by T. C. Edge
His face arranged itself in a subtle manner to suggest he was impressed.
“You made your first kill at the age of thirteen,” the young man went on. “You used a knife, your favourite weapon. Though you have great skill with a range of blades and firearms, it is knives that appeal to you most. You like to throw, and your enhancements permit you terrific accuracy. But it’s up-close that you prefer to be. You like to see the light leave your enemy’s eyes before you shut them for good…”
Kira’s mind filled with death, with all the people she’d killed. She felt little guilt for a single one of them. All of them deserved what they got. And it was only those who really deserved it who got the up-close-and-personal treatment.
“Is this supposed to be impressing me?” she asked. “So, you’ve been inside my head. Good for you.”
“I have no interest in impressing you, or anyone else for that matter,” replied the black haired boy with a sudden tightness to his voice. Kira thought, by the way in which he said it, that the opposite was actually true. This man craved approval.
“Then spare me the story of my life. I know who and what I am.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Kira darted her eyes back to her left. The guard still clasped tightly to the macabre instrument of torture.
“Is he going to do anything with that or not?”
The young man shook his head.
“No, he isn’t.”
“Then, what the hell is all this?!”
“Hmmmm, call it a test, I suppose. It’s important to know how you react to the threat of pain and death. Some show anger, others fear. Some try to reason, others merely cower. We are always evaluating, Kira.”
“Evaluating…for what?”
He smiled.
“For her,” he said.
Kira didn’t get a chance to ask any further questions. With a quick step, the young man moved forward, lifted his right hand, and placed it on Kira’s head, pressing down her flaming hair like water dousing a fire.
His touch sent a strange pulse through her, and all the light began to quickly fade.
“Sweet dreams, Kira Blackstone,” whispered the man.
The darkness closed in, and her mind switched off.
4
The young man with black, wavy hair watched as Kira’s eyes closed. As soon as they’d shut, a small smile emerged on his face.
“She has fire,” he said aloud. It seemed to be partly for himself and partly for the two guards either side of him. They turned and nodded deferentially. The young man was used to that.
He stepped back, and gave the two guards space to work. They moved straight in and began unchaining the various locks on the upright contraption that held the girl in place. It was obvious from the speed and manner with which they worked that this was something they did often.
Once released, Kira was hoisted easily onto one of the guard’s shoulders. He began moving towards the door, flanked by his colleague.
“How many more?” asked the black haired man as they reached the door. He didn’t turn.
“Just one, Master Domitian.”
The man called Domitian smiled wearily. It had been a long day.
“OK, bring him up, quick as you can,” he said. “I need to get out of this room.”
The guards hurried away, leaving Domitian alone. He began moving his way back towards his position by the wall, working his limbs into the very same posture he always held when new arrivals awoke. It was a well-worn routine that would serve to reveal more about his subjects’ characters.
He mused on the girl just gone. Of all the subjects he’d seen today, she was the most intriguing. There were several reasons for that.
First and most obvious of all was her gender and age, a matter of some rarity. Discovering women with gifts like her wasn’t without precedent, but those of her age were infrequent. Mostly, when Dom caught scent of someone with such power and aptitude, they’d turn out to be a man. To come across a girl of relative youth was unexpected and, if he was honest with himself, a nice change of pace.
That led, of course, to another intriguing matter - that being the enhancements the girl possessed. Over the few years he’d been doing this job, Dom hadn’t yet come across someone who had such a combination. And what he’d seen of her as he stood, waiting and watching from the alley, had coloured him impressed. Over the past few days, he’d been most excited to speak with her. Their interaction, Dom thought, hadn’t disappointed.
The final matter of interest with the girl was her past. As with all his subjects, Dom had entered her mind and drawn up some of the major details of her life. He did this with them all, as much as a means of satisfying his own curiosity as of performing his required duties.
Kira had surprised him again. A tracker. A spy. A rebel. A killer. She was the sort of professional warrior who would likely excel under his patronage. And her reaction here, as she was threatened so silently with torture, was the sort to show she wasn’t to be cowed like so many others.
Already today, Dom had been through the same routine with a dozen men, plus another woman called Gwyn who, unlike Kira, had displayed her more sensitive frame of mind. She’d screamed and thrashed and pleaded for answers in a way that was entirely unintelligible. Dom had been disappointed. He’d quickly determined that such a person would likely fail when under pressure.
Some of the men had been similarly frantic. He could understand it, of course. All were taken from the lands they knew. All were snatched without explanation. Many had to leave family or friends behind without the chance to say goodbye. And, above all, none had yet been told just what was going on.
Confusion, he knew, could warp a man’s mind, nothing but a slow form of mental torture.
The matter had always been of mild concern for Dom, but little more. He’d been taught to not view such people as individuals, but merely animals for the pit. So few would survive that viewing them as such would only cause distress and the sort of moral introspection that had seen others before him lose their way.
They were just sport, Dom knew. Nothing but sport…
He drew a breath and pressed the air back out, purging him of any brewing weakness. A quick circuit of the room got the blood flowing again. He sent his eyes over the table of torture instruments and quickly turned away.
