by Martha Twine
The North American mafia’s electric shock torture programme for kids includes intensive night-time trauma-based training events. I looked up at the spotlight. There was an electric cord connecting it to the machine. I ‘blew’ at the equipment, to see if I could melt or interfere with it. It worked. I heard a noise. A man dressed in what looked like a black wet suit was coming towards me. I stood back out of sight. He picked up the equipment and dragged it to a wider part of the veranda, opposite some large lifts. By the lifts was a trolley bed, like those used in hospitals, and lying tucked up in it was a boy of about six years of age. One of those horrible spotlight machines was connected to his back. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew it was evil.
I flew at the man, aiming at his head again and again, to dislodge his communication equipment, and remove him from the planet. The lift suddenly opened, and another man came out, also dressed in a black wet suit. I did the same to him. Then a third man appeared out of the lift, and, as I disposed of him, I realised that I had left the little girl still standing in her safety cylinder.
‘I can’t leave her there forever,’ I thought, so I quickly released her and found myself back in my bedroom.
I had never felt so low, leaving the poor little girl defenceless. If I had ever called on a higher force to intercede, now would be the time. I imagined myself talking to some disembodied spirit.
‘Can’t you send someone to fix things?’ I pleaded. The answer I gave myself was not what I wanted to hear.
‘Why do you think you are there? That’s your job’.
‘But I can’t rescue the kids properly,’ I continued. ‘No matter how many operatives I remove, they just replace them’.
Then it occurred to me that I ought to notify the British military. I knew that their priority was preventing the planning and carrying out of acts of terrorism, and that child abuse wasn’t in that category. But the kids were being trained up to carry out suicide bomb attacks or similar, at some future date, which should count for something. I needed to find out the exact location of these operations, so that the British Military could find it.
Next day I decided to investigate further. I guessed the underground base might be somewhere in the precincts of the research centre, and I began looking for a large green plastic barn with no windows that I had seen before. But from above, there was nothing to see but some rather nice residential houses in a large secure compound. The compound was reached through a private car park with a high fenced gate with a punch lock. I was looking around the back to see if any neighbouring properties might be involved, when I suddenly heard a man shouting
‘It’s an underground base, here I am.’
Via the electromagnetic computer system, I looked down inside the research centre and found myself back in the underground facility I had seen the night before. A man in a black wet suit was behaving strangely on the gantry level, hopping onto the safety rail, shouting and waving his hands. He was obviously able to hear my thoughts and seemed to want to help me. But the balance of his mind appeared to be disturbed. The man was now shouting at his supervisors, ‘You can’t stop me!’
The large lift doors flew open, and a fearsome piece of electronic hardware appeared. It could have come out of a James Bond movie. It was about four feet square and had two search lights like the front of a train. It made a roaring noise. Underneath were two rotating brushes. There was a place for a driver, and an operating panel with flashing lights, but no driver was there. It was being driven remotely along the width of the gantry, sweeping all before it. There was no escaping its onward path.
‘You won’t get me with that old hoover,’ shouted the man, and he plunged off the safety rail into the hall below.
I never saw him again. Looking from above again, I tried to take stock of what had happened.
‘How far down is that underground facility?’ I wondered. ‘Surely our British military would be able to spot it, if they sent a scanner over it?’
I reported my suspicions to the military, and in the days to come, there were so many aircraft and airborne scanners over the area that it became a routine event. It was not until later that I found out that the child torture area was part of a larger underground base, where a range of illegal activities, including experiments on human beings, were carried out.
One evening, I was camping in my father’s garden, enjoying the night sky, when I was attacked with electronic weapons, coming from the North. As always, I was linked by wi-fi to the terrorists’ electromagnetic operating system. The terrorists were similarly wired up, but they were set up on dedicated application systems. This critical difference gave me a distinct advantage, as I was soon to discover.
I was able to look through trees and buildings and see whatever else was wired up on the system. I looked into the next garden, a mafia property owned by a wealthy sweatshop manager. I saw a large man, heavily built, lying on his stomach. To his right were a crowd of children aged about six years old. One of them was crouching in front of the man, pointing a small electronic laser at me. I reached out mentally and pushed the child to one side. The man swore at the kid and hit him with a laser gun. The child fell to the ground, writhing in agony.
‘Next!’ he shouted, and a small cowering girl was pushed forward to attack my body.
When the man hit the child, I just flipped. Burning with anger. I went for him, punching his body and his face as hard as I could. I suddenly noticed that the crowd of tiny kids could see me, and were standing behind me, mimicking my movements, punching and kicking with determination. I loved their spirit. Despite their terrible tortures, they wanted to fight back.
To my surprise, the man I was attacking seemed weak in comparison to myself. I noticed he had a lot of electronic weapons strapped to his arms and legs, and under his armpits, in order that he could deliver more powerful electronic hits to ‘motivate’ the kids. When I punched him, all the weapons strapped to his body started firing off at once, with him as the target. He fell to the ground, twitching and writhing. Two white-coated scientists who had been lurking in the background ran forward to his aid.
