Chapter 17 – Clockwork Captives
Sylven clawed his way back to consciousness as rough hands yanked him from the cramped wooden box where he had been entombed. His lungs burned from the stale air and dirt clung to his skin. He was too weak to resist as the humans checked if he was still alive. The days of torment blurred together in his mind, but his plan held steady: let them think he was broken.
He sagged limply in their grasp, his limbs slack, movements sluggish.
The ruse worked. The woman sneered down at him, muttering something to the boy. The boy’s expression wavered between pity and unease as he fetched a damp rag to wipe the worst of the dirt off the Shy’s body.
Sylven made no sound, no protest. He allowed them to handle him, knowing this was the only way they would let their guard down. Through the bond, faint echoes of Vikka’s determination and Uiska’s steady, reassuring presence reached out to him. It was a lifeline.
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Now that he was acting catatonic and compliant, it appeared the decision was made that Sylven was ready for the next stage of captivity.
The boy carefully carried him into the next room, past the door he had been observing throughout his ordeal. Sylven’s first impression upon their entry was of noise and motion. Steam hissed, metal clanged, and rhythmic hammering filled the air. From his view in the boy’s warm hands, his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
He was deposited on the cold floor of a cavernous space, humming with the steady drone of industry. Overhead, pipes snaked along the walls, occasionally venting steam into the air. At first, the sheer scale of the workshop overwhelmed him. But then his gaze settled on the dozens of Shy throughout the room. A few hurried around, carrying various metallic objects. But most were seated at rows of long tables, their surfaces strewn with tools and parts.
At each station they hunched over delicate mechanisms. Their nimble hands moved with practiced precision, assembling parts that glinted under the dim, flickering lights.
Sylven’s heart clenched. These were his people, captured and put to work like cogs in the humans’ machine.
A gruff human barked something to the boy who was still standing near the door. Sylven noted that the threshold to the outside was blocked by a sheer, smooth slab of metal that seemed impossible to climb to a Shy but was an easy hop for a human. The boy hesitated, then sought out a female Shy with a shock of bright red hair standing by the head of a table.
“Help!” he called out in his clumsy Shyspeak. “New!'”. The Shy nodded and approached Sylven, holding out a hand in welcome.
“Another one joins our little clan,” she declared, not unkindly. Her eyes glinted with a mix of resignation and camaraderie. “Name’s Mara. Welcome to… well, whatever this is.”
Sylven looked at Mara, then back to the humans. “I take it you’ve been here a while?,” he asked.
“Long enough,” she curtly replied. “They’ll put you to work soon. For now, you’ll get shown around. Better to learn fast.”
Mara led Sylven to a cluster of Shy seated around one of the larger tables. They looked wary as he approached but continued with their work. They appeared well-fed, their faces rounder and softer, their shoulders hunched from days spent bending over their work. They wore patchwork garments cobbled together from fabric scraps, but they at least fitted well and even resembled regular Shy clothing.
“This is Ilkin,” Mara gestured to a boyish-looking Shy with wide eyes and a nervous energy that reminded Sylven of a pika about to bolt. “He was our latest addition, until now. Quick hands, even quicker tongue.”
Ilkin gave Sylven a hesitant smile. “Hi,” he waved.
“And that’s Veyran,” Mara nodded toward a slim, pale figure who sat up with an air of unnerving poise and calm.
Sylven tilted his head. “You’re Deepshy.”
Veyran’s lips curled into a grin. “And you’re observant.”
Mara interrupted before Sylven could press further. “Don’t bother asking how he ended up here. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
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As Mara and Ilkin continued introducing him to their fellow captives, Sylven’s attention kept drifting to an older Shy seated near the back. Something about him—a weathered strength in his posture, the faint scars marking his arms and shoulders—that set him apart from the others.
“Who’s that?” Sylven asked, nodding toward the older figure.
Mara hesitated. “That’s Brynnal. He’s been here the longest.”
Sylven frowned, the name tugging at a memory.
The tour led to the Shy’s living quarters—a massive cabinet of wrought iron and solid wooden panels that took up the entire length of the workshop.
Mara pulled open a door and gestured for Sylven to step inside. “This is where we sleep. And… well, everything else.”
Windows of thick wire mesh and reinforced glass were set into the front of the cabinet, allowing for both ventilation and a way for their captors to easily check on them. At night, when the guards left, the doors were secured with heavy locks that none of the Shy had ever hoped to crack.
