The time was a little later, that very evening. Most of the people had already gone home: poor people had no place in Havenrock's society.
Private armies were always growing larger because of rich people being showy, paranoid and egotistical. At the same time, criminal guilds were plumping up constantly as well. People everywhere had adapt to what on Earth would have not been considered a job.
There just were no regular safe activities available: being a florist or a farmer or a factory worker was impossible; those were all Rokian's jobs, which was just another way to say that rich people owned all those kind of places and only used unpaid slaves as working force.
A Rokian would never be a decent barkeep though. Too much brain necessary: watering the drinks just enough, staying out of trouble, prioritizing, inventorying... staying out of trouble again.
That was still a job for folks that knew how best to employ good common sense and all sorts of smarts. Perfect example, when a half drunk customer goes and, in his inebriated stupor, lets out having been injured the day before by a sentient Rokian, thinking that the barkeep was just some sort of serving appliance.
In a Havenrock pub not only walls, but also chairs and tables had ears; Samson normally wouldn't need to remember this basic notion, but he had recently terminated his relationship with the man whom usually avoided him trouble with a blunt weapon to the guy's neck. Now, when something so troublesome was heard, it was to be reported to the competent authorities, which later would reward the concerned citizens.
Hadn't the barkeep done it, someone else in the pub would have. Someone would call this retribution of a karmic fashion, but even Tommy never saw Samson as anything more than a stepping stone on his path, so he didn't even bother holding a grudge against the scumbag trader.
Ten beers and just as many tequila shots in, the tavern keeper decided the man was cooked to perfection and it was time for a showstopping performance: he stepped out from behind the counter and went to the wobbly headed customer Samson to say
-Man, you are done for the night. Should I call you a cab?
-Who... are you? Boy, Tom... Tommy, is that you?
Samson asked. For good measure, in Samson's last tequila shot, the good barkeep had poured something spicy to ensure the present brain-dead outcome.
-Sure thing, time to go home, buddy.
-Right. Listen I... shorry for today. That bitch...
He didn't really make a lot of sense, while the barkeep shouldered him out of his precious establishment dropping him into a dark, padded carriage without windows.
It was morning when Samson came to his senses, more or less. It took him a good fifteen minutes to get anything into focus.
He didn't recognize the place: it was a sad, desolate looking room with a table and one chair. And shackles... He smelled rubber all around, which meant the people that had taken him in knew about his element. There were bars on the door, small ones, just enough for glancing at part of the hallway outside and few other doors: it was, as he easily summed up, some holding facility, but way too fancy to be a regular prison.
He had done nothing to deserve being in there, he thought... unless it had happened after he had gotten drunk. Something wasn't right, but it didn't look like he had options: he sat on the hard, rubbery chair and waited.
There had to be some kind of surveillance in the room, because in the turn of ten minutes since he had started moving, a strange man had arrived at Samson's cell door. This odd looking man was tall, more than Sam, he had a tremendous amount of muscle, but he was also too fat to be called lean.
As he entered the room, Samson noticed a heavy stubble and two scars on his round face : one thin and long on the forehead and one, bigger and irregular on the lips, probably result of a metal puncher beating. The man, who was wearing a dark shirt on red Indian style pants and sashes, closed the door, showing his large back to Samson, evidently unafraid , then slowly turned around again with a tired look. He had dark bags under his eyes, full and purplish, clear sign of very little sleep. He had a small notebook in his left hand and, rushing through several pages, he soon found what he was looking for. His voice was forcibly calm and little weary, clearly trying to hide his more violent and feral nature.
-Hello, citizen, my name is Bakool Faedani: you have been brought here because of rumors about your involvement with a sentient Rokian and therefore I am here to question you on the matter.
-Listen baby face, I got a bad hangover and I have been pretty much kidnapped, haven't I? I know guys in high places and I know nuthin' about no Rokian. That's all YOU need to know. You don't want me here and I, sure as hell, don't want to be here.
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The interrogator's face didn't change in the slightest.
-First question: is your name Samson Hauser?
-'Course it is. Have you...
He cut him off, uncaring.
-Second question: did you or did you not get attacked by a Rokian while on your way to the city of Yeokia? Please, keep in mind that we have medical records from the county hospital showing a complex fracture of several bones in one of your legs.
-I don't have to tell you squat, and for the second time: I know nothing! So fuckin' stop wasting my time and get me out of this dump!
The other man sighed a little and without even seeming to have heard what Samson had said, simply repeated.
-Second question: did you or did you not get...
-Hey, are you taking the piss, fatass? I said I know nuthin' at all about whatever it is you are yammering about with your fucked up pie hole.
Bakool Faedai with the same enthusiasm of a sloth, moved his eyes on Samson
-That is... Unfortunate. Citizen, I would like to inform you that if cooperation is not provided and if hostile behavior is shown, I am allowed to employ extreme measures.
-You know what fat boy? I got enough of your annoying nonsense. Let me out of here! NOW!
Samson got to his feet, sparked up an electrical shield that set the table half on fire and loaded big plasma projectiles in both of his hands. When he saw Bakool Faedani's underwhelming reaction, (he simply pocketed his small notebook) Samson roared with exasperation and kicked the floor, sending lightnings flying all over the place.
Bakool Faedani clapped softly, then tore the table apart like it was made of cheap paper. Samson panted more than breathing, fueled up by his own anger, and went for the throat.
It was an instant, not even one meter to cover: Samson was sure he would damaged the other man badly... And to hell with his asinine bureaucratic stubbornness.
Samson could almost feel the cloth coming in contact with his power, when the other man, at the very last moment, with a movement that wasn't fast, but extremely precise, caught his right arm at the elbow, using just his fingertips. The old looking man saw the fingers getting covered in pale spiky rocks, before gently squeezing. The bones in Samson's elbow area were no more, not just shattered, but pulverized.
Interrogator Faedani was immune to Samson's lightnings due to his opposite elemental nature, he didn't need to defend, but he was indeed a bureaucrat at heart and this was simply what his training suggested.
It took Samson a good three seconds to realize what had happened.
When he finally did, he screamed like never before in his life, with a mix of terror and agony for what he had just experienced.
Samson was fighting with all he had, trying not losing his mind, faintly thumping on Bakool's big hand with his scrawny opened one.
-More resistance. Again, not necessary, citizen... I need to remind you: you are doing this to yourself.
Bakool, with the same mechanically precise gesture, grabbed the other arm, always at the elbow, and dusted another handful of bones.
Samson's eyes rolled backward and he started foaming at the mouth. Interrogator Faedani, sat the man back on the chair, but he immediately fell on the floor, wildly shaken by spasms of bone-shattering violence.
The big muscular man sent sand to douse the flaming table, then focused back on Samson with just a hint of a satisfied smile for having done his job properly.
Some time later, he didn't know how much, Samson, taking very shallow breaths came to, immediately hoping he was dead. Like reading in his mind though, Bakool Faedani, emotionless as a broken gramophone which endlessly tires out the same bit of a broken record, told him
-You are not allowed to die, citizen. Whenever you will be ready: second question...
Death: Samson now knew there was a lot worse.
Early morning, back in Yeokia, where Ethan, Simone and Tommy had gotten a nice and abundant breakfast with waffles, fruity jam, peanut butter, milk and cereals. Tommy was walking now, with the aid of crutches for not straining the newly reformed bones in his neck. The sun had indeed helped a lot, as had done the moon light.
Oh, yeah... Also panic had ensued earlier that morning when Ethan had gotten out of bed.