Yesterday's Gone (Season 5): Episodes 25-30 by Sean Platt, David Wright Page A
Authors: Sean Platt, David Wright
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vials didn’t make sense. He told her not to surrender them under any circumstance — so why would he take them?
Marina paced her cell.
A folded blue paper slid beneath the door.
She picked it up.
It read: 21 days. Training starts tomorrow.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
No response.
**
The next morning Marina woke to the sound of a bell ringing from above.
She snapped awake and saw an old man standing over her. He, like Acevedo, was wearing robes. He was skinny, bald, and his face and hands, the only areas not concealed by robes, were covered in intricate tattoos with designs she couldn’t quite place.
“Who are you?” She sat up in bed, remembering that the note had said that training — whatever that meant — started today.
Is this my trainer?
“My name is Seven. I’m here to strengthen your mind.”
“My mind is strong enough, thank you. I’d like to leave.”
Marina stood, walking past the man on her way to the door. She grabbed the knob and tried to turn it, but the door was locked.
“Open the damned door.”
“It’ll open it when you’re ready.”
“This is stupid! Let me out. People are counting on me. I can’t be locked away for three weeks.”
“Father Acevedo said you must be ready for what’s next. I am here to prepare you, same as I did for him.”
“Where are my vials?”
“Locked away safely, don’t worry.”
“I want them. Now. And I want to talk to Acevedo.”
“So, you are not ready to train?”
“No!”
“OK.” The old man turned and opened the door with no key.
How the hell did he open the door?
Is someone watching via secret cameras and they opened it from outside?
Marina chased him, not about to let some weirdo in robes keep her in a cell. She reached the doorway, and he spun to face her, deceptively fast. The old man raised his palm, landing it flat on her chest. It didn’t hurt, though the look in his eyes and the force with which he moved said that hurt wasn’t far from the table.
“Please, Ms. Harmon. Return to your room. Food will be sent shortly.”
“I want out,” she said, her eyes wetting with tears.
“Your life is in danger right now. You need to be trained in the way.”
“I—”
He pressed a pair of fingers to her lips.
She pulled away, not appreciating the old man’s touch. She stepped back, and he closed the door. From the other side, he said, “Be ready to train tomorrow.”
Marina reached for the doorknob. Locked.
“Damn it!” she yelled, pounding her fists on the door. “I want to talk to Acevedo!!”
No response.
**
Marina woke to the smell of food.
She sat up in bed, with no memory of drifting off. She looked on the floor beside the door and saw a bowl of what looked like chicken noodle soup with steam rising from the broth, a single piece of bread, and a glass of ice water, sweat beading the outside.
She jumped out of bed and tried the doorknob again. Still locked.
Stomach grumbling, Marina brought the tray of food to her bed, sat, and begrudgingly took a bite of the surprisingly fresh bread.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Hell, the lack of windows made it so Marina couldn’t even tell what time it was now.
“Could at least give me something to read!” she yelled, assuming someone was listening, if not watching.
No response.
**
The next time she woke, Marina found a book on the bed beside her.
The volume looked old: brown, leather-bound, and thin. The spine read: On Mindful Meditation by O.M.
Who the hell is O.M.?
She opened the book and began to thumb through the pages. The first few were oddly left blank. No title page or copyright. Nothing.
Marina kept flipping, and was surprised to find that the entire volume was blank.
“Is this some of joke?” she yelled, throwing the book hard at the door.
Marina growled as she dipped her bread into the soup then tore off a chunk with her teeth, glaring at the door.
No
Marina paced her cell.
A folded blue paper slid beneath the door.
She picked it up.
It read: 21 days. Training starts tomorrow.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
No response.
**
The next morning Marina woke to the sound of a bell ringing from above.
She snapped awake and saw an old man standing over her. He, like Acevedo, was wearing robes. He was skinny, bald, and his face and hands, the only areas not concealed by robes, were covered in intricate tattoos with designs she couldn’t quite place.
“Who are you?” She sat up in bed, remembering that the note had said that training — whatever that meant — started today.
Is this my trainer?
“My name is Seven. I’m here to strengthen your mind.”
“My mind is strong enough, thank you. I’d like to leave.”
Marina stood, walking past the man on her way to the door. She grabbed the knob and tried to turn it, but the door was locked.
“Open the damned door.”
“It’ll open it when you’re ready.”
“This is stupid! Let me out. People are counting on me. I can’t be locked away for three weeks.”
“Father Acevedo said you must be ready for what’s next. I am here to prepare you, same as I did for him.”
“Where are my vials?”
“Locked away safely, don’t worry.”
“I want them. Now. And I want to talk to Acevedo.”
“So, you are not ready to train?”
“No!”
“OK.” The old man turned and opened the door with no key.
How the hell did he open the door?
Is someone watching via secret cameras and they opened it from outside?
Marina chased him, not about to let some weirdo in robes keep her in a cell. She reached the doorway, and he spun to face her, deceptively fast. The old man raised his palm, landing it flat on her chest. It didn’t hurt, though the look in his eyes and the force with which he moved said that hurt wasn’t far from the table.
“Please, Ms. Harmon. Return to your room. Food will be sent shortly.”
“I want out,” she said, her eyes wetting with tears.
“Your life is in danger right now. You need to be trained in the way.”
“I—”
He pressed a pair of fingers to her lips.
She pulled away, not appreciating the old man’s touch. She stepped back, and he closed the door. From the other side, he said, “Be ready to train tomorrow.”
Marina reached for the doorknob. Locked.
“Damn it!” she yelled, pounding her fists on the door. “I want to talk to Acevedo!!”
No response.
**
Marina woke to the smell of food.
She sat up in bed, with no memory of drifting off. She looked on the floor beside the door and saw a bowl of what looked like chicken noodle soup with steam rising from the broth, a single piece of bread, and a glass of ice water, sweat beading the outside.
She jumped out of bed and tried the doorknob again. Still locked.
Stomach grumbling, Marina brought the tray of food to her bed, sat, and begrudgingly took a bite of the surprisingly fresh bread.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Hell, the lack of windows made it so Marina couldn’t even tell what time it was now.
“Could at least give me something to read!” she yelled, assuming someone was listening, if not watching.
No response.
**
The next time she woke, Marina found a book on the bed beside her.
The volume looked old: brown, leather-bound, and thin. The spine read: On Mindful Meditation by O.M.
Who the hell is O.M.?
She opened the book and began to thumb through the pages. The first few were oddly left blank. No title page or copyright. Nothing.
Marina kept flipping, and was surprised to find that the entire volume was blank.
“Is this some of joke?” she yelled, throwing the book hard at the door.
Marina growled as she dipped her bread into the soup then tore off a chunk with her teeth, glaring at the door.
No
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