He motioned for him to enter. John slowly followed his instructions and entered the room. The door shut behind him. Fresh clothes lay on the bed.

Someone knocked on the door. Siccard’s voice carried through the heavy wood:
“It’s time.”
Jonathan opened and stood in front of Siccard, who was flanked by two Bretonian soldiers, one on each side. All three of them silently turned and walked down the hallway, Jonathan slowly followed.
“Please enter.” Siccard spoke. They stood in front of a large swinging door, the kind that reminded of an entrance to an auditorium. John followed Siccard’s wish and pushed open the heavy door.
Inside he was met by a man unknown to him. He was wearing a Bretonian Armed Forces uniform, on his shoulders proudly shimmering the Admiral’s Insignia.
Jonathan instinctively snapped into Attention and saluted:
“Jonathan Sinclair, former Commodore of the Bretonian Armed Forces, Commander of the mighty HMS-Sheffield, holder of the Silverstar, two times Courageous Action Medal, Distinguished Flying Cross. At your service Sire!”


//first draft. If you want to give some Feedback please feel free.

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