He was sitting in his thinking chair when they came for him.
Three loud knocks echoed through the appartment. One. Two. Three. “Police!” shouted a voice. Dr. Paul Willisk sat reclined, his eyes closed, but he was not asleep. He imagined himself tiny, the size of a molecule, watching as atoms split and cascaded. As photons was emitted and channeled, and as heat errupted and was dissepated.
He startled into awareness when the door came off its henges. The first man to emerge from the blast wore fatigues and a ski mask. Paul twisted around unnaturally and winced as a muscle was pulled beyond its limit. That was when an ice pick forced itself deep down into his eyeball. He screamed, his hands moving involuntarily to his eyes. They were now covered, but he couldn’t stop the burning after image from impaling itself into his retina.
“Where is the program?” bellowed a voice.
Paul sobbed. Two arms lifted him up off the chair. Hands forced open his eye lids. For a moment, there was only a painful white light. Then, he saw a face. Young, hardened, with trimmed hair and cold, penetrating eyes.
“Force him up against the wall,” barked the man. He reached down into his camoflage vest and produced a knife. He flipped open the blade with a cruel click, and raised the jagged edge up where Paul could see it.
“You’re… not the police.”
It was stupid, really. The first phrase which Paul could force out of his quivering lips. A smile formed across the soldier’s face. Not a cruel one, but a cold, professional one.
“No, we’re not.”
He twirled the knife once in his hand, and swiped it down in a quick motion towards Dr. Paul Willisk’s left hand.