Tyrial’s consciousness returned to him grudgingly, and in stages. His first conscious thoughts were sluggish and difficult to discern from subconscious hallucinations. His first solid perception of reality was the intense throbbing ache he felt throughout his body. While he perceived the pain, he also felt disconnected from it.
His first attempts to make his body respond to his will resulted in absolutely no response whatsoever. He began to fear that the Conclave had used some kind of paralyzing agent on him. If they had no intention of letting him live after this, they might have thought to prevent his escape by the simple expedient of permanently paralyzing him.
Those thoughts sent panic surging through his mind. He had never really given much thought as to what methods the Conclave could use to guarantee his permanent incarceration. As his pulse quickened and adrenaline began to burn through his veins, he finally managed to get his body to respond. Clenching his fist, he concentrated on slowing his breathing and calming his nerves.
He was not paralyzed, he was just dealing with the temporary paralysis from short term Cryosleep. As he got his nerves back under control, he slowly opened his eyes. What he saw brought his pulse pounding back.
A tall, extremely well-muscled shirtless man stood in front of him. The man had a maniacally wide, distinctly unfriendly smile on his face. As feeling returned to Tyrial’s body fully, he realized he was restrained against some device that was holding him in an upright position.
Seeing that Tyrial’s eyes were open, the tall man spoke, “Vell, I see zat you are awake.” The man stepped up to Tyrial and with a casual backhand caused stars to explode in Tyrial’s eyes. As hard as the hit was, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as Tyrial thought it should have.
“Ji’bat,” the man said and spat on the floor. “Fools filled you with drrrugs. Useless.” The man spat on the floor again, then looking at Tyrial, he said, “No problem, Victor is patient. You vill go rot in cell for now. Ve have fun later, yes?”
The question was obviously rhetorical, as the man who called himself Victor turned and walked over to a panel. As Tyrial’s vision began to finally clear, he took stock of his surroundings. What he saw was not encouraging. The room was not well lit, but Tyrial could still see more of it than he wanted to.
The room itself was fairly large, perhaps three to four meters square. Tyrial seemed to be chained to a wall behind him. His arms were above his head with just barely enough slack for his feet to reach the floor. He realized he was only wearing a tattered pair of shorts on his lower half. His torso and feet were bare.
In the far right corner of the room from where he stood was a gurney. It looked well used, covered in spots and stains that Tyrial assumed were likely blood. Next to the gurney stood several trays on wheels, on which sat a wide assortment of instruments. Tyrial decided not to guess at their uses for now, he was desperately hoping he could escape before he had to find out the hard way.
The wall across from him was covered with another wide assortment of devices, these mostly seemed to be far less subtle and precise than the items on the trays. The relative darkness of the room gave Tyrial an excuse to pretend that the floor was decorated with some garish assortment of paints instead of the random assortment of viscera it most likely was.
As Tyrail glanced at the door in the far left corner of the room, it opened revealing too slovenly dressed guards. “Take him to ze cells,” Victor said shortly. Without waiting for explanations, the two guards strode over to Tyrial. One of the guards stepped up to Tyrail and casually punched him in the gut. As Tyrial was gasping, trying to regain his breath, the guard reached up and unlatched something above his head.
Whatever had been holding Tyrial upright disappeared and Tyrial fell to the floor heavily. He saw that his hands were bound together with two shackles and a short length of chain. Before he had the chance to even consider getting back to his feet, the same guard that had sucker-punched him grabbed the chain between his hands and began walking to the door.
Given that Tyrial had been on his knees at the time, this resulted in him being bodily dragged across the ground. He tried to get his feet under him as they moved but the second guard swept his feet out from under him just as he was about to stumble to his feet. Falling heavily on his back, the first guard barely slowed his pace as he continued to drag Tyrial out the door.
Tyrial realized they had no intention of letting him walk, so instead of trying to regain his feet, he just did his best not to let any one part of his body drag on the floor for too long. Glancing around discreetly as he was dragged, he tried to get an idea of what sort of facility he was in.
The floors and walls appeared to be made from some type of stone-based composite material. The ceiling was covered in rusting metal grates with occasional sections missing. Above the grates was a maze of conduits and cables. The stone composite reinforced the assumption that he was on a planet now, not a ship or a space station. Perhaps Smith had been truthful in his mutterings just before Tyrial had lost consciousness.
They moved from hallway to hallway, stepping through ancient looking blast doors. Tyrial couldn’t tell how much Ragnacite the facility had, given the collar around his neck, but he was sure there had to be some. He found it very unlikely the Conclave would be stupid enough to hold Mages in a facility without it.