The man was carted off on a stretcher. An ambulance came, and I learned later that he died in hospital from a heart attack. His weapons had been the death of him. I hoped that the child torture programme had been at least halted for a while.
One day soon afterwards, I heard the kid called Daisy near my house, calling.
‘Mummy, there’s a man here… I’m frightened.’
Mentally logging onto the terrorists’ electromagnetic computer architecture, I looked in the direction of the child’s voice. I saw Daisy, and a man I recognised, a drug addict used regularly by the IRA for prison guard duties. He had just had a fix and had given himself a bit too much. This often happened to local operatives, and usually in about ten minutes, they were back to normal, but this guy was looking as if he had intentions on Daisy. Instinctively I leaped to her defence, and found myself next to the druggist. He could more or less make out my form, and so could Daisy. I hit the man and he fell over, and lay on the ground. I stayed with Daisy, and five minutes later her ‘mother’ arrived. Daisy was OK again.
The following week an elderly couple of Arab ethnicity arrived at the IRA reception desk. They had a cargo of six Syrian children, whom they trafficked as a child brothel. They were allocated a safe house in the valley below. Plenty of Daesh people visited the terrorist unit, because it was on their list of safe places to stay in the British Isles, and I assumed that these were just breaking their journey in transit to somewhere else.
But this group had received an invitation from the local Faeces Group. The reason was that their kids not only provided brothel services, and knew how to operate electronic weapons, but they also did school studies at night, thus enhancing their usefulness within the terrorist community. The IRA wanted the local Faeces Group to learn how to do this, and to start educating their own brothel kids. The Daesh group was welcomed, and expected to stay for some wee
ks.
That night I was lying in bed, when someone shot at me with an electronic weapon. I rolled over, reaching in my mind to find the direction of the attack. I picked up the electric current and aimed a hit at the offender. I hit him on the head, and breathed sufficiently into his brain to put him out of action. Two other weapons shot at me, and I disabled the perpetrators as well. Then I surveyed the scene I had entered.
It was a classroom. There were six desks, and six little boys had been sitting in the chairs. Only three of them were conscious. The fourth and fifth boys were slumped over their books with electronic weapons beside them. I caught sight of the sixth lying by the window pointing towards my bedroom, his electronic weapon still in his hand. Unfortunately, I had hit all three of them.
The brothel madam, an old woman wrapped in dirty drab robes and a headscarf was sobbing to herself. I realised that she was not weeping for the kids. She was bewailing her loss of income. Her elderly partner, a fearsome looking black-bearded man, watched impassively. No doubt more kids could be obtained, at a price. The woman carried the three unconscious boys into the sleeping area, and laid them on small beds.
‘I think they will recover tomorrow,’ she said.
But the kids passed on to a happier place, where their tormentors could no longer reach them.
Next day I removed the ghastly old slave-drivers. The Syrian traffickers were no more, but three of their brothel kids had survived. I was just cooking my food when one of the kids hit me lightly with a small laser weapon. I followed the direction of the attack, and saw a small child of about seven years old. As I reached to remove the weapon from his hand, a tall, strongly-built Islamic State Asian strode into the room, scooped up the child and began to walk off with him. The child looked up and saw me.
‘Stop, let me go, I want to go with the woman, she can help me,’ he shouted.
‘No, you won’t’, replied the soldier, ‘I need you. You’re mine.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ I wondered.
A nearby IRA operative picked up my thoughts on Syntel.
‘The kid is used to provide sexual services,’ he said. ‘There are only three left, and they are being over-used. That kid has already said that he wants to follow his dead brothers to a better place, and, as you removed them, he thinks you can solve his problem.’
‘Well, I’m not going to,’ I said. ‘I am not here to help people to a better place. I’ve got a life of my own, and I’m busy cooking my food.’
The kid wriggled and escaped. He rushed up two flights of stairs to the top floor. There was a study room, with desks and a table for a teacher. He sat on the table. Then suddenly he began rolling and writhing on the table in agony.
‘What’s going on now?’ I wondered.
Then I saw laser lights coming through the wall. Two people in the next room were hitting the boy with electronic weapons.
A big Islamic State soldier came in and went to grab the boy. I focused on the soldier’s head, breathing into his brain area again and again. In about half minute the soldier was down. Another soldier came in. I did the same thing to him. Then another, and another. Altogether there were six men on the ground. They wouldn’t bother the child after that.
One of the orange-clad men from the secret research centre could be heard climbing up the stairs. He had been watching the proceedings from across the road, and his job was to remove the bodies. He and a colleague would then administer an anesthetic shot to send each ‘wounded’ soldier to sleep, after which a lethal injection would be administered.
The Syrian boy could see me. He looked hopefully at me.
‘Now then, sonny, you come with me,’ said the kindly orange-clad man. ‘We’ve got a play area with other kids. You’ll like it there’.
‘No, I don’t want to go there,’ screamed the boy. ‘They’ll hurt me. I want her to finish me. I know all about it. It doesn’t hurt, and I’ll be fine.’
