Witness a Victorian Surgery Demonstration at the Old Operating Theatre – MED Festival London [https://medlondon.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/HiddenLondon_SurgicalTheater_lower.jpg]

----------------------------------------

Syra woke to her feet dragging across a dark stone floor and rough hands clenching both arms. She flinched at the screeching of a rusty lock and was hauled into a long, narrow room.

“Where…where am I?” Her throat stung and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

“Home.” The man drug her farther into the room as her eyes adjusted to the dim.

Wall to wall, cages towered three-high, all meticulously fashioned from stone and iron. Each inhabitant was pale and crumpled on the floor, eyes ringed and shivering. No cloth was given for cold nor dishes for food. The reek of puss and piss burned the air and seeped from every crevice.

The man tossed Syra into a bottom kennel where light from the street window mocked her from above.

"Get some rest while you can," he grumbled as he left with a cold slam.

The lock clinked and Syra shoved her hands through the bars towards the window. Her hands glowed, but so did her new collar. Searing pain bit into her neck and she heard the sizzling of flesh accompanied by her scream.

“Doesn't work,” came a tiny voice from beside her—a child's voice.

She couldn't see her neighbor, but she heard their rasped breathing.

“There's has to be a way.”

“No way. Already tried. Only pain comes.”

“Shh!” A shadow from the cage over hissed from its corner, “No sound. No talking. They take loudest.”

“Who's they?”

The shadow did not answer.

“The shiny people,” her neighbor whispered, “they always take the loudest—the strongest. Then they come back like us. They don't talk anymore. Are afraid to.”

Cold gripped Syra's gut and she gripped the bars, shoving her face against the cold metal for a glimpse of the tiny voice, “What's your name?”

“Shh!” the shadow hissed again.

“What's your name?” she repeated softer.

But there was just silence, and Syra questioned if the child was asleep or just ignoring her.

“Twelve,” it said finally.

“Twelve? That's your name?”

“Shh! No speak. Will come.” The shadow wriggled then turn its back to them. Hanging from its cage door was a sign with a scribble barely legible in the moonlight.

“Ten?”

“Eleven used to live where you are," said Twelve, "but I don't see him anymore.”

Syra's jaw clenched.

Don't see him anymore? Maybe that means he left—that he escaped.

But she knew better. In a place like this, an empty cage meant there was no body left to fill it. Not a live one, anyway.

“I used to have another name,” Twelve hushed, “before I came here. A special name. But I can't say it anymore.”

“Oh, really? And what is that special name?” She could hear the word hover on Twelve's lips.

“Wi...Willow.”

“Willow, huh? That's a pretty name.”

"Yeah...I liked it. A lot. Because...because they said I was special, so they gave me a special name. Because I made the trees grow, and that made them happy.”

Made the trees grow?

“Willow, can I see your arm a moment?" Syra asked, "Just stick it out between the bars.”

Syra smushed her cheek into the bars as a small, frail arm poked out beside her. Pale scars speckled Willow's skin and a round, red wound still glistened at the elbow. But it didn't just glisten with scabbing skin. It shimmered.

She's a Lightblood.

Syra looked from cage to cage at the shadows that stuck their small faces against the bars, clinging to the words of the one who dared to speak. All along their arms, scars freckled each one of them.

They're all Lightbloods.

"He can make all kinds of potions from the mana sucked out of 'em. Strength, rejuvenation, even invincibility given the right...donor."

So, this is what he meant.

Heat left her skin as her stomach fell.

“This is wrong. This is disgusting. This is—”

“This is your lucky day!” A husky voice reverberated off the stone walls as a tall man in long robes threw open the door and entered into the kennel.

The shadows darted back to their corners and he took his time to pass each cage with slow, deliberate steps, the clinking of iron shackles making them jump with each step.

“It seems Morin has taken quite a liking to you.” He stopped in front of Syra's cage and squatted.

“The feeling isn't mutual.”

Her indignance made him smile.