Finally, they reached a large open area with several cells lining one wall. The bars that formed the cells looked badly corroded. Tyrial counted six cells lining the wall, each cell had a one-meter gap between one cell and the next, but the view was otherwise unimpeded between each. Apparently, the Conclave wanted him to know what was happening to the other prisoners.
As they dragged Tyrial to one of the unoccupied cells, Tyrial noticed that only one of the other five cells was currently occupied. Tyrial couldn't tell at first what species the form was, then he realized with sudden revulsion that the form was human, minus two legs and an arm.
The guard not currently dragging Tyrial like an unappreciated rag doll opened the gate to the cell. The other guard bodily hurled Tyrial through the door with what Tyrial assumed was all the strength he could muster. Tyrial nearly flew across the short distance from the doorway of the cell to its far side where he forcefully impacted the smooth wall there.
Tyrial slumped to the floor, groaning quietly. Despite his slight physical detachment, the pain of the impact was acute. The guard that had thrown him through the cell's door slammed it shut behind him.
Tyrial rolled gently to his side, then his back. He didn’t dare try to sit up yet, his ribs ached fiercely and his shoulder screamed at him. His entire body ached, but those two things cried out distinctly at the moment. Looking up from where he huddled on the floor, he saw the two guards move over to the cell next to his.
Opening the door, one of the guards stepped in and grabbed the inert form by its one remaining arm. Dragging the human lump out of the cell and towards the room’s door, the guard said, “Come on ya scrap, Victa wants anotha plaything.”
The form groaned loudly as it was dragged. Just before they dragged it through the room's door, the form croaked out in a male voice “Nooo….” A second later, the door slammed shut and Tyrial was left alone with only his morbid thoughts for company.
Tyrial did his best to calm his breathing. His stomach growled at him that he hadn’t had any food in quite a while. That would be a problem soon, if he couldn’t keep his energy reserves up he would have a difficult time escaping. He smiled slightly to himself, even when all seemed hopeless he still managed to operate under the assumption that he could escape.
He knew that was mostly due to a certain Zertha who would be very upset with him if he died. He truly didn’t want to disappoint Rella, not after all they had been through.
Now that he had his breathing under control, he spent some time examining the collar around his neck again. He reaffirmed what he had sensed before when he had examined it. Two small indentations on either side, about one centimeter long and less than a millimeter wide. He would need something close to a knife's blade to pry on it. If these were like previous ones he had dealt with, he should be able to use those points to pry off covers from the collar.
From there, it was a relatively simple matter of disabling the collars electronics on one side. That would disable the shock ability and its tracking abilities. And then disable the locking mechanism on the other, which would then allow him to finally be rid of the cursed Ragnacite pressed firmly against the skin of his neck.
He knew it was only a figment of his imagination, but he believed he could feel a distinct itching rash wherever the blue crystal touched him. Shaking his head, he decided to spend some time examining the cell he was in.
While there appeared to be plenty of dirt and viscera on the floor, Tyrial wasn’t able to find anything he could improvise as a tool. Not even a stray bone or shard of metal. Nothing.
Sighing, he sat back at the rear of the cell and thought. A noise caught his attention as he sat quietly, straining his ears he tried to discern what it was. Once he realized its origin, however, he wished he couldn’t hear it. The very faint sound of someone screaming was echoing down the hallways and through the closed doors to his dingy cell.
Gritting his teeth, he hunkered down and tried his best to cultivate both patience and miracles. He was failing at both.
Perhaps two or three hours later, the door to the room banged open. One lone guard, not one of the two from before, casually sauntered in carrying a bowl in one hand. Without even looking in Tyrial’s direction the man practically tossed the bowl through a small opening at the bottom of Tyrial’s cell door into his cell. The contents sloshed over the edge and covered a good portion of the floor.
The guard didn’t wait to see what Tyrial would do, he simply turned and walked back out of the room. Cautiously, Tyrial crept over to where the bowl sat. The contents, what little was left, appeared to be some type of thin gruel. Dipping a finger in, Tyrial tasted it hesitantly. It was disgusting, but it might be edible.
Tyrial didn’t think he had much choice. If there were any calories to be had from the stuff, he would need them. If it was poison, well, without any calories he was doomed anyway. Hoping for the best, he picked up the bowl and downed its contents, doing his best not to taste it. Nearly gagging, he swallowed the awful stuff. He may have eaten worse at some point in his life, but if he had, he couldn’t remember it.
