by Ethan Cooper
It’s a shiny metal clamp, solid and secure. It’s lined with some sort of padding, so it doesn’t hurt. I can wiggle my toes, and they’re not tingling, so it’s not tight enough to restrict blood flow. There’s a row of eight dials inset into the surface of the clamp. Reaching out and spinning one of them, the numbers cycle zero through nine. That’s a hundred million combinations.
(he’s got you right where)
(he wants you)
The chain that leads from my ankle to a metal rod in the middle of the room isn’t something I’m going to be able to break. I wiggle my leg, causing the chain to clank against the floor.
Feet are bare, except for the one that’s been wrapped with a bandage. Yes, the bandage is blue.
I decide to try standing. My legs are a little shaky, and I’m stiff, my muscles sluggish to respond to the commands my brain is transmitting, but when I don’t immediately fall over, I consider my experiment a success. A hand through my hair confirms that sleeping on the floor has messed everything up; there are some strands I just can’t get to move back where I want them.
The ceiling is stuck at some color between yellow and green that washes the room in bright, pale light. The floor-to-ceiling windows account for three of the four walls. Through the windows, all I can see is darkness. The fourth wall is black marble interwoven with veins of gleaming white. Set into the marble are two doorways. One is blocked by a closed door, but the other opens into a small room, where I can see a sink and the edge of a toilet. Behind that is a shower.
Okay, been in there already.
My stomach is aching, my mouth is dry, and something tells me that the pressure behind my eyes is gonna get worse.
Still on my feet, but my knees are starting to shake. Standing shouldn’t take this much effort, and yet here I am, upright only because I’m too stubborn to sit back down.
I take in as much detail as I can. I’m standing near the middle of the window, across the room from the marble wall, and I don’t even have to move to know that the length of the chain won’t let me enter the room with the sink. The metal rod I’m tethered to appears to have been driven into the floor directly in the center of the room. I reach out toward the windows behind me. There’s gotta be at least a meter between my straining fingers and the glossy surface of that window.
In the corner off to my right, there’s something lying on the floor. I could probably determine what it is without moving, but the ceiling lights just color shifted, now casting the room in an angry red and causing my outfit to go all purplish.
I shuffle over toward the object, tracing the arc my chain allows. As I approach, I can see more detail. It’s cylindrical, black with horizontal grooves. There are several indentations along one side. The memory comes to me: it’s a pulse dagger. Grab the cylinder, wrap your hand around it, and let your fingers slide into those indentations. Watch the plasma blade emerge from the hilt. Watch the surprise on your enemy’s face as you slide it into his kidney.
Can’t help it; I lunge when I’m close enough to do so. A sharp pain at my ankle tells me that the chain is sturdy, and I’m only ever going to go as far as it lets me, which in this case is about a meter and a half short of what I need. I’m on the ground, straining against my restraint, willing myself taller, imagining my joints stretching. My breath comes out of me all in a rush because there’s no way I’m going to be able to close that gap without detaching a limb or two.
The ceiling lights flare brightly. My mind imagines that they’re somehow mocking me. Well, not the lights themselves, but Calamity Carl for sure.
You really should have listened to me…
I push myself to my feet and continue my circuit. There’s nothing in the corner at the other end of the window, so I make my way toward the marble wall, searching the floor and the window for any weakness in my prison, anything I might be able to use to facilitate my escape.
At the corner opposite the pulse dagger, there’s a grate about thirty centimeters in diameter. The floor is concave around it, presumably to allow fluids to drain into it. It’s several meters away from the corner, which means the chain is long enough that it lets me stand over the grate.
Considering the room in its entirety, there are two things that don’t belong. The first is the blue-haired girl chained to a metal rod, and the other is this grate. I reach down, trying to see if I can get my fingernails into the seam around the edge of the grate. No luck there. And my fingers are too big to fit through it.
A quick survey of the room confirms that the only features marring the smooth neoplastic surface of the floor are the metal rod and the grate. I can think of a couple reasons why somebody might keep a girl chained up, but the reason for the grate escapes me.
