"Little Lost Numbers"
Step inside.
Shut the door.
Not the children from before.
Wind the gears
Turn the key
Clockwork hands where heart should be.
Soft as silk
Cold as stone
Never leave them alone.
March in ones,
Twos, or threes
Listen close they've yet to breathe.
-- A nursery rhyme found scrawled on a wall of a destroyed Coutaman settlement.
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Callum came too with heavy chains weighing down his arms and legs, each chain ending in a cold iron clasp. They sounded of soft chimes that echoed through the dim room – with each ring taking more and more of the fog that shrouded his thoughts.
His surroundings came into focus bit by bit. Stone walls. A single barred window. He was lying on a small raised bed. The room itself was small, enclosing him in a space no more than a five-by-ten square foot holding cell. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and mold. It irked him. Smell was one of the only senses he had left and for it to be tortured so was disheartening.
“Finally awake.” A voice, deep and jovial, broke the silence.
Turning Callum found himself facing the doors to the cell, and beyond it was a giant of a man, a head taller than even Bellamy. His broad grin seemed at odds with the cold indifference in his eyes, a dissonance that instantly put Callum on edge.
He reached for his Essence, trying to stir the whirlpool like substance that raged in his core, but it rebuffed him. Tore and nipped at the pathways where it would otherwise roam free. He could feel it, its potential – wild and dangerous – but it lay beyond his reach, as if it belonged to another and not him.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” the man said, his tone conversational as he moved closer to the bars, leaning in to get a good look at Callum. “A helpful invention by the Puritans. For a sect so morally bankrupt they really did create something useful.”
Callum’s thoughts snapped into focus as his voice rasped out, almost unrecognizable even to himself. “That’s what the shackles are for then?”
The man smiled, it still not reaching his eyes. “Indeed. It’s impossible to stabilize the essence of an undead. It’s what makes your kind so dangerous. If your psuedo-cores have nothing to do they’ll tear themselves apart. But it is possible to suppress the Essence.
Callum had many questions now that he had recovered part of his whits. Namely Where he was, what he was doing here, and how he got there. The last thing he remembered was running through the alleyways with Viracio and Sarah. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember the details of that night. They were easy to recall, almost in perfect detail, up until he left the club, at that point the memories fell through his fingers like sand.
He must’ve been silent for far too long, as the man took it as his queue to continue. “My name is Ridley. Pity our paths cross at opposite ends.”
“More so for me than you” Callum muttered, forcing a chuckle through cracked lips.
Ridley’s gaze softened a touch. “I’m glad to see your situation hasn’t broken your spirit. It will serve you well on the march.”
Callums blood ran cold as a chill yanked at his spine The implication of everything settling in his chest. Where was he? In Congregation Custody. Who was the man? A Congregation Member. What did they want? To kill him presumably, through their accursed ritual in Dej Khov.
“Bad luck,” Callum muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. Hopelessness built around his heart and core, seeping into his bones through a chill.
“Good luck, I’d think.” Ridley countered, his voice even, as if he were consoling a child. “You get a rare chance to rid yourself of the original sin, Callum. From what I saw that night … you deserve at least that much.”
“Oh eat bricks,” Callum snapped, defiant anger the only thing he could muster.
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“Please. Anger falls flat on your frame.” Ridley sounded almost amused, “Is there anything you need in the meantime? To make your stay more comfortable until we depart? Besides the key to your cell, of course.”
A scowl formed at the edges of Calum's lips, and they twitches violently for a moment before he mastered himself, “Daily news papers would be good. And water.”
The large man on the other side of the bars nodded, “Easy enough.”
There was a short period of silence as Ridley walked away, returning a short while later with a chair and a paper cup filled with water.
“Your brother,” Ridley began as he sat, his tone turning serious, “Bellamy Hollow. We looked into you both. The Church of The Watcher helped us sift through your records since you arrived in Velnias. Fairly standard – exemplary even. Model citizens. Even under closer scrutiny”
Callum raised an eyebrow, already dreading where the man was going with his speech. “But what intrigued me was when we looked at what you two were up to before you arrived. We dug deeper, but found nothing. No records. Not a trace of you or your brother anywhere on the Peninsula.