Staring at the now empty bowl, he gritted his teeth and wiped up whatever residue he could find, and swallowed that as well. He considered doing the same to the contents now decorating his cell floor but decided against it. Not that he was too squeamish to do what needed doing, but getting sick in here would be a death sentence. Not that he didn’t already have one of those, but at least with his relative health, he stood some chance of escape.
He studied the bowl itself for a moment, wondering if it could be useful for anything. It seemed to be some kind of flimsy plastic composite, most likely meant to be disposable. Sighing, he tossed it aside.
He was only sitting for a few minutes after having finished his less than appetizing meal before the door to the room once again banged open. This time the same two guards from before strode through, the prisoner they had left with conspicuously absent.
One guard walked up to Tyrial’s cell and opened the door, a plasma pistol in one hand. The second guard walked in and without so much as a ‘Hi’, reached forward and grabbed the short chain still connecting Tyrial’s hands. Tyrial knew the drill this time and didn’t even try to get to his feet. The guard dragged him from the cell and towards the door to the room.
The second guard, perhaps disappointed that he didn’t get the chance to trip him, decided to give Tyrial a few good kicks in the rib on their way. After the third kick, the guard carrying Tyrial said in an annoyed voice, “Stop er, es ard nuff ta carry.”
The second guard grunted and kicked Tyrial once more anyway. Tyrial did his best not to take any direct kicks to his vital areas, but there wasn’t much he could do being dragged down the hallway. His ribs were more than a little sore by the time they reached the room Tyrial had initially woken up in.
The first guard that had been dragging Tyrail threw him up against the back wall of the torture chamber and clipped his chain into a hook that held him upright. “Av fun,” the guard said with a crooked grin as he turned and left.
Tyrial did his best to slow his breathing back to normal as he hung from his wrists against the wall. Patience, he told himself, he needed to endure and be patient.
The door opened shortly after the guards had left and Victor stepped in. He was wearing what looked like a crude leather apron and long-armed leather gloves on each hand. His apron was already adorned with a dark sticky liquid. Tyrial gritted his teeth again, he could tell this wasn’t going to be a lot of fun.
“Velcome back, comrade,” Victor said with enthusiasm. “Relax,” he continued, “no questions this time. Just screams.” His smile widened and he picked up a pointed awl.
Walking slowly up to Tyrial, Victor said, “I find sudden pain to be not so effective as anticipation.” He brought the awl slowly up to Tyrial’s right arm. “Knowledge of inevitable pain,” he said as he slowly applied more and more pressure to the awl, “makes agony that much sweeter.”
Tyrial stared the man directly in the eyes and gritted his teeth as he felt the sharpened awl slowly sink into his arm. He refused to give this raving psychopath the satisfaction.
Once the awl was fully embedded, Victor released it, leaving it sticking out of Tyrial’s arm. “Nothing?” Victor said. “No matter, plenty of tools.”
Tyrial did his best not to remember anything about the hour or more that followed. He knew he did his best to disappoint the man on the screaming, he also knew he failed.
As the two guards from before dragged him back towards his cell, Tyrial reflected bitterly that he felt lucky the man hadn’t done anything to cause permanent damage… Yet. If that prisoner from before was any indication, however, Victor was not against removing a few limbs to loosen tongues.
Tyrail began to feel a distinct sense of desperation about escaping this facility. He knew that if he didn’t manage to escape soon, he might not have the strength or the physical capacity to do so. As it was, he was already covered with welts, cuts, and small puncture wounds. Any one of which could get infected in this forsaken place.
Once back in his cell, he spent several hours bending his mind to the task of inventing methods to escape. All of his plans were so tenuous that he knew he would need backup after backup. Tyrial refused to let the near impossibility of the task deter him. The Conclave were kind enough to put him on a planet, likely an inhabited one from what little evidence he’d seen. He was not going to waste the opportunity.
From packages and materials he had glimpsed from his trips to and from Victor’s little room of horrors, Tyrial was fairly certain they were on a terraformed planet. One with at least a single active community, likely more. Most importantly of all, the planet was very likely to have a spaceport. He was also fairly sure from the construction of the walls and rooms that they were underground, perhaps quite a distance.
More than once, as Tyrial sat in the relative dark of his cell, he thought about what he might do if the possibility of escape was ever well and truly denied to him. With the strength he now had, he thought he stood a relatively good chance of forcing his captors to kill him outright. Once he was missing a limb or two, however, any control he had over his own fate might be taken away completely.
Mulling over more morbid thoughts of how to end his own life, he was distinctly dismayed when he heard the door to the room bang open again. He was still bleeding from his previous session and it seemed they didn’t intend to give him a chance to catch his breath.