Sylven was immediately struck by how much the interior resembled a Shy settlement, albeit one squeezed into a piece of human furniture. Cocooned in the middle of this Shy-scale microcosm, Sylven could almost imagine himself back in a Shy village, if only he could tune out the strange noises and smells. The space was both a marvel of ingenuity and a stark reminder of their confinement. The captive Shy had carved out or crafted their own rooms and niches for privacy, each area personalized with scraps of colored paper and fabric, and other discarded human trinkets.
The floors were lined with a patchwork of carpet swatches, worn but carefully cleaned, providing some cushioning against the hard and cold wood and metal shelves. Makeshift stools were fashioned from the wooden spools humans used to store thread. Cupboards and dressers made of repurposed boxes and wooden sticks stood lined up against the walls, housing everything from needles to screws, springs, and other materials scavenged from the workshop.
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In one corner, the Shy had built a communal pantry. Sylven noticed that it was stocked with a surprising variety of food. Neat compartments held grains, dried fruits, cured meats, and even a few chunks of cheese. A tin can served as a storage container for their perishables. It had a swiveling door cut out from its front and was kept cool in warm weather by wrapping the metal cylinder with damp cloth.
“The humans give us way more food than we need,” Ilkin said when he caught Sylven’s curious expression. “They don’t really measure it out. We save the extras for bad days, celebrations, and the pets.”
“We even started a garden,” Mara added, pointing to a shallow box where rows of fungi and sprouts grew from a bed of dirt, carefully scrounged together from swept up dust mixed with composted waste. The harvest, though meager, added a touch of variety to their otherwise repetitive rations.
In another corner, The Shy had even managed to tame and stable a few pets, who provided both companionship and practical benefits.
Mara pointed out a mouse who was napping in his own little pen. "This is Nib. The children named him," she explained. "They love to either cuddle or ride him. But he's also a good scavenger. He helps sniff out various crumbs, chips and shavings."
Across two beams in the ceiling stretched the web of their resident spider, dubbed Silk. She helped keep pesky flies under control and spun delicate threads that the Shy carefully harvested.
Ikin patted the head of a gecko who was splayed out on the wall. "Flick also helps deal with pests and acts as sort of an alarm. She knows to call out as loud as she can whenever she senses the humans approaching," Ikin revealed. "They can't tell that she's calling from inside the cabinet. She also lays eggs sometimes, and they're a real treat," he smiled while stroking her smooth scales. The small reptile was a watchful, reassuring presence, her soft chirps a source of comfort during the long nights. The animals had their own hides and escape routes for when the humans were near, ensuring their safety.
“The humans don’t know about them,” Ilkin whispered conspiratorially. “Or they don’t notice. To be safe, the critters are trained to hide when humans are around.”
The Shy’s sleeping arrangements were equally resourceful. Hammocks strung from the cabinet’s beams, crafted from discarded human socks, swayed gently with the movements of their occupants. For those who preferred firmer ground, beds fashioned from folded and hemmed old handkerchiefs stuffed with hay offered a cozy alternative.
An entire corner was dedicated to the Shy children, a creche where their young played and were cared for. The space was adorned with brightly colored bits of scavenged string, beads and buttons to entertain the little ones. A carefully carved crib, pieced together from sticks tied together with thread, was occupied by Laya, an infant not even a year old. She slept under the watchful eye of Eryl, a Shy with a wooden peg leg who was humming a soft tune to her charges when Sylven first peeked in. She greeted him with a nod, her bearing kind but weary.
“The children keep me busy,” Eryl explained as Sylven’s gaze lingered on the babe. “The humans seem to leave us be to raise them, so we make do. Guess they don’t mind getting more of us without the trouble of trapping and taming.”
Sylven nodded, admiration stirring in his chest. Despite their captivity, the Shy had created a semblance of life, finding ways to preserve their dignity and identity.
Talking with more of the Shy during their midday meal break, Sylven quickly noticed how different he was from the other captives.
The Shy here were not the lean, nimble Sunshy he knew from the caldera. They were softer, slower, worn down by years of sedentary labor. their movements lacking the agility Sylven associated with his kind. Based on their stories, they hadn’t gone through the kind of brutal training he’d endured. All the others had been captured alone and quickly subdued, leaving little fight left in them. Except maybe for the scarred warrior Brynnal, who had yet to acknowledge his arrival.
The most unusual member of the group though was Veyran, the only Deepshy among them. His demeanor was calm, almost detached, as if captivity was nothing to complain about.
“Life here isn’t so different from a factory in the deep cities,” he said when Sylven asked how he felt about working for the humans. “Fewer hours. Fewer overseers. No debts.”
Sylven frowned. “But why leave the caldera, or even the deep cities at all? Deepshy don’t wander out.”