Callum shook his head, a wide bitter grin returning to his face. “We’re from Coutama you fool. War of Bloody Veins ring a bell? We fled–”
“I am well aware of the war.” Ridley interrupted, his voice a harsh growl. His gaze hardened as he stared off into some far off place. “When the undead tried to carve the land. When they stooped low enough to ask that blighted crown – your King of The Dead City – for help. To unleash horrors untold upon all indiscriminate.”
He took a breath, regaining his composure as he looked to Callum, young eyes meeting young eyes before Ridley deflated.
“But I suppose you went through the same.” Ridley seemed to struggle on how to continue for a moment before composing himself, “But what doesn’t add up is this–” Ridley leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Not even the priest of The Great Watcher can see you. Now or in the past. You’re both ghosts.”
Callum’s heart skipped a beat. His hands subtly moved to the shackles, testing their hold. His focus split between the chains, his Essence, and the revelation Ridley was so close to. That he desperately wished the man would not stumble upon.
“The Congregation thinks you might be part of the Eternal Family. Maybe even a powerful player in this game. The Cardinal wanted you and your brother dead immediately – regardless of what The Wardens say. But I saw what you did that night. The courage you showed for a woman you hardly knew. That’s not the mark of a monster. So here I am, with my Bishops blessing, offering you a trade”
Callum fought to not breath out a sigh of relief. To maintain the tension in his muscles as if he was afraid still. They had come to the wrong conclusion. Good. “What trade is that?” he asked.
Ridley’s eyes gleamed, energy, pride, and hope welling within them, contrasting the words pouring from his mouth. “If you march willingly. If you walk the path that ends in your heart beating once more. Renounce unnatural undeath and join the public ceremony your brother will be considered an asset to remain untouched indefinitely.”
Callum absorbed the words, then let out a hollow laugh. “That’s .. awfully lenient for The Congregation. You must understand, it’s hard to believe. Especially when your ceremony likely ends in me being dust. Deals between dead men never stick.”
“The Bishop said you may be apprehensive about the deal and told me to tell you the following for their reasoning, and then you’d believe them.”
Callum simply raised an eyebrow, waiting for Ridley to continue.
“Batch 826.”
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“Well? Oaklen asked, revealing pocket aces as he raked in chips from Sigismund. “Did he agree?” The question was directed at Ridley who walked out of the holding hall, wooden chair in hand.
“He has.” Ridley sat as he picked up the cards and began shuffling.
Sigismund let out a great, heaving sigh, running a hand through his now-clean –non bloody – blond hair.
“This is not right. The Bishop plays too many games. That man is dangerous – too dangerous to be kept alive. And his manifestation. If he turns into an Essence Beast, who knows what damage it could do.”
“I tend to agree” Oaklen nodded, “though I do admit… Do you know what this Batch 826 business is? Either of you?”
The three exchanged glances, but when it was clear no one had an answer Oaklen continued.
“Well the wording has piqued my interest. The word batch suggests a group – something organized and experimental. I doubt the kid helped run whatever it is, too young, and he can’t be tracking them – after all the march could lead to his death. So why would just hearing the name push him to agree to the deal?” He leaned back, tapping a finger on the table.
“And?” Sigismund pressed, having placed down his cards, his full attention on Oaklen now.
“It leaves us with two strong possibilities. Either he saw something related to Batch 826, or he’s personally tied to it. Family relation, a target, or even part of the batch itself.”
Ridley cupped his chin, “His manifestation is unique – tied to a universal constant. But I fail to see why this is important. Whatever Batch 826 is the Bishop and the Cardinals already know what it is. Our role is to collect undead. Nothing more.”
Oaklen shrugged, “Well I was thinking, if she didn’t want us to know she wouldn’t have given you that information. She would’ve come herself. The Bishop loves her games, so I assume this is her giving us the unofficial go ahead.”
Ridley considered the words for a moment before nodding, gesturing for Oaklen to continue, “I think it’s a personal connection. He agreed too quickly for it to be anything but personal, and it’s a batch. There may be loose ends.”
Sigimund caught on first, grimacing as he spoke, “Undead with Manifestations close to universal constants”
Oaklen nodded, letting the implication sink in.
Sigismund stood, donning the jacket he had stored on the other side of his chair, “The Church of The Watcher may be able to dig something up. Bellamy may be off the table, but if Batch 826 is something dangerous it’s best to destroy it now.”