The two guards that strode in, however, were carrying another inert lump behind them. As the one lone lamp in the room flickered on automatically in response to their presence, Tyrial saw that the inert lump was a woman. Or at least that it wore a dress, what was left of one anyway.
One of the guards opened the door to the cell next to Tyrial and the second guard threw the woman into the cell. As Tyrial got a closer look at the woman, he revised his assessment. The woman looked more like a girl, and she was in bad shape. Of course, with the collar on her neck indicating she was a Mage, her age was really anyone's guess. Tyrial figured she was likely somewhere between fifteen and forty, a nice small range, for a Mage.
She had a bandage wrapped around her head and another loosely wrapped around her torso. She also appeared to be unconscious for the moment. Tyrial also saw signs of blood matted in her hair and more staining the front of her ripped dress.
The guard that had thrown her into the cell was still standing over her, staring down. He had a hungry look in his eyes, one Tyrial had seen all too often. The guard probably wouldn't outright rape her, at least not yet. If she was there to be reconditioned the Conclave would likely spare her that fate, if she was there to be tortured, well…
As the guard reached down towards the inert girl, Tyrial’s emotions once again betrayed him. In years past, he would have been surrounded by the Void and would not have let something like this affect him. He would have minded his own business and not considered the fate of this girl to be any of his concern.
Instead, anger flashed through him, and without thinking, he said, “What’s the matter ugly, the orphanage closed this time of night?”
The guard’s head snapped in Tyrial’s direction, an ugly look of rage on his face. “Whadya say scrap?!” he yelled.
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Stepping out of the girl’s cell he slammed the door shut with a thunderous bang. Because Tyrial was still looking in the girl’s direction, he saw her start violently at the noise and realized she wasn’t as unconscious as she seemed.
Stepping quickly over to Tyrial’s cell the guard fumbled with the keys at his waist, his hands practically trembling in rage. Tyrial braced himself, if he was extremely lucky, the guard would only beat him senseless.
As the guard finally got the door unlocked, Tyrial saw something shiny flash on the guard’s waist. He wasn’t sure what it was, but Tyrial decided if he was going to suffer for what he said, he might as well try to get something out of the deal.
The guard stormed into the cell and grabbed Tyrial’s chained arms roughly, yanking him upright so his face was nearly level with the brutish guard, he screamed, “What did ya say!!!?”
Tyrial’s mouth once again betrayed him, and rather than keep it shut, Tyrial wrinkled his nose and said, “Can’t remember now, the awful stench of your breath has driven it out of my mind.”
The guard, who apparently had a very thin skin about such things, threw Tyrial violently on the floor. Before Tyrial even fully landed, the guard reeled back one of his legs and kicked Tyrial hard enough to send him flying back towards the wall of his cell. Without so much as a pause, the guard strode forward to where Tyrial now lay and proceeded to kick him in the gut over and over again.
Tyrial was barely holding on to consciousness, but he hadn’t forgotten the point of this exercise. As the guard reeled back for another kick, Tyrial grabbed his leg and held on. He tried to make it look like he was just trying to stop the guard from kicking him. The guard quickly put down the foot of the leg Tyrial was holding on to so that he could raise the other booted foot and stomp Tyrial repeatedly in the head.
On the second stomp, Tyrial briefly lost consciousness and lost his grip on the guard. By about the fourth stomp he had completely lost track of his surroundings. He realized he had gone a little too far in provoking the man. Nothing he could do about it now, he realized as consciousness began to fade entirely.
From somewhere far away, he heard another male voice yelling, “Tet stop. If ya kill em Victa’ll kill you.”
Tyrial had a hard time telling for a while if he had just completely lost touch with his physical body or if the beating had actually stopped. When he finally opened his eyes again the two guards were gone. Groaning, he tried to sit up, his entire body screamed in pain. His left arm, which had taken the brunt of the initial kicks, didn’t seem to work properly anymore. He also found that he couldn’t fully open one of his eyes, it seemed to be swelling itself shut.
Deciding he should just lay there for now, he stopped trying to move himself. Instead, he brought his right hand up to his face and opened it. In his palm sat a steel shard, triangular with three dull edges. Smiling hurt, but he did it anyway. If he could just survive a little longer, if he could just get this damned collar off, he stood a chance of escaping. At the very least, he would die in battle, instead of at the hands of the sadistic Conclave.
As he looked at the small steel shard, he heard a small voice behind him say quietly, “Are… are you alright?”
Tyrial grunted, “No,” he replied truthfully, “but I’ll live. You?”
“Ya…” the girl said, then a few seconds later, she said, “Thanks.”
