Debating whether or not to cut out early - get in before they'd even think it was possible - but deciding against it. One of the benefits of having freer movement around the base due to being in maintenance. The downside, it'd earn me a strike. Hadn't had any of those in about three years. Could always do that at a later date, if need be. Leave that particular maneuver up my sleeve. Finishing up my shift at the normal time, returning my cart, clothing down the chute, and then decontamination. Up the ladder and into a free pod. Time to survey the situation. Into the grid.
Sitting on a hard, textured surface. Tough to breathe, a gag in my mouth. Blindfolded. No, not a blindfold, only the gag is tied around my head. An entire hood cinched around my neck. Dark. Too dark for just the hood. Probably in a dark area. Metal bars behind my back and to my right, and a solid surface just past them. Wrists bound together with metal shackles. Hands covered but the material feels softer, leather. They didn't put gauntlets on me. They probably don't know about Carve. Nico didn't betray that piece of information. Hope filling-
Swallowing my tiny bit of hope. Maybe leather makes sense as far as they're concerned, harder to slip out of than metal, could always opt to lose a hand if metal, maybe get free or maybe bleed out. Same difference, ultimately. Maybe they do know and they've compensated by doing something else.
Chains clinking while picking up my hands. My ankles also bound, leather restraints reinforced with metal. Lifting my arms and discovering the chain going from my wrists to my ankles. The ceiling is short, just over my head when sitting like this. Not naked - in my underwear and tanktop - at least they afforded me that small courtesy. Feet bare. A grated metal floor, and just beneath it, wood. A rough surface, not finished or lacquered.
Wilde had been withdrawn when we'd gone out. It had seemed to make sense at the time, he'd died earlier in the day, and he had lost. Later that night, he'd been aggressive. That also had made sense, asserting his dominance in whatever way he could. No complaints about it at the time. Laughing at him, goading him, coaxing him on when he was already putting so much into it, only to make him try harder, to make it more wonderful. The next morning, each of us heading to collect our field outfits and then meeting at the West Gate.
He'd been somewhat withdrawn that morning but by midday it had passed. He seemed back to normal. Then staying out late, going on that roundabout route sightseeing, he'd been in a good mood by the time we'd gotten back to town. He'd almost been giddy when he brought me to that inn.
Had been clinging vainly to the hope that maybe the situation wouldn't be so bad. Or that maybe he'd been a dupe and wasn't completely involved. But sitting here - kidnapped and in restraints - even if he didn't tell them everything, he'd led me right to them. Dominic Wilde? Never heard of him. A dead man, devoid of any possible hope of forgiveness or mercy, and those people he'd aided and abetted, similarly situated.
Could remove these restraints right now and get free, but several problems. Unknown location, theoretically known, but not for sure. Unknown number of guards. Probably more than a few. And the time. Now would be exactly when they'd figure something would go down. Better to wait a couple more hours.
In the meantime, ankles bound, can't even move enough to draw on top of the other foot with one of my toes and no reason to free my hands, yet. Tracing on the tip of my tongue, working around the gag. Drawing Runic Shield on the roof of my mouth. Activating. No, didn't get it right, this is tough doing it only by touch. Feels like a couple sides aren't round enough and then most of the swirly lines from the middle are off. Spending the next ten, or so, minutes correcting, getting closer and closer. Almost there. The sound of footsteps interrupting and something over my head sliding over, making a little metallic clack.
“Macarthy.” Lane's voice. Above and a bit to the right. “I want to let you know your current situation and what we're planning on doing with you. We're not going to torture you, first off. There were some who were in favor of that, putting you somewhere nice and secure and torturing you. And then healing you up over and over. Those people may not fully grasp what that would mean, or, well, maybe they do, but I think keeping you there forever would have been extraordinarily difficult and most Empaths would eventually balk at those kind of orders. Not necessarily the first time, but as it kept going they wouldn't keep doing it. I also think that approach would have been counterproductive ,so instead we went with my compromise position. So, as far as it goes, you're welcome.”
Torture isn't on the agenda. But a compromise position? Trying to ask but barely anything getting around the gag.
“Instead of that you are going to be sent on a journey. I've got to get back to work in about five hours so this is your sendoff. Your ship is going to leave at about seven or eight in the morning, but unfortunately you're not going to be in a cabin. You'll be going as freight. The crew knows about the situation, they'll be responsible for feeding and watering you, so feel free to make as much noise as you want. You're going to be kept in restraints, of course, but I'm sure you'll eventually be able to use that mouth of yours to make some friends.”
The little blossom of anger starting to bloom.
“I always knew you were dangerous, but I didn't fully comprehend how dangerous until the other day. You, alone, are bad enough, but what's truly dangerous about you is your pernicious influence. Those girls you've bamboozled make that abundantly clear.”
Starting to laugh, the sound muffled by the gag.
