DAIMON

How’s that song go? Something about beers? On the wall? Ninety-nine of them?

Now you’re just being ridiculous.

No. I’m being delirious. There’s a difference.

You know, you’d think this place—this jail cell in the corner with nothing to look at but a grey wall—would be a sensory black hole. But after all these hours(or…days? Weeks, even? I can’t be one hundred percent sure) I’m suddenly beginning to perceive all kinds of details I hadn’t noticed before.

For example, there’s a smell. And no, I’m not talking about the buckets my jailmates have to piss and shit into. It’s more subtle than that. Underneath everything. A moist wetness. A moldy musk. Like thick moss on an old tree. But without so much of the earthiness. It’s an impression of widespread moisture. A…permeation.

Also, if I stare, really stare at that grey wall…well, it’s more than grey, isn’t it? If I look in one spot long enough, I can see all the hues and permutations. The specks and grains of light grey, dark grey, navy blue, and black.

We’ve been over this before.

Have we?

I tilt my head, perceiving the spot on the wall from a different angle.

Ah. Yeah, I’ve definitely been here before.

This is not where you should be spending your energy. You’re running low on juice. Time is running out.

You need a plan.

Ah, yes. A plan.

Only, I’ve never been one for complex stratagems. Sure, I like to trick and manipulate people. That’s always fun. But I do it step by step. Moment by moment. I don’t map things out. I just…go with the flow.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Besides, my inner voice is right. I’m low on the ol’ juices. I don’t have the mental power to Sherlock my way out of this.

(Or Moriarty. Different flavor. Same drink.)

When in doubt…rattle your cage a little.

“Sounds like you’ve made yourself an arrangement,” I say, breaking an hour-long stint of silence in the jail. Silent, that is, except for the rattle of the swaying chains from which I’m suspended in my cell.

No response.

And why should there be? Gavin, in the cell next to mine, hasn’t said anything up to now. I mean, neither have I, but he’s the one who had to watch me turn his friends into mincemeat, right? You’d think he’d have a thing or two to say about it.

Then again, what would be the point? This is a man of action we’re talking about, when it comes down to it. He saw the threat, and he acted. In some frankly severe and probably misguided ways, but that’s not the point. He doesn’t sit around, thinking about what to do. He just does.

Is a guy like that interested in lobbying pointless threats back and forth between jail cells? Or is he going to wait quietly, content in the knowledge that once he’s free, he can take me apart and turn me into his personal trophy?

The latter is more likely. Especially now that he’s made a deal with…what was that old lady’s name? Evelyn?

Anything Gavin wants to say to me, he can save for when he’s talking me apart, piece by piece, on a table.

The only question is, will there be anyone to stop him? Who would bother to try, even if they could? The people here don’t perceive Biodroids as…well, people. And going off of what I overheard from Evelyn, Silas and Co. are on their way to investigate that complex to the south. This presents a potential opportunity, and potential dangers as well. Likely dangers, I should say.

But as I consider this conundrum, an idea begins to take shape. A vague and blurry shape. But it’s something.

“You should consider yourself lucky,” I say. “You really screwed the pooch. Fortunately, Silas stepped in and fixed your mess, didn’t he? He did what you never could. I mean, let’s face it. Without a Biodroid to protect you, you’d already be dead. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Silence. Cold, moist, stinky, grayishly bland silence.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s good that I wasn’t so antagonistic that I got a rise out of him. How defensive can he be, anyway, if he knows, deep down, that I’m right?

The point is not the attack itself, but the insinuation. The seed which, when planted, may yet yield fruit. He might even think it was his idea to begin with.

Hey, look at me. Maybe I’m not that bad at formulating plans, after all.