Tyrial sighed and said, “Just delayed the inevitable I’m afraid. Do you know what you’re here for?”
There was silence for a few seconds, then the girl said in a very quiet voice, “No…”
“Well,” tyrial said, testing his left arm again, “Maybe if you're lucky, they just want to brainwash you into one of their little puppets.” He found he could finally move the arm a little, it was stiff and didn’t move well, but it moved. That was definitely a good sign. Struggling slightly, he managed to get himself somewhat upright on one elbow. Leaning back against the wall for support he shimmied until he was sitting completely upright against it.
Tyrial heard a light sobbing come from the cell next to him, through those sobs, he heard the girl say, “Why… Why me. Why does this keep happening to me.”
Tyrial sighed again, if the girl had been in a Conclave facility like this before for reconditioning, maybe she wouldn’t get so lucky this time. The Conclave didn’t usually try twice. “You’ve been reconditioned before?” he asked.
The girl continued sobbing for a few more minutes before she seemed to finally get herself somewhat under control. “No,” she said simply.
So she hadn’t meant another visit to the Conclave then. Tyrail shrugged, he didn’t really have time to keep up a conversation with the recalcitrant girl. He had his own mission to concentrate on. Now that he finally had his breathing back under control and his hands were steady, he decided to see what he could do with his prize.
Bringing his good hand up to his collar he felt around on the right side. Finding the long thin notch, he tried to fit one of the edges of the piece of metal into the notch. After several minutes of failed attempts, he came to the conclusion that the edge wasn’t thin enough to fit.
Resigning himself to the effort, he began rubbing one corner of the metal triangle against his cell floor to sharpen it. The metal appeared to be some kind of hardened composite, perhaps even durasteel. The process was not going to be a quick one.
As he continued trying to sharpen the metal, the girl broke the short silence and spoke with a quiver in her voice, “What… what are they going to do to me?”
Tyrial sighed again, he seemed to be doing that a great deal lately. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said, his concentration mostly on the steel shard. “If you’ve never been through reconditioning, they'll probably start their first. That’s not really so bad, as long as you know how to tell them what they want to hear.”
The girl was silent again for a minute, then said quietly almost to herself, “Why me.”
Tyrial stopped for a second and looked over at the girl. She was huddled against the cell wall closest to Tyrial. He could barely make out her face in the dim light, she looked defeated. No, that wasn’t right. She looked dead, like the soul had already been sucked out from her.
“You’re a Mage,” Tyrial said gently. “Mage’s either work for the Conclave or are hunted by the Conclave.”
“It’s not fair,” the girl said.
Tyrial chuckled bitterly, then wished he hadn’t. His ribs felt cracked, he followed the chuckle with a slight groan. Taking a few shallow breaths he got the pain under control. He was going to ignore the girl's persistent mumbling, but then, what else did he have to do. Continuing his sharpening, he said, “No, it’s not. The Conclave’s tyranny is a long story girl, and not a happy one. Power tends to corrupt, and Mage’s have a great deal of power. In the early days when Mage’s were first discovered they were used as weapons. At one point during one of the hottest confrontations, an entire planet was destroyed.”
Tyrial turned slightly so he could see the girl better. Looking at her as he spoke, he thought she looked a little bit like Rella. She was short and slight, and with a few regular meals, she would definitely be pretty. Tyrial sighed inwardly, he could already feel his newly bleeding heart aching for her plight. He was certain this could only mean trouble for him.
“As you can imagine,” he continued, “the continued existence of the human race was soon in jeopardy. Each nation sought to use these new weapons of mass destruction to conquer the others. Just as we were all about to be swallowed by the Void, a bunch of diplomats got together and agreed that each nation had to hand over control of their Mage’s to a neutral third party. And so, the Conclave was born. Mage’s were forced to register with the Conclave or be hunted down. And of course, once registered the Conclave owned you.”
“At about the same time,” Tyrial said, “the discovery of Ragnacite was made. A material that could protect anyone or anything from a Mage’s power. And worst of all, or perhaps best depending on your point of view, it had the ability to completely arrest a Mage’s power entirely if they were brought into physical contact with it. Although I’m sure you know all about that,” he said, pointing with disgust to his own collar.
Grimly, Tyrial shook his head slowly. “On the surface,” he said, “it was a good idea. It stopped the never-ending wars anyway. Now, however, instead of killing each other, we all live under the iron thumb of a repressive regime. It might be preferable to the complete chaos we had before, but I think we can do better. I know we can.” Tyrial said the last sentence quietly, almost to himself.