Beyond the door, the clanging of metal began to sound. Footsteps, two sets of them, echoing through the hollow chamber. They grew louder until the door clicked and swung open, and the two guards reappeared, a man hoisted onto one of their sizeable shoulders.
“OK, get him set,” said Dom.
The guards set to work, fixing the final subject to the contraption, setting his limbs in place. Mercifully, the man wasn’t too large, and so only a set of minor adjustments needed to be made in order to fit him tightly in.
Once finished, a needle was jabbed into the man’s neck, and his body began to stir. Dom watched as the guards began peppering his cheeks with light slaps that grew progressively firm.
As their palms met youthful skin, they shouted, “Wake up.”
Dom yawned, and stretched his limbs for a final time before returning them to their start-position. He inspected the boy with his dark brown eyes, recalling the details he’d garnered from him just days before.
His name was Finn. A young man just nearing his twentieth year, another of the more youthful contingent Dom had gathered over the past few weeks. His face was sun-drenched in a similar manner to his own, though had a rougher quality that spoke of much time on the water. That was no surprise, given where Finn had been picked up, a small coastal settlement near the south-eastern tip of what was once North America, a place that was now wild and largely without infrastructure.
The man was a lowly fisherman’s son who wasn’t much like the others. Not a warrior. Not a soldier. Not a mercenary or assassin. He wasn’t, Dom thought, the normal type of asset he’d look to acquire.
And yet, here he was, and that said somethi
ng. In fact, it said quite a lot. Dom certainly wasn’t in the habit of returning home without the best haul he could muster, and while Finn’s past had been one of relative peace, his biology held gifts no less potent than the rest.
He was a diamond in the rough, and just needed some polishing. Sometimes, such men turned out to be more than one might expect. Dom enjoyed gathering at least one project-contender along his journeys, if only to make things interesting.
He looked at Finn as he was slapped awake, the guards not shy of reddening his cheeks. Aside from his sun-kissed face, his hair had seen similar solar attention, highlighted blond from life under the blue sky and hanging rough in knotted waves. Though his eyes hadn’t yet fully opened, Dom knew them to be bright blue. He was, Dom thought, a striking young man, if a little callow. Not the sort to taste much war. A challenge, no doubt, but one Dom was keen to meet.
The girls will like him, he mused. It was a quality he was always eager to find if possible. Good looks were highly prized where he came from. A boy like Finn from across the sea would no doubt garner attention.
“Wake up!”
One of the guards was spitting louder. A slap like that of a flat oar meeting water spread through the small room. Dom couldn’t help but grimace a little as the shape of the guard’s hand appeared on Finn’s right cheek.
The boy stirred, and his eyes flickered in pain. A crack of blue light appeared behind his lids.
“What…where…who…” he croaked.
Another slap, marking his cheek brighter. His flickering eyes finally got the message and stayed open.
They went left, at the main culprit, then right to the other guard, before finally meeting Dom. There was no recognition. No one remembered meeting Dom. He always made sure of that.
A few moments of silence followed as the blond-haired boy inspected his new surroundings. Dom saw the usual surprise, confusion, and concern that followed. It was the expected reaction, though some went straight for wailing fear, and others tended to fall to their default setting of rage.
“Where…am I?” shook his voice. “Who…who are you?”
Dom tried not to roll his eyes. He’d heard the same questions again and again today.
Keeping his face casual and composed, and presenting only his side profile as always, he refused to offer an answer. He glanced at Finn but nothing more, waiting for a reaction.
The boy turned his eyes around the room. As with the rest, he quickly spotted the torture table, its utensils neatly set out.
Here it comes…Dom thought.
“Are you…going to…”
Finn’s voice cut off. It was as though he couldn’t quite believe what was happening or bring himself to say it. It was a common occurrence really. Many subjects tended to take some adjusting, and this was all new to the current batch.
Dom stayed still and silent, leaning against his wall. Playing to script, he linked eyes with the guard on the left of the room and dipped his head into a nod. The guard retreated to the torture table. Finn’s reaction was to stiffen and shudder, battling briefly with his restraints to absolutely no avail.
The quarrel lasted only a moment before Finn came to the conclusion that he wasn’t going anywhere. His body settled, though his words sprung, calling for some explanation.
Dom noted that it was pleading more than demanding. Some demanded, others pleaded. It was often a good barometer for bravery, he thought. Anyone who reacted to the situation with calm restraint and fearlessness got a mighty tick against their name.
Finn wasn’t one of them. His blue eyes sprung wider than most and his lips chattered feverishly. Dom zoned out for a few moments as the begging ensued. He offered the boy a few cursory glances that only seemed to frighten him further.
He was waiting for it. Waiting for the fear to morph into anger, for the begging to become demands. What he didn’t want were tears and whimpering. Thankfully, Finn refused that urge. His eyes stayed as dry as hot coals.