Veyran looked up into the steam vents. “Curiosity,” he sighed. “A foolish impulse, perhaps.”
What also struck him were the children. They scurried between the adults, their wide eyes curious and unburdened. Born under human bondage, they knew no other life. Sylven’s heart ached as he watched a boy present a perfectly assembled gear to his parents, who nodded briefly before moving on. The little Shy beamed, his innocence undimmed by their circumstances.
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As Mara continued to guide Sylven through the workshop, he noticed the human boy lingering by the door. He stood hesitantly, holding a small box, while keeping an eye on the stern-looking foreman who was bellowing orders in the human tongue. When the foreman was done with his tirade, the boy approached the Shy and crouched beside their worktable.
“That’s Wyatt,” Mara whispered to Sylven. “Our so-called handler. He tries to talk to us, sometimes helps us.”
“We’ve met,” Sylven said tersely. “Why do you think he helps you?”
Mara shrugged. “He’s younger, not like the others. Been here about a year. Took over after the last handler… left.”
Sylven raised an eyebrow. “What happened to the last one?”
Mara hesitated, watching out for the foreman before leaning closer. “That old guy was cruel, meaner than most of them. We think… well, one of us Shy disappeared, and around the same time one of the human guards disappeared too. Then the old guy got into a big argument with the other humans and he left in a huff. Soon after, Wyatt showed up.”
Ilkin added in a hushed tone, “He already knew a few Shy words when he got here. That’s not something you pick up by accident. We think he might’ve been related to the guard who disappeared—maybe a nephew or son.”
Sylven frowned, watching as Wyatt casually left a small box next to their cabinet. “So, what does he want?”
“Not much, just to learn more words from us,” Mara said. “He mostly keeps his head down. He doesn’t seem to like the foreman, though. He’s helped us get a few things—nothing big, just scraps or small objects. Things the adults don’t notice.”
Wyatt’s interactions with the Shy were gentle and hesitant, as if he feared breaking something delicate. He spoke to them in halting Shyspeak, his clumsy attempts at communication earning wary but curious responses.
During one lesson, Wyatt picked up a tiny mechanical part and mimed its function. He held his hand out flat, moving it back and forth in a rhythmic motion. Then, with his other hand, he mimed a small, precise tick-tick-tick jerking. The Shy around him watched intently, their wide eyes tracking his movements as he repeated the charade several times. “Os-cill-a-tor,” he said, his voice halting but clear. The Shy whispered the word among themselves, mimicking his gestures with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
“Oscillator,” Ilkin echoed, nodding in understanding.
Sylven tilted his head. “He’s teaching you?”
“More like we’re teaching each other,” Mara said. “He doesn’t come around too often, though—usually only when there’s a new Shy to train, or something new they have to explain for what we’re working on.
“Or when he thinks the foreman isn’t watching,” Ilkin added.
Wyatt looked between the Shy, his brow furrowed as if trying to gauge their understanding. He pointed to the oscillator again, then mimed its function—a small, jerky movement that hinted at the mechanism’s purpose in regulating motion.
Sylven couldn’t help but be intrigued. The boy’s attempts at communication, though awkward, were earnest.
Later, Ilkin was showing Wyatt how to write Shy letters, using his entire body to drag a pencil across a sheet of paper. This caught the foreman’s attention, who stormed over and barked something in the harsh human tongue. Wyatt flinched, his face paling, then quickly grabbed the pencil and stepped out of the workshop.
“What was that about?” Sylven asked, his tone wary.
“The foreman doesn’t like it when he gives us something he thinks is dangerous. Or when it looks like he’s getting too friendly with us,” Mara said dryly. “Probably thinks we can turn him into a Shy.”
“He’s scared of them, isn’t he?”
“Who isn’t?” Ilkin replied, his voice bitter.
“But they’re more scared of him helping us too much,” Sylven countered.
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As Sylven settled into a hammock in a quiet corner of the cabinet that night, his mind raced. The weight of the Shy’s situation pressed on him, but he couldn’t let despair take hold.
Through the bond, he felt a faint ripple from Vikka—determination and a spark of shared resolve. He clung to that connection, letting it steady him as he planned his next move.
I’m not giving up, he sent through the bond, pouring his resolve into the connection.
Her response came back, fierce and immediate. Good. Neither am I.
His thoughts turned to Wyatt. The boy’s halting efforts to bridge the gap between their worlds stood in stark contrast to the humans’ general indifference—or outright cruelty.
For the first time since his capture, he allowed himself to hope. They weren’t alone, and all together, they would find a way.
If the Shy could build a life here, however humble, they could also build a way out.