It was dark. Quiet, except for the sound of batwings and water dripping from rusty pipes, slowly eroding the concrete floor of the warehouse. It smelled so... stale in there. She could see nothing due to both the cloth covering her eyes and the fact that it was the middle of the night. She had stopped screaming for help about two hours ago, when one of her captors had smashed the back of her head with the butt of his gun, making her pass out for a bit. After she'd woken up, she'd begun to cut through the thick rope bounding her hands with one long nail, but it was doing no good. She arched her back in the iron chair, her poor butt numb since half an hour ago, and writhed. Warm liquid coated her wrists, accompanied by a searing hot pain. The ropes had cut into her flesh and she was bleeding. She whimpered and bit her lip, trying to listen hard for anything... anyone. She heard footsteps and her heart raced, mind exploding with possibilities and paranoia. They were coming back. They were going to kill her. This was how she would die. Elizabeth Marie Walker was the daughter of Prime Minister Gordon Walker, so to get to him, terrorists had taken her hostage. They had demanded an unreasonable amount of money and political immunity from jail as every captor in every movie did, but her father had refused, telling them to take her. He'd never loved her to begin with, and she knew this. She knew she didn't have much of a chance for survival in this situation: now the only thing she could wait for was the decision of the captors. What would they do to her? She squeaked as a huge man approached her and spoke, his voice sounding like a garbage disposal gargling a bunch of gravel. "Alrighty then, missy Walker... Gittup. We ain't needin' you no mores, so the boss-man says I'ma supposed ta take you to da desert and but a round in yer head." So, now she knew. Well shit.