“It never is. But, as it turns out, that's how he likes it. Means you're feisty, and ripe for picking.”

“Ripe for pick—? Suck a toad, you sick fu—!” Syra spat and slammed a fist against the bars.

“Uh-uh, language missy. There are children present.” His smile only grew with her snarling.

Just this once, she thought, just this once she would enjoy the taste of his throat between her teeth.

“Now, I know you just got here and all, but your presence has been requested in the main hall. So, out you come, nice an' easy.” He took the keys from his waist and opened the cage door.

Nice an' easy, my ass.

The moment her head cleared the cage, it was up under his chin. Her foot found his groin and her knee met his nose as he doubled over. She didn't wait to hear the stream of insults and sped off down the hallway.

Great, now where?

She skirted around a corner to another hall but caught the attention of two guards.

Nope.

She pivoted back down the first hallway and was followed by heavy bootsteps and yelling.

Room, room, dead end, room.

Where are the damned stairs in this place?

She turned a corner. There it was. Light. Light from a door window at the end of a hallway.

Yes, finally.

“I don't think so.” A robed man with too many pendants and not enough shampoo stepped out from an adjoining hallway. His narrow spectacles framed a face that looked like a thumb.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

His two guards rushed at Syra holding staffs, but she slid under their legs. She scurried to her feet, but a sharp jolt of hot pain made her back seize and her legs buckle. Sparks glimmered from the guard's morakii-tipped staff as she fell.

“Cuff her.” The man's necklaces jingled as he turned back down the hall and the guards shackled her hands behind her back. Among them, a a bronze ring caught her eye.

"That coin," she squeaked out, "you...you're with them, too? The Black Thorn?"

"Goodness, no. I'm merely a supplier for some of their more...discretionary members." Morin paused to turn a sharp eye down at her, "You might even get to meet one of them, should they like you well enough."

"You're disgusting," she spat. "You're no alchemist. You're nothing but a third leg that should be shed.”

But Morin only laughed, “You think you're the first to tell me that? A fang cares not for the leg that can be severed.”

He turned his gaze to his guards, “Sedate her.”

As he left, one guard dug a wad of cloth from his pocket.

No! Not that shit again.

She squirmed to get just one foot underneath herself, but the other guard pinned her legs down under his weight.

"Hush now." The guard unravelled the long cloth and tied it taught around her head, tugging the cloth just under her nose.

Damn it.

The oil might have been diluted, but it still made her head spin and her vision fuzzy. Soon, all strength left her limbs and she was left to watch them haul her through heavy doors that read, "Theater".

***

Strong lighting made Syra squint as they led her into an open room where eager faces watched from their seats.

“I was going to have you join me for tea as a friendly welcome,” said Morin when they reached the center of the room, “but it seems you don't appreciate hospitality.”

He faced the guards and nodded to the metal chair beside them, “The chair, please.”

Syra whined and wobbled as they drug her towards the chair. But each squirm earned her a jab with the shockstick and she eventually collapsed into it.

“As you can see,” Morin addressed his audience as restraints were latched about her, “this one is much older than usual, but I can assure you, I've been told she's quite gifted. To demonstrate...”

Morin crossed the pit to choose a small, clean blade from a rack. He grabbed Syra's hand but she tugged it loose.

Morin glared, latching his fingers tighter around her wrist, "Hold still. This will sting a little." With that, he drew the swift blade across her palm. She yipped and blood pooled from the cut.

“Glass,” Morin commanded, holding out a hand for his assistant.

Even against the pain in her hand, Syra's eyes went wide.

Piper?

The young lad handed Morin the small glass jar, but kept his dead eyes on Syra even as he returned to his place by the supply rack. It was then, with his neck exposed, that she noticed the tiny black tick mark inscribed at his collar bone: 11.

“Normally,” Morin continued as he milked the trickle of blood into the jar, “we prefer to use the blood of the young as it has a faster conversion rate. Young begets young, as we say." Parchment,” he demanded and Piper fetched him a narrow strip of paper.