He had to believe they could do better, otherwise, why was he fighting the Conclave? For revenge? No, that was pointless now. He still hated them, but revenge wasn’t enough anymore. Ever since Rella had entered his life, he found living only for his own self-indulgence to be shallow and unrewarding. Now, he strived for something more, something far greater than himself. He wanted to make the galaxy a better place, as cliche as that sounded. Realizing that was pretty much the gist of it, he almost chuckled to himself again. Apparently, it wasn’t all that long a story after all.
The girl had gone silent again while Tyrial had been thinking, so he concentrated on trying to sharpen his metal shard in silence. A few minutes later, the girl said, “Alyssia.”
Without pausing in his work, Tyrial mumbled, “Hmm?”
“My name,” Alyssia said, “it’s Alyssia.”
“Ah, Tyrial,” Tyrial replied shortly.
Another silence, then Alyssia asked hesitantly, “What are you doing?”
Pausing again in his work, Tyrial looked over at the girl for a moment. Every logical instinct told him to keep his head down, his mouth shut, and get the hell out of this place. Trusting anyone else was foolhardy. Looking into Alyssia’s eyes, he saw the deep sadness and depression from before. But also, he saw determination. Somehow, through whatever else she had endured, she still had the will to live. But most of all, Tyrial saw himself. Perhaps not the rage, but the pain certainly.
Shit, Tyrial sighed again. If he kept doing that, people were going to think there was something wrong with his lungs. “I’m getting us out of here,” he said shortly. He knew it would probably be the better part of several hours work to sharpen the metal sufficiently. By then, it was quite likely he would be up for another round of fun with Victor.
“You can do that?” Alyssia asked quietly.
“If I live long enough,” Tyrial replied. Given the time he was going to need, he knew he would probably need to wait until after his next session. He would just need to hope that he could make it through without any extensive injuries. Maybe if he was a little more generous with the screaming than usual. Victor certainly seemed to enjoy that.
“Why…,” Alyssia asked in a tiny shy voice. “Why would you help… me.”
Tyrial could hear the unspoken second half of that question, ‘And what’s it going to cost me?’ Tyrial knew he probably couldn’t convince her to trust him. She looked well beyond trusting anyone anymore. No matter, she either would or she would not.
“You can thank my friend,” Tyrial said. “She taught me that, although you can’t save everyone, you can at least try to save someone. Leaving by myself would be easier, but my newly developed conscience just won't have it.” He said the last part with a hint of resignation in his voice.
Tyrial brought the metal up in front of his face so he could see it. It barely looked scuffed at all. Shaking his head slightly, he went back to rubbing it on the stone. He put as much strength into it as he could spare without making too much noise.
“She sounds nice,” Alyssia said.
“She is,” Tyrial said. “When we get out of this shithole, I’ll introduce you.”
Alyssia’s expression barely changed with that statement. Tyrial would have expected at least some hope to spark in her face. Pausing briefly, Tyrial looked directly at Alyssia’s face. Doing his best to convey certainty, he said, “Hey, we're going to get out of here. I promised Rella I wouldn’t get myself killed and now I’m promising you I’m going to get you out of here. I always keep my word.”
Alyssia looked at Tyrial briefly and for the merest moment, Tyrial thought he saw a tiny glimmer of hope. A split second later, however, it was gone again. Looking back down at the floor, Alyssia said quietly, “Thanks.”
Alyssia said nothing more after that, so Tyrial went back to concentrating on the metal shard. The monotony of the motion wasn’t helping him keep his mind off the situation. He almost wished the girl would keep talking. Now that he had a possible plan for escaping, even if it was only half-formed, he was having a hard time keeping his nerves under control.
The situation was fine when he was out of options and death looked like his only way out. Now that there was a glimmer of hope he found he was scared again, scared that small light would go out. Out of instinct, he almost reached for the Void to deal with his anxiety. Jerking slightly, he pulled back from what he was about to do. He sighed again. It was going to be a long couple of hours.
A few hours later, Tyrial checked the shard of metal against his collar again. It felt like it was only microns from fitting. Just a few more minutes of work, and then he could… Wait longer…
Without the Void to calm him, his anxiety was running at a fever pitch. He checked the metal again, so close. He pushed a little harder and pried gently. He thought he could feel an edge of the shard catching on the notch. Bringing the metal back to the floor he continued rubbing it, almost feverishly now.
He debated if he should try to escape before his next session if he managed to get the shard to fit. The idea was to have ample time to get the collars off of them both before the alarm was sounded. With two Mages, even if Alyssia was untrained, they should stand a very solid chance. Assuming, of course, this place wasn’t completely packed with Ragnacite. Tyrial tried to put that possibility out of his mind.
