Cora and Misha both sat across from each other in the dim conference room, papers upon papers piled in front of them. Cora rolled her eyes at the mess, annoyed.

“My father was able to create a new system of government, yet he wasn’t able to keep these records straight,” Cora mumbled in annoyance. Misha nodded his head lightly, agreeing.

“Tell me about it,” he mumbled in his thick, Russian accent. “A man so smart cannot keep record straight.” Glancing around the stack of unorganized papers, a single, yellowish tinted paper caught the Russian’s eye. Gingerly picking up the tough paper, Misha brought it close to his face.

Prisoner number: 8b

Location: Floor 16a

Name: confidential

Status: diplomat

Misha tilted his head slightly with a puzzled look on his face. An unknown diplomat? he thought.

“Read this,” Misha demanded, handing Cora the slip of paper. Hesitatanlty, Cora nervously grabbed the paper. Reading it carefully, her eyes widened.

“Unknown prisoner?,” Cora inquired. Misha nodded, still in amazement. Sighing, Cora gently left the paper on the table then stood up.

“Well, atleast now we have an excuse for not going through this messy paper work,” she murmured. “Let’s go find that prisoner.”

• • • • •

It took the pair around twenty minutes to find cell 8b on floor 16a. A thick, titanium door blocked the floor and cell from unwanted trespassers. Cora nervously glanced at Misha as they stood in front of the gate like structure.

“Well?,” Cora asked in equal nervousness and annoyance. “Aren’t you gonna open the door?” Misha’s eyes widened in bewilderment and pointed at himself.

“Me?,” he questioned. “No. Me no open door. You open door.” Cora rolled her eyes.

“It’s just a damn door Misha!,” grumbled Cora. Misha shook his head.

“You open door,” he insisted. “You get killed before me.” Cora sighed, grabbing the large door handle.

“Fine,” she mumbled. “Let me be the man.” Misha tilted his head in confusion. Cora hesitated for a split second. “That didn’t sound right.” Misha nodded in agreement.

Finally, Cora pushed open up the strong, metallic door. Inside, was a small room with no furniture what so ever and one small lamp that radiated little light.

In the center, a boy, no older than 18 sat, legs crossed. His brown hair was a little longer than a buzz cut, but still very short. He was wearing a white jumpsuit. Blood splatters, scars, and cuts were painted across the boy’s face. The boy’s brown eyes were unfocused and lost. He had the eyes of a man who had lost everything. Like he had nothing to live for.

When Cora and Misha entered the room, his spine straightened up and his pupils contracted.

“Your 5 days late,” he stated in a formal British accent. Misha glanced at Cora with concern.

“What you mean ‘days late’?,” Misha questioned. The boy cringed at the sound of Misha’s voice.

“I don’t like you Russians,” the prisoner growled. Misha’s eyes squinted at the vocal prisoner, trying to come towards the boy, but Cora put her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Who are you?,” Cora asked. The prisoner assumed a puzzled look.

“You’re my guard,” he challenged. “Your bring me food. You know who I am.”

“We not guards,” Misha cried. “I am Misha Dmitriev, new American President. This is Cora Samsara, my friend.” Cora glared at Misha.

“Your friend?,” she asked in an annoyed tone. “That’s low Dmitriev.” Misha rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Who are you?,” Misha demanded, glaring at the prisoner. The captive squinted.

“New president?,” he asked. “What happened to the old president, uhh, Samsara?” Cora swallowed, hard. Thinking of her father didn’t bring back the most pleasant of memories.

“He’s a prisoner,” Cora replied quickly. “We’re living in a democracy again.” The stranger chuckled in an unsettling and evil like tone.

“It’s about time,” he murmured with a smile. “But seriously, where is my food.” Misha rolled his eyes. He already didn’t like this prisoner, but his persistence and overall annoyance made Misha want to bitch slap him.

“You no get food!,” Misha snapped. “Now tell us who you are!” The boy scoffed, rolling his eyes as he stood up. He wasn’t very tall for someone his age, around 5’5. And now that he was standing up, it was apparent how scrawny he was, almost to the point where his rib cage stuck out.

“If I tell you who I am, will I receive food?,” the prisoner ventured.

“Sure,” Cora grumbled, obviously not liking this new captive. “Now, a name would be nice.”

“Food first.”

“No. Name. Now. Or all bets are off.” The prisoner rolled his eyes, then muttered something unrecognizable to himself.

“Fine, if it will save me from dreaded starvation,” he mumbled. Pausing for a second, the boy sighed.

“My name is Prince Elias of England, heir to the English throne.”