“But, we have recently found that, with a high enough affinity, age loses its effect. Let's see what this young lady has to offer.”

He dipped the parchment into the jar and blood stained it red. He held it in the air, and there it shimmered for all to see.

“Well, she's a Lightblood, that's for certain. But what else?”

They waited as the liquid crawled up and saturated the strip. Then it sparked, making Morin jump. Purple light shimmered from the paper and Morin nodded, “She hails from the north, near the amec vein. Not surprising.”

The light faded and the paper's color changed.

“Here we go! This is what we need to know.”

Yellow, orange, green, then a teal blue. They watched on, mesmerized. Each new color making their grins grow wider. By the time the paper turned indigo Morin was nearly jumping out of his britches. But it was not his excitement that actually made him jump, but the gold sparks that leapt from the paper and ignited it in his hand.

“Oh, watch out!” He dropped the paper and stamped it out with his boot.

The theater fell silent and Morin just stared at Syra who had not dropped her glare once, “Gifted, indeed.”

He spun to face his audience, “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe what we've just seen is the indication of such high affinity. An affinity of...I dare say, ninety-percent?”

Heads bobbled with applause and Morin lifted the jar in the air, “Ninety-percent pure! How about that?”

Cheers went up and he motioned for quiet. “With that, I thank you for attention. Please place any orders with my assistant, Dasko, in the back there. Thank you.”

“Orders?” Syra hissed up at him when he passed by the chair.

“Of course. Why do you think I keep so many of you Lightbloods around? You're a rare commodity. And you are going to be quite the valuable resource.”

“Let's get her hooked up,” he said to his guards, “can't keep the patrons waiting.”

***

“Told you. They take the loudest.” Ten stared at her from the pool of moonlight in her cage. Her voice was flat, but Syra thought she could see sympathy behind her dull eyes.

Syra wanted to laugh, but her mouth was dry, her muscles heavy, and any movement made her head swim. She lay in ball in her cage, legs tucked up under her gown and a swollen cheek to the stone floor, staring absently at the bandages around her elbow.

“Can't have you losing anymore. It's worth money, now,” they said after they unplugged her and pulled her off the inversion table.

Her stomach turned and she pushed the images away, hugging her knees. She just wanted to sleep. To curl up and become a rock at the bottom of a deep river.

But I can't sleep. I can't stay. I have to find a way out. The others are probably looking for me. Aidan’s probably—

She caught herself mid-sob and swallowed hard.

Aidan’s probably…

She bit down on her cheek to keep the cries and the tears inside.

I’m sorry…

“It only hurts the first few times.” Willow’s voice pulled her back into the room. “You learn to not feel it after a while.”

“How many?” Syra's voice was hoarse and her tongue stuck in her throat.

Willow hesitated, as if counting, “All of us. And more before that.”

Silent tears dripped onto the stone by Syra’s face, “All of them?”

From the floor she could see tiny figures huddled in the cages on the far wall. All pale with dead faces. All bruises and bandages. All in scraps of fabric made into tiny gowns. All of them.

“Shh! They come.” Ten hissed and crawled back into her corner.

The door creaked open this time. But instead of a loud, blundering man, a soft pat-pat entered the room.

“Syra?” A familiar voice called through the darkness.

“Piper?”

Footsteps neared her cage and she heard the faint jingling of keys.

“We have to be quick, and quiet. I drugged the guards, but they won't be out for long.” He opened the door, “Come, this way.”

He held out a hand but she hesitated, eyes glaring up at him.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t want to…but it was the only way to get you here. I thought…” he paused to choose his words carefully, “I thought, if you helped me, then maybe you could help all of them, too.” He motioned to the cages.

“Help you how?”

“To take out Morin.” His face darkened, making him look much older. “None of us are strong enough. But you’re older, stronger. I watched you today—you must have had some training to pull off those stunts. So, will you? Will you help us?”

"Be careful who you help," Aidan’s voice whispered in her head.

Too late, now.