The sound he had been keyed up for finally arrived. The lock to the door clanked, and just before it swung open, Tyrial hid the metal shard in the corner of his cell. The door slammed open and two guards strode in. Tyrial mentally prepared himself.
The two guards walked up to the cells. Standing in front of Alyssia’s cell, one of the guards saw Tyrial looking at him and said, “Don worry scrap, yer next.”
As the guard at Alyssia’s door fumbled for the key at his waist, Tyrial saw Alyssia cower in the far corner of her cell. She looked absolutely terrified. Tyrial sighed, he knew what he was about to do. The intelligent thing to do now was to sit tight and keep quiet. Once they left with Alyssia, Tyrial was almost guaranteed to have some uninterrupted time. Then, when they returned with her, he could jump them and they could escape.
That wasn’t what he was going to do though. Seeing tears streaming down the girl's face as she tried to mold herself to the far corner of her cell, Tyrial knew that his lack of cold reasoning was going to screw him over again. Taking a deep breath, he did what his heart told him to.
Tyrial chuckled, not too loudly, but just loud enough. The guard that was stepping into Alyssia’s cell stopped and looked at him. “Somethin funny scrap?” the guard asked with annoyance.
Looking up at the guard, Tyrial put on his best insolent overconfident face and said, “Hmm? No, I’m good.”
Stepping back out of Alyssia’s cage the guard walked over the Tyrial’s cell and said, “Na, I insist. Why don you share the joke scrap.”
Tyrial braced himself internally and said as casually and flippantly as he could, “Na, it's fine. If Victor needs a break I understand. I’m sure it's not easy dealing with the most powerful Mage in the galaxy.”
The guard took on an ugly look, grabbing his keys, he said, “Is that so scrap. Maybe you don need no rest after all then.”
As the guard unlocked Tyrial’s cell he mentally prepared himself as much as he could. He knew he was in for an extra helping of pain this time. The guards were sure to tell Victor what he had said and antagonizing your torturer was never a good idea. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of any other way to spare Alyssia whatever it was they had planned for her.
As the guard dragged him out of the cell, purposely slamming him into the side of the open door, Tyrial just hoped he still had the physical capacity to escape after this. He looked at Alyssia’s cell as he was dragged out of the room. The second guard had closed her door as the first had dragged Tyrial out of his cell.
Alyssia sat near the opening to her cell, staring at Tyrial with a nearly unreadable expression, tears still streaming down her face. Tyrial hoped it was worth it.
Once again back on Victor’s rack, Tyrial waited for the man himself to arrive. The guards had gone through the trouble to chain his arms independently, which Tyrial thought was a bad sign. He knew he couldn’t afford to grit his teeth this time. Given what he’d said to the guards, Victor wasn’t going to let up until he had the screams he wanted. Perhaps holding back earlier would work to Tyrial’s advantage this time.
A minute later, the door slammed open and Victor strode in, a less than pleased look on his face. “I vwas supposed to have company of beautiful women today,” Victor said. “Instead, I have ugly faced idiot.”
Grabbing a large machete from one of the tables, Victor walked up to Tyrial and grabbed his left arm. Pulling it out straight, Victor brought the machete up to Tyrial’s arm, just below the shoulder, and said, “Perhaps without arm, would not be so cocky.”
Bringing the machete back, he swung forward hard and buried the blade a few millimeters above Tyrial’s arm in the wooden wall behind him. The blade was close enough that it drew blood.
“Ji’bat!” Victor exclaimed. Turning his back to Tyrial and walking away. He stopped with his back to Tyrial and took a deep breath. “You make Victor rush,” he said. “No, we take time.”
Turning back, he walked slowly up to Tyrial and grabbed his arm again. Taking the chain that held that particular arm loosely, he ran it straight out perpendicular to Tyrial’s body and secured it. Stepping back to where Tyrial’s hand now rested at Victor’s arm level, the man looked Tyrial in the eyes.
Taking a firm grip on Tyrial’s pinky, Victor said, “I vonder if you are two jointed.” Slowly, Victor bent Tyrial’s finger back. Tyrial’s first instinct was to grit his teeth and bear it, but keeping in mind his ultimate goal, he didn’t try to hold back as much. As his finger reached a critical point, something inside snapped with incredible pain. Tyrial screamed at the top of his lungs.
“Yesss,” Victor said with perverse pleasure. Tyrial continued screaming as Victor repeated the process on the next three fingers. Fortunately for Tyrial, those only popped out of joint instead of breaking completely.