“The pretty one, Riley, she may serve a noble goddess, but after reading her file I think I can understand how you wormed you way into her good graces. You appealed to her vanity and need for validation. You probably made her think she was calling the shots while you led her around by the nose. Fortunately, the person she's seeing is a member of my House, and he happens to agree with my take on the situation. With you out of the picture, I think her path can be corrected without much effort. But then there's the other one, the Empath. You've really done a number on her. You've successfully warped her nurturing instinct, so much so that she attacked one of mine with a vicious spell in order to help you. We're also going to be keeping a close eye on her in order to make sure her abilities are used for good.”
Doing my absolute best to stay under control.
“As for the Thief, vermin like that is of questionable value. But she'll be fine, you don't need to worry about her. She's no threat. I'll leave her to her own devices, away from the other two. Permitting her to languish with that worthless lot at Ishtar is the best course, kept her safely occupied with those pursuits and Melder's devil weed.”
Furious, white hot anger nearly consuming everything. If we'd been standing face to face he'd had been killed halfway through his arrogant spiel.
“As for your destination, somewhere very far away. To the eastern continent, and then, who knows, maybe past the Capitol, but certainly to points unknown. If you find your way back here - it'll certainly take awhile, I promise you - we'll just do this all over again. You're not invisible anymore, so no more escaping justice by hiding in the shadows. Stay away and live your life. And, more importantly, let us live ours. Away from you. I think everyone will be better off.”
The latch on the shipping crate closing and his footsteps walking away. Transcending from my furious anger to arrive at a deadly calm.
Live and let live. Is that where you think we're at right now? Maybe a couple days ago. Had wanted to hold off escaping until the middle of the night but now there's a very important errand that needs to be ran. Checking the time, about half past midnight. Breakout is scheduled at one.
Spending the rest of the time completing the Runic Shield drawing on the roof of my mouth, mentally preparing myself for the escape and doing whatever stretching allowed by my restraints. Ideally find my gear nearby. Doubtful.
Two minutes until the tick. Carve. The gloves on my hands falling to pieces. Reshaping the manacles my wrists as well as the attached chains and the manacles on my ankles. The metal becoming a more putty-like substance. Sliding out and the manacles hitting the floor with a loud, metallic and not very putty-like sound. Holding my breath. Nothing. Very carefully touching the hood to open it up. Getting it off. Some dim light coming from above through air holes in the box. Another very careful touch to the gag and spitting it out. Reaching to the sides and above me and feeling around. My fingers scraping against the bars. A cage inside a wooden crate. The tick hitting, putting me back to full.
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Moving too slow, need to hurry it up. Activating the shield drawn on the roof of my mouth. Reshaping the cage itself and moving the bars out of the way. Could repurpose this metal into – no, not enough time – using my fingers to slice through the ceiling of the crate. Just enough to make a hole big enough to look through. Catching the piece of wood and peeking my head out.
A high ceiling, and a bunch of other crates. This isn't Stormhawk. Let's see, that row of windows up there, it looks like a warehouse, and it looks like my crate is just one of many to be loaded up. Moving the bars of the cage further and then widening the hole. Standing up and making sure not to touch anything with my hands.
No guards, not here anyway, but there's light coming from that direction. The exit is probably over there, and over here-
A shadow appearing by the light. Crouching down and holding my breath. A figure walking into view and stopping. Tall and wearing armor. Looking around for a moment before continuing in the direction he'd been walking.
There's one of the guards, and the exit is probably that way. Maybe there's a way to get the warehouse doors open and go a different way, but maybe doing that's a two person job. It'd probably make a lot of noise. That's the backup plan, then, but for right now its time for some reconnaissance. Inhale, exhale. Keep heart beat steady. No sudden movements but move with purpose. Be unobtrusive, unremarkable, invisible.
Hopping on top of the crate and reaching out a hand to steady myself. Slicing right through and into the crate it rested on. Shit. Bracing my elbow to gain some purchase and standing back up. Moving quietly and hopping down to the floor - not too loudly - my bare feet barely making any noise. Gliding near the light while staying to the side and stepping on something sharp, a rock, and almost blowing my cover. Silently cursing. Putting my ear near the corridor and hearing voices coming from the right. This is a bad idea, there's too much light. Slowly creeping in that direction.
“-so Lane obviously believes it, but it's too nuts.” says a voice.
“Lane's smart,” says another, “but he's got that thing talking in his ear. I take everything he says with a grain of salt.”
“Yeah, that girl actually being Macarthy doesn't pass the smell test,” says a third.
“I don't believe it. According to Nico she's a cock crazy slut.”
“He's got a knack for finding 'em. Would have loved to have taken a crack at this one, too. There's still time, maybe we should.”
“All tied up like that? Too expensive. If we're going to end up paying for it a hooker's better. Cheaper. More fun.”