She gave a curt nod and he draped an arm over her shoulder, helping her to wobble out. She managed to keep her feet under her, but she stopped before they left the room.

“What about them?" She turned to the room of small sunken faces pressed against iron bars.

“We’ll have to worry about them later. The guard’s will be waking up soon. There’s no other choice, you have to go now.”

Her feet itched to run. To flee this pit and pass it off as a bad dream. But their faces stared on in silence. Willow’s face. With her mass of red ringlets and big eyes that, somehow, kept their sparkle.

Syra snatched the keys from Piper and hobbled to the first cage, “There’s always a choice.”

***

“This way,” whispered Piper.

Hall after hall, they crept, with Piper leading the way and the soft padding of small feet following close behind. At each turn they passed sleeping guards with darts poking from their necks.

“Where'd you learn that?” Syra asked as they turned a corner.

“I've learned a lot from Morin over the years, and not just how to play dumb.”

The sound of movement made Piper freeze, halting them.

“What the hell is this?”

Syra peered around the corner to see two guards pulling the barbs from their necks.

“That little bastard shot us. Oo-hoo, Morin’s not going to like this.”

“We’ll have to find another way around,” Piper whispered, backing away. “We can’t—”

“Hey! Piper, is that you, you little shit?”

Heavy footsteps sent the children running down the hall.

“Run.” Piper grabbed Syra’s hand and pulled, but she hesitated. “Run,” he repeated.

But she was frozen. Her eyes locked on the school of tiny bodies scurrying away in pure terror.

No.

“No. I can’t.”

Piper loosed his hand as the footsteps grew louder, but Syra’s face hardened and a spark flared in her eyes, “I won’t.”

She stepped away from Piper as two guards rounded the corner with their long, menacing shocksticks. They grinned as she squared off with them, gripping their sticks with sure hands. Syra steadied her breaths, pushing away the lightheadedness, and stared them down.

“Well, if that’s how you want it, missy.”

They charged forward, and she charged her hands.

In one quick blow—and to the guard’s complete surprise—a golden barrier knocked both back on their asses, issuing an excited yip from Ten. But the guards were quick to rise, and Syra swayed on her feet.

“All out of juice, I see.” One guard said, a trickle of red leaving his mouth. “That’s too bad.” They lunged again, this time with staffs ready.

Syra threw up another barrier and light sparked and fizzled as the morakii ground against the plasma shield. Her legs shook and Piper saw the barrier flicker.

The warmth of his hands on her arms made Syra jump, but he smiled up at her and she felt strength return in a wave of heat.

“Come on!” Piper called down the hallway. “Don’t just stand there, help her!”

It was like tiny little suns smiling down her all at once as they channeled their mana—what little they had left—into her body. The barrier widened and thickened until the morakii’s glow were mere tealights against a sunny day. Syra’s body tingled, like it did at the mana pool, but this time her chest burned. Hot and strong, and seriously pissed off.

“This ends, now.” Syra lunged forward, throwing her arm out and sending the barrier careening into them, smashing them into the far wall. The children cheered, but Syra’s gaze was locked onto the men who insisted on standing back up.

“Watch them,” she commanded Piper and marched forward.

They came with their sticks again. The first, aimed for her stomach, she caught. The shock made her muscles seize, but she held fast. She let the energy build. First in her hand, then her stomach and chest, and then she drew it down her arm into her free hand which she jabbed into the guard’s neck.

His body tensed and she felt his muscles twitch as his eyes rolled back. She let his body fall, but kept his stick. She didn’t wait for the second guard to gather himself. The stick went up then arched down with a loud thwack as it brought the guard down with it.

He was still conscious, but groaned loudly. Too loudly. She flipped him over with her small, bare foot, and sunk the stone-end of the staff into his gut, sending him into spasms until he lost that consciousness.

“Now which way?” She looked to Piper, who still watched wide-eyed.

“T-this way,” he pointed down the hall to the right where the alley door beaconed.

“No,” Syra stopped him short, “which way to Morin’s room?”­­