Probably my lack of imagination.
The ceiling lights cycle to green, there’s a muffled hiss, then I’m sputtering backward, gasping at the rivulets of liquid streaming down my head, my face, my shoulders. Wiping my eyes, I look up to locate the source. There, in the seam between two lights, is a nozzle protruding from a small circular hole. A thin stream of clear liquid pours from it, falling directly into the grate.
Water.
(no wait you don’t know—)
But I’m already stepping into the stream, my head back, my mouth wide, tongue out. It’s cool and glorious, and something else—a sweetness that’s not natural but still belongs there, as if this is the way water would taste without decades of pollution and chemical processing. This is the way water is supposed to taste. I’m taking great big gulps, uncaring that it’s getting everywhere, in my eyes, my hair, my clothes, all over the floor.
Stepping back, I bend over, hands on my knees, just breathing, watching trails of water slide through dangling, slickened blue clumps of my hair, clear droplets taking flight only to splatter against the floor in front of my feet.
When I straighten up and turn my head to drink some more, the flow stops.
“Hey, turn that back on!” I yell at the ceiling, hoping Calamity Carl is listening. I don’t expect a response, and I don’t get one, but it felt good to say something out loud, even if it did sound like my vocal cords haven’t been used in a month or two.
Between my feet, the puddle of water shrinks as it trickles into the drain. I want to fall to my knees and lap at it before it’s all gone, like an animal.
Not gonna do that. Not that far gone. Not yet.
And besides, even though the floor looks pristine now, the thought of what happened on that floor drives those thoughts from my brain.
I return to my exploration of the room. Moving clockwise, away from the drain and along the marble wall, I’m closer than I thought I would be, which means the metal rod isn’t in the exact center of the room. But is that fact of any significance? Reaching out, I can just trail the tips of my finger along the wall. It’s not wet, but my fingers slip on it as if it were.
From here, I can see the room with the toilet and shower is just as sparse as the room out here. It’s functional, but that’s it. Everything in there is a pristine white, even the shower. Which means that Calamity Carl cleaned it. And that’s not something I can picture him doing. Maybe he took his armor off. Well, assuming he’s wearing armor. It’s gotta be armor. Because the idea that all those blades and spikes are part of his actual body is distasteful.
The other doorway is closed. Okay, I guess I don’t know it’s a doorway, but the frame looks exactly like the one around the doorway next to it, and the slab of metal that fills the opening could be a door. There has to be a way out of this room, and my mind tells me this is it. If it is a door, there aren’t any obvious ways to open it; I can’t see any handles or sensors. So, even if I wasn’t shackled to the floor, out of reach of well…everything, I don’t know that I’d be able to get out that way.
Calamity Carl got me in here somehow, but I don’t think he uses doors all the time. If he wants to be somewhere, he’ll be there.
I complete my tour of the room, but there’s nothing else
of consequence. Walking back along the length of the chain, I kneel to inspect the object currently keeping me from leaving. The rod is thick, about half the circumference of my wrist. It’s bent into a loop at the top, where the chain is linked. There’s enough room in the loop that I could shove my fist through it. I grab the loop with both hands, brace my feet, and pull. It doesn’t budge, and I’m not holding anything back. I experiment with trying to rotate the rod, but I can’t get it to turn either direction.
(it’s not going to be that)
(easy you’re here for a)
(reason)
The tour of my prison complete, I find myself just standing there, as if I’m a youngling who can’t find her mother. I feel a knot in my chest, one that abruptly threatens to move into the back of my throat.
I find myself fighting the urge, but why? So what if I cry. Nobody’s here to see me give in. I suppose Calamity Carl is watching, but that’s nothing he hasn’t already seen.
It hurts, it burns, but I manage to hold it all in, closing my eyes allowing my body to collapse to the floor.
I go prone.
I drift.
I sleep.
I wake.
Calamity Carl waits for me in one corner. His arms crossed, his torso resting against the glass, the pulse dagger beneath his feet.
“You were watching me sleep.” I mutter.