For a few minutes, the scene played out as it had a dozen times that afternoon. The guard stepped forward with his chosen implement of pain. Finn’s pleas for information continued to fall on deaf ears. Dom stood nonchalantly in place, apparently as bored as a bear in winter.
It was a part he played to perfection. And it wasn’t boredom he had to feign.
Eventually, he’d seen enough of Finn to know he needed work. He expected it to be so.
“OK,” he said, “step back.”
The guards, who’d grown menacingly close and were ready to strike, immediately pulled away. Finn’s eyes creaked open and found Dom ahead, stepping in front of him.
“Disappointing,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ll need to toughen up, boy. You won’t survive long like that.”
Finn’s eyes shaped left, shaped right. The panic in them refused to settle or withdraw, and the thrusting of his chest suggested hyperventilation was imminent.
“Breathe now,” suggested Dom. “Just breathe. You won’t be hurt today.”
Dom’s words didn’t seem enough to calm him. He tried a couple more times before arching his eyes knowingly towards one of the guards. The man stepped forward, drawing a needle from a pocket and pressing it into Finn’s neck. The boy’s eyelids quickly drifted shut, his heaving breaths slowing with immediate effect.
Dom released a breath. The day was over, and he could finally escape the room. He stepped towards the door, distancing himself from the boy in the contraption, and allowed himself a smile.
“Right, let him out,” he said.
The guards did as ordered without fuss or hesitation.
“Where do you want him, Master Domitian?” one asked.
Dom thought for a brief moment. Then he nodded and smiled.
“Throw him in with the red-head. They make a good pairing.”
The guards nodded their approval as Dom stretched his stride towards the door. The surface was tantalisingly close, the sea air so pleasant after spending any extended time below decks.
He didn’t much like it down here. He didn’t much like the ocean at all. It was nothing but a means to an end to Dom, a hurdle to jump and nothing more.
Oh how he wanted to get home.
5
In the depths of the ship, within its sunken heart, a change was taking place.
Merk wandered down the corridor as he always did, that whistle of his forever wishing to be set free but perpetually denied. Down here, it didn’t serve him to whistle. It was a bright and breezy sound, not suited to this dark place. He saved it for his own quarters or a stroll around the deck. But not here. Never here.
It wasn’t totally silent, though. In fact, people had been coming and going all afternoon, the place livelier than it had been for several days. Every fifteen minutes or so, two guards would come stamping in, pick out one of the prisoners, and heave their unconscious body up the deck above.
They returned not too long after with the same body slumped across their shoulders – a minor feat in itself given the size of the some of the men here – and tossed them back into their cells with little concern for their wellbeing.
Only, not all were returned to the cells they were taken from. Merk, given his role as caretaker here in this floating dungeon, knew just what was in store for the prisoners from here on out.
There wasn’t any official term for it, though Merk, given his proclivity for arranging his own nicknames, also liked to arrange his own terms too. In this case, he called it the ‘merge’: the day when each prisoner would be buddied up with another.
He strolled down the corridor, and looked into the cells. Already, half now lay empty, with the rest at double occupancy. A single bed remained in each room, giving Merk a new game to play. He called it ‘guess who gets the bed’, a game that had, in recent times, grown stagnant given that it was almost exclusively the smaller man who ended up on the cold, damp floor.
Still, Master Domitian had a knack for good pairings. Mostly, he did it to test his new subjects, to
see if they played well with others. Occasionally that backfired, and Merk would stroll in after a good night’s rest to find blood seeping from a cell. In the end, not all pairings got along – in fact, they rarely did - and though Merk had suggested to his master that the prisoners remain shackled, Domitian had denied the request with steadfast regularity.
“Merk the Mighty,” he would say, laying a hand on the old caretaker’s shoulder, “where’s the fun in that?”
Merk, of course, added ‘the mighty’ when imagining the interaction. No one actually gave him that title except himself.
The simple truth was a little more complicated, however. Really, it was a means for Domitian to separate the wheat from the chaff, and to find out just what some of these contenders were made of. If he believed one had great potential, and another was unlikely to last long, he’d throw them together and see what happened. It was just his way.
As Merk continued his game of ‘guess who gets the bed’, the thudding of boots sounded in the distance. He set his eyes to the door up the stairs at the end of the corridor just in time to see it swing open. The two guards appeared with the blond boy named Finn draped over one of their shoulders like a fine garment of fur. By now, the old man had been fully caught up on the details of the prisoners. Only a small proportion of his guesswork had turned out right.
Merk rubbed his hands together.
“Where’s this one going then?”
He hurried down the corridor, lamp in hand, as the stairs creaked and the guards loomed. One pointed to the nearest cell to the bottom of the stairs.
“Her? Really?” asked Merk.
Neither guard responded, but merely stepped past the caretaker, opened the cell, and rolled the blond-haired boy inside. Then they turned and walked away, glancing at the old man with a bare whisker of interest.
Merk was used to it. He spent half his life lurking down here, and was well aware that he was a source of ridicule for many of the guards. He didn’t care. Master Domitian gave him the time of day, and that was plenty for him.