Seemingly giving up on that particular venue, Victor released Tyrial’s hand. “Fingers are boring,” Victor said. “Director said I should ask questions today. Victor not in mood. Do you think Victor could pull arm off with bare hands?”
Taking a firm grip on Tyrial’s entire left arm, Victor said with a vicious grin, “Let's find out comrade.”
Two hours later, as Tyrial was being hurled back into his cell by one of the guards, he was almost regretting his decision. As he impacted the far side of the cell he let out a short scream. He couldn’t help it, he didn’t want to give the guards the satisfaction but the pain was intense.
When he finally came to a stop he rolled to his right side, doing his best to cradle his limply hanging left arm. He was fairly certain it wasn’t broken, but it was definitely dislocated. As were three of his fingers on that hand, at two joints apiece. The fourth finger, his pinky, was definitely broken. On the plus side, they hadn’t bothered to put the cuffs back on him when they had returned him to his cell.
He could deal without the pinky, but he was going to need the arm. He just needed to get his breathing back under control first. He knew he didn’t have much time, but he had to be careful not to push too hard or he might lose consciousness.
“Are you ok?” Alyssia asked from the cell next to him, a note of genuine concern in her quivering voice.
“Sure,” Tyrial said shortly, still breathing hard.
“I… I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Please, next time, just let them take me.”
Grunting, Tyrial wiggled his way away from the wall a few feet so he could lay flat on his back. “You that eager to get tortured?” Tyrial asked.
“No,” Alyssia said with a tremor in her voice. “I just… I don’t want anyone to die for me, not again.”
Again, Tyrial thought. What kind of life must this girl have had. Her request made Tyrial feel a bit better though. It affirmed to him that he had made the right choice by taking her place. This girl didn’t need any more terror in her life.
“Die?” Tyrial said, trying to sound confident, “I’m not going to die girl. I’ve got too many people counting on me for that.”
Taking a few deep breaths, Tyrial used his right hand to help rotate his left so it was facing palm up against the ground next to his head. The pain in his shoulder from this maneuver was excruciating and the sound of bone grinding on bone wasn’t pleasant either. All of that, however, was nothing compared to what would come next.
Taking a few more deep breaths, Tyrial laid his head back against the cell floor, then reached up over his head with this right hand. He had to stretch his right arm painfully to reach his left hand. Once he had a firm grip on his left hand, he pulled that hand up and over his head to his right.
He could hear and feel bone grinding in his left shoulder again. As the pain intensified he started to groan through his gritted teeth. As he pulled harder and harder his groan turned into a muffled scream. He gave the arm one last painful tug and felt the ball of his shoulder finally slip back into its socket with a pop.
With a woosh, he let out all the air in his lungs to keep from screaming as loud as he could. Taking several deep breaths he kept his teeth gritted and just barely managed to keep from yelling. Thankfully, although his shoulder now felt like its socket was made from sandpaper, it did work. Moving his arm experimentally while he was on the floor he figured it would have to do.
Shimming back to the wall, he grunted as he used his right arm to help get himself sitting upright against the smooth stone.
“I wish I could help you,” Alyssia said as Tyrial sat against the wall with his eyes closed.
“You will girl,” Tyrial said, “Soon.”
Getting his breathing back under control, again, he held the fingers of his left hand in front of his face. Setting his teeth again, he began the painful task of putting his fingers back in their sockets.
“Please…,” Alyssia said, “please don’t die, not for me. I… I’d rather die instead.”
Breathing hard from resetting his index finger, he took a quick break to respond to Alyssia. “No one is going to die Alyssia. I promise,” Tyrial said with conviction, “That’s something else Rella taught me. Sacrificing yourself to save someone else certainly has some nobility to it. But ultimately, the correct goal is for everyone to live. I’ve decided that's what's going to happen from now on, and if reality gives me any lip about it, I’m going to kick realities ass.”
With no immediate reply from Alyssia, Tyrial went back to the painful task of resetting the rest of his fingers. He thought he could hear muffled sobbing from her direction, but given their situation, he couldn’t do anything about it at the moment. The best thing he could do for her was to get her out of this hell hole.
The last of his fingers finally in place, he wiggled them all experimentally. Pain lanced through his hand as his fingers moved, but move they did. All save for the pinky. Ripping a small bit of the rags he was currently wearing, he used the cloth to tie his pinky to the finger next to it. It wasn't great, but it would have to do. Reaching to the corner of his cell, he picked up the hidden shard of metal there. Taking a fast pace right from the start he worked on shaping it the final microns it required. He was almost as desperate to get out of this place as the girl was now.