I looked at the man.
‘It’s not something I want to do,’ I said.
The man looked at me.
‘There’s not much of a life ahead for any of them, really,’ he said quietly.
I knew he was right. The last thing I wanted was to witness further harm to the child, and I didn’t trust the male perpetrators inside the encampment, especially with the stream of visiting terrorists that flowed through.
‘OK,’ I said to the boy. ‘Let’s sit down.’
He smiled confidently and sat on the table. I did not delay, but began breathing into his head as quickly as possible.
‘I’ll be asleep soon,’ he said.
Those were his last words. The orange-clad man picked up his body and carried it away. Then he and his colleague dragged the bodies of the six Islamic State soldiers down the two flights of stairs, and loaded them into a van outside. It was becoming just another day of death in the terrorist unit.
Did I do wrong? Of course I did. But what if I had not helped the boy, would that have been better? No. Was there another way I could have handled this situation? Well yes, there must have been, because there always is another way. But I just couldn’t think of it then. That is the trouble with decisions on the battlefield. The realities of war come up and confront us, and we can only do our best as we see it at the time.
The IRA perpetrator attacks continued as before. One day, I saw a young kid asking to operate a piece of equipment with the intention of voiding my bladder. My policy was to permanently remove all such perpetrators as quickly as possible, but it was Daisy, the little girl I had known since she was about four years old, now completely programmed to hurt people, seeking to prove herself in order to win the approval of adults in her group. It was very sad.
I had so many memories of Daisy. She was an incredibly caring child. One day an Algerian Daesh torturer had been left in charge of the women and children in the child brothel, and was carrying out malicious electronic attacks on them for his entertainment. Daisy’s foster-mother wanted to call for help, but her mobile was in the house. I heard Daisy say to her foster-mother, ‘It’s all right Mummy, you don’t have to be hurt going into the house. I’ll go instead of you.’
On another occasion, when Daisy’s mother was lying on the ground after a ghastly beating by one of the terrorists, Daisy came and lay down next to her. Taking her hand, she laid her cheek against it.
‘Poor Mummy,’ she said.
Now it looked as if Daisy’s life as a child was over, she was becoming a soldier. I wondered if there was some way I could avoid the inevitable. If I just overlooked her, the terrorists would use her to attack me more and more, knowing she would not be hit. Then one day she would probably die as collateral damage, in the confusion that was my daily battle field.
I remembered the Al-Qaida North American mafia research facility in Algeria. It was staffed by French people on the admin side, and they were not involved in the unethical research work. In particular, I remembered Pierre, a man in his early thirties who was responsible for the running of the buildings there. Perhaps he could find a place for children like Daisy. The North Americans had their own children with them, so there might be a school they could go to.
I went to the back garden where the batch kids were playing; it was their free time in-between their child brothel and terrorist training duties. The kids knew me as a friend and were not afraid that I would hurt them.
‘You have to go from here now’, I said. ‘It is no longer safe for you. Soon some of you will be used as soldiers and you will be killed. Does your family have a safe place for you?’.
The kids looked hopeful, and, at the same time, despondent. They were used to rough treatment, and if they displayed the slightest interest or pleasure in anything, one of the terrorists would snatch the object of their happiness from them out of spite.
‘We have nowhere to go,’ said the eldest girl.
‘Where is Daisy?’ I asked.
‘She’s out there in the kitchen,’ said the girl. ‘Daisy, come he
re!’
Daisy came skipping out to join the others.
‘I can take you away to a safer place,’ I said, ‘if you agree.’
They all nodded. These kids understood a lot, and they had seen me transport people all over the place in the past.
‘Can you get together in a close circle?’ I said.
They did so. Then I created a magnetic field envelope around them, and carefully lifted them into the warm sunlit staff common room in the Al-Qaida Algerian research facility. The children ran around excitedly.
As I expected, Pierre, the young manager came out.
‘Who are these kids?’ he said.
‘They are Al-Qaida batch kids from England,’ I said. ‘Al-Qaida have stopped supporting their batch kids’ initiative, and these children have no one to provide for them. Your outfit is funded by Al-Qaida, so I figured that you might be able to help them go to school and grow up normally.’ Pierre nodded.
‘OK, but only for these ones. I don’t want hundreds of them.’
My mind went to another little girl called Tess, now a teenager, whom I had also watched grow up. She belonged to the same batch as Daisy and the rest of the kids. She lived nearby, and had been forced into work as a drugs mule against her will, as she was too old to earn a living in the child brothel. But she always protested against these activities. She was exceptionally bright, and the local Al-Qaida representative had pleaded that the IRA should pay for her to have full time schooling, and use her on the admin side, but to no avail. The traffickers won the day, and she continued her life as a slave.
‘There is one more to come,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring her.’
But where was she now? I had no idea. My guess was that girls who worked in the mother and baby trafficking section in the next village would be able to help. There was a safe house where they all went when there was no work for them elsewhere. I visualised the house, and picked up its frequency. I found myself in the garden of a pleasant country cottage, which had been extended to increase its size.