The smell of filth concentrated within the dank room. The lack of ventilation created suffocating heaviness in the stale air. Cold metal walls with veins of rust crept closer while inducing vertigo. Without heights it shouldn't be possible, Larox thought. This was it; he was going to die in a pile of filth. All questions stopped; all beatings stopped. Hours upon hours of silence ensued.
A groan escaped from his stomach; Tigers raced inside his gut. Another beating would at least help pass the time. This sarcophagus of steel bathed in putrid white light enveloped him. Larox found his hands and feet unbound, but he could barely move anyway. His face sunk in, his skin displayed a pale gray, and filth covered him. A dead fly stared at him with its dry red compound eyes. Tiny white beasties wriggled in the filth pile.
Slowly, he pulled himself up against the wall. By sliding on his back, he managed to stand. It was all he could do to keep himself on his feet, and yet he managed to take a step, and then another, until he was standing in front of the door. He wasn't going to let them push him around; someone was seeing his upraised middle finger before he took his final breath.
Knees shook. Mouth hung open. Breath gasped. Eyes hung wide open. He kicked the door. A blonde-haired guard in black and white camo fatigues opened it. Larox couldn't help staring at the wide chin. The filth dripped off his emaciated figure and torn clothes as he barely managed to stand. It proved to be good timing. He kicked the guard.
A punch flew into Larox's gut, but before he could fall the guard caught him by the grimy collar of his greenish brown stained shirt before throwing him up against the wall outside the cell. Men with guns pushed their prisoner along until they reached a large empty room with a big drain. Larox didn't have enough energy to resist being stripped and hosed down with cold water that sucked the heat from his body, leaving him a blue and quivering pile.
He hoped some of his excrement passed through the filters and made it to high command's drinking water. He would have been happy to lay on the cement and die of exposure, but rough hands had other ideas. Next came a chamber filled with stinging gas, but it wasn't killing him. Finally, they pulled him into a chair and handed him a folded blue jumpsuit.
By the time he was dressed someone came in and bought him a meal of red swill that was thin as rat sweat. The stale crackers crumbled to dust in his fingers. But he devoured everything quickly. There was much coughing, as it was hard to inhale food with bruised ribs. Little bits of red spit-up and saliva-soaked crumbs stuck across the tray.
The blonde man came back and looked over Larox with cold blue eyes. Larox casually took hold of his bare left foot and started to rub it, there were bruises from where it had been stomped on. The blonde guard shook his head, almost laughing.
"Traitor Larox Desjardins, you are being reassigned to the gladiatorial division," he said, "Do you know what this means?"
Larox shrugged his shoulders.
The blonde looked perplexed, then shook his head, "Fine, you'll have two days to train and recuperate before your first fight. If you put up a poor fight you'll be tortured in front of everyone for days on end, so it'll be in your benefit to give a good show."
Larox shrugged his shoulders.
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Heavy breathing. Ragged gasps. How long had he been in this fucking chair? Why couldn't they at least play some decent tunes? Why couldn't he even think of a good rap song... or some metal. He knew more than a few. Something recent, something from the peak, ACDC, anything. The room suffocated him; breath came with difficulty. It didn't help that they had left him bound to the chair for who knows how long. No food. No water. No bathroom breaks. Horst pulled at the bindings and screamed out loud, nobody answered.
Is this how they were going to do it, just leave him? It was genius. There was no way they could have thought of a better torture, to die in a chair, bound up, not able to hear anyone, to see anyone, and only a stuffy dimly lit room with nothing but some cards scattered about the floor. Maybe if he could get one of them... no, that was useless, they were watching and wanted him to struggle.
He felt like an insect in a jar left unattended. Skin around his left eye shone dark purple and he could hardly blink it. Dust sat on his tongue, soon it would start to choke him. Horst slumped over. There was no more to take, no more struggle, he'd been here too long, even wet himself, it was over. What a way to die!
And then, the bang of metal as the hatch opened. He could barely summon the strength to look up. One more blow, if they would just strike him one more time, that would do it. Bindings came loose and his wrist fell free. They helped him up, almost carried him out of the room. He closed his eyes and put his head down as he was stripped, then showered in cold water. It felt crisp; he licked what he could off his broken lips, which started to bleed again.
But it felt good, if it was poisoned that would be a bonus. Horst was given a blue jump suit and carried into a private infirmary. There was warm swill, red and thick, with stale crackers, even a little bit of butter! Horst inhaled the grub just as Larox had done, and coughed just as much.
Jaws felt like they unhinged and lips cracked open at the center. Little bits of saliva-soaked food and red spit up showered across the tray. He wasn't even finished when the blonde-haired guy with the big chin entered the infirmary and stood at the end of the bed where Horst was propped up.
"You're being reassigned to the gladiatorial division; do you know what this means?"
Horst struck his chest with his fist as red swill regurgitated through his nose. After a deep breath came hysterical laughter that he couldn't stop. The sound of his laughter filled the infirmary. The guard couldn't help but grin at the reaction, and Horst could not stop laughing. A fat fly landed on a paltry thin dab of butter spread over the last cracker and sucked greedily.
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Pale pink lips graced a sleeping cheek. Helen unwound her form from the man underneath her. As she sat up, her palm felt his smoothly shaven face. Slowly she pulled herself away and collected her garments from the back of an office chair. A tight knee length skirt and black stockings complimented by black loafers with one-inch heels hugged her legs. A white collared shirt and a black tie finished the outfit.
It would not trouble Mr. Delant to remain asleep on the floor for the next couple of hours, and when she was ready for him to wake, she knew her smiling face would be there to greet him. She pushed her light brown hair back and fluffed it slightly. As she walked out of the office, the toe of her shoe pressed into the stain on the carpet.
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While laying on her back, Lavinia stared at a buzzing black bouncing insect hitting the ceiling light until the hatch opened. Helen entered and Lavinia sat up straight away while sliding herself over the mattress into a corner with her face pressed into her knees. Helen twirled some of her hair around her index finger as she stepped further into the room.
"I'm not here to hurt you, Lavinia."
Slowly Lavinia's face lifted from her knees. A strand of hair fell across her forehead to hang between her eyebrows. Blue eyes quivered and brightened as Lavinia's mouth fell open. Terra rosa florescence reflected in Helen's eyes. The fang glistened once revealed by a growing smirk. Helen dented her half smile into a serious expression. The fang remained pressed into her lower lip.
"Little sister?" Lavinia asked, tears forming above her bottom lashes as she broke out of her coil to pounce on all fours. She punced at Helen and grabbed her shoulders, "Is it really you!? Little sister! Please help me!"
Helen grabbed Lavinia's wrists and pressed them against the dingy wall before pushing her lips firmly against Lavinia's. Two creatures, one on top of the other, watched from the corner of the room through red compound eyes.