“Says you.” A pause. “Okay, fine, how about we tell her we'll let her go. Freedom in exchange for some action. Give her a last hurrah and then back she goes, ridden hard and put away wet. Bon voyage.”
“Too risky. Lane said not to underestimate her for a reason. I don't believe that Macarthy crap, but I saw her fight against Nico the other day. He spent thousands getting ready and she still won. I figure the Director's finally bringing the hammer down and that's why they're sending her away.”
“Then why the story?”
“She probably is Macarthy's sister and they don't want anyone feeling sorry for her. It's a shitty deal that she's getting kicked out because of her psycho brother, but it's not all that surprising.”
“But if she is the sister, why not just say that? Instead Lane's – fuck, I see what you're saying about taking what he says with a grain of salt – what do you think he's really trying to do?”
“I dunno, but he's got to be putting that idea in people's heads for a reason.” Another pause. “All I know is a couple cycles from now people will still be arguing about whether she was, or she wasn't, but by that point she'll be long gone and no one will even think to shed a tear about the fact that they sent her packing. Because, you know, Macarthy.” A pause. “Boo!”
The three of them starting to laugh, joined by two others who hadn't spoken.
“Ante up,” says the first, “and pass that bottle.”
Too many in that direction. Three caught by surprise may have been doable, but not five. Or potentially more. Turning around and creeping in the other direction and booted footsteps approaching from that way. Trying to duck back into hiding but the figure turning the corner. Riley's boyfriend, Everton. Prybar in hand.
No immediate shout for help. The two of us staring at each other. He's got much better gear than when we first met, and he's undoubtedly in better shape, but he is still making that same expression. Closing his mouth and beckoning me over.
“I can only give you about a ten minute head start,” he says. “You can get out if you head back that way.”
“Thank you.”
What a relief. Evie would've been so angry with me.
Down the corridor and outside. The cobblestones rough and uneven on my feet, and the smell of the surf tickling my nose. Very near the docks. Getting my bearings and heading in the direction of the Rat Cellar while doing my best to stay out of sight, moving from shadow to shadow. Only a few blocks away and finding my target. Similar height and build.
“This is a robbery. Give me your cloak.” Looking down. Sandals. “And your shoes.”
The group of hookers starting to laugh uproariously. The familiar sweet smell a cloud in the area.
“I'm not fucking around.”
Broadsiding her with the shield, the flash of sound and light knocking her off her feet and causing the screams from her scattering friends to fill the street. A guy, probably her pimp, swaggering over over, knife in hand.
“Give me your knife.” Swatting the girl on the ground again with the shield. “And, you, hurry up.”
The girl removing her cloak and running off. Not giving up her sandals. The guy backing off. Not giving me his knife. Not going to be chasing them like this. Oh well. Getting to the Rat Cellar at half past one. Banging open the door.
“One of you in here knows. Who took the contract?”
“Ms. Macarthy, you are banned-” the bartender starting to say.
“Aw, give Mac a break.” The scar faced man yelling out and gesturing at me. “Mac, c'mon over here, take a seat.”
Everyone's drunken eyes on me. Laughter and joking. About half the people inside members of the Pact, including the scar faced man, beard and giant.
“Hey, sweetie, give Mac that seat, you can sit right here.” The working girl moving to his lap with a giggle. “Mac, good to see you, and it looks like we owe you a welcome to our little club. I'm glad you decided to stay like this – you're so much nicer to look at – but what's going on, why are you looking so down? Hey! Get this young lady something to drink.” Waving his hand and giving me an obnoxious wink.
“What happened to your shoes, Mac? What are you even wearing?” Beard leaning over and putting his hand on my bare foot. Ankle. Leg. Getting very reckless with some drink in him. “You a Druid, or something, now? You should be able to wear shoes, I'd think.”
“Druids can wear shoes,” says the working girl sitting on beard's other side. The second of three working girls sitting at the table. “Shoes are fine, but nothing with metal. Where do you know this girl from?” Clear annoyance that beard had momentarily forgotten about her.
Hitting my hand against the table several times to try and get their attention. Scar breaking off his canoodling with the girl on his lap, beard getting himself back upright and giant, probably the most sober of the three, giving me his attention.
“Who took the contract? Give me the name of the ship or the name of the captain.”
“Mac, what are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about the contract on me. If you can't tell me, if you don't know, if you can't at least help me narrow it down, I'm going to go out right now and burn every ship in the harbor, just to make a point. Now who fucking knows?”
Back on my feet while delivering the ultimatum, knocking my knuckles on the table. My insistence causing some sobriety to seep in and the three of them starting to understand the seriousness of the situation. But no answer provided.
“Matches.”
After a moment beard reaching into a pocket and pulling out a box. Half full.
“When they want to know why it happened tell 'em it was Lane and Stormhawk playing with fire. Tell 'em this is what they get.”