He nods. “You’re very quiet when you’re sleeping. You don’t snore in case you were wondering.”
My stomach rumbles. It’s either upset, or I’m hungry. The last thing I remember consuming was that fucking pill, and that didn’t stay down long. Upset or hungry, either way, there’s a dull ache in my belly.
“I need something to eat,” I say.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Blue. You don’t need something to eat. You want something to eat. But I will not be feeding you.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
He continues as if I hadn’t said anything. “Your time here isn’t about what you want. It’s about who you are, where you’re going, and whether you’re capable of completing the tasks that have been set before you.”
“Don’t speak to me like I know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve told you about the plan for your life—Devilgod’s plan.”
“Nobody has a plan for my life.”
“I assure you, there is one.”
“Yeah, a terrible one. Just look at my life.”
I can hear the tinkling of bells in my ears as Calamity Carl laughs. “You know nothing, little one.”
“Are you going to kill me?” Feels like I need to keep asking that question. If he’s gonna do it, I want to hear him say it. “Are you?”
“I’m going to test you.”
“Test me?”
“It’s really simple, Blue. Pass my tests, or I’ll fill this room with a toxin that’ll melt the flesh off your bones. Either you prove yourself worthy of the plan, or you die.”
“You are going to kill me then.” I was wrong. It turns out I didn’t want to hear him say it.
“I told you to leave or you’d bleed. You’ve made your choice. Why do you always choose the more difficult path?”
“I couldn’t…I mean, I tried.”
“All that matters is you didn’t.”
“Fuck you, this isn’t my fault! They—”
Calamity Carl pushes off from the glass walls, stepping toward me in measured steps. He bumps the pulse dagger with the tip of one boot, sending it spinning forward. “You’re not a youngling. Stop whining like one.”
I’m on my feet, trying to will the automatic me into existence, but she’s nowhere to be found. I want to charge at Calamity Carl, grab that pulse dagger, and shove it through his neck. Anything to silence his scolding.
“If you kill me, won’t that ruin Devilgod’s plan?”
Uncrossing his arms, shaking his head, he pokes a finger in my direction. “It’s not possible for me to ruin this—not when you’re the one making a mess of things.”
“I thought you said you were just the messenger?” I spit, eyeing the pulse dagger, which looks like it’s within reach now—though it’s too close to Calamity Carl’s left boot for me to have any chance of getting it before he can stop me.
“My message wasn’t getting through. You befriended wirewitches, and despite my repeated warning, you didn’t leave the island. I tried to help Devilgod’s way, and that didn’t work. Now we’re going to try something else. Something more direct. And knowing how cooperative you’re inclined to be, certainly more painful.”
“Fucker! Let me out of here!” I scream. I actually stomped my foot when I said that. Embarrassing.
I’m surging toward him. It’s awkward with the chain, so it ends up being more a lurch than a run. He laughs as he backs up. My momentum when I reach the limits of the chain sends my arms flailing and my body to the floor. Right where I wanted to be.
My fingers close around the pulse dagger.
Calamity Carl’s boot comes down on my fist, trapping my hand there. He could crush every bone in all five of my fingers with just a little more pressure. Fuck I’m stupid.
Tinkling bells. A whisper in my ear: “The only person holding you prisoner is yourself, Syl. You can leave whenever you want.”
His boot lifts up and away.
My hand free, I slip my fingers into the indentations on the pulse dagger handle, but of course, nothing happens. Why would he give me a working weapon? Why did I think that’s something he would do?
Calamity Carl walks past me. As he approaches the marble wall, the second door slides open, revealing the interior of an elevator. Without looking back toward me, he steps in. “I’ll be back in the morning. We’re going to start finding out who the real Syl is, and whether she should live or die.”
39/Shock
Unknown/Morning
Sleep wasn’t really something my body was into last night. I dozed but could never quite go unconscious. I remember drifting, just on the edge of the void, captive to a dream-like state, desperate to descend into the blackness.
I awake to warmth on my face. I open my eyes to the grayish orange glow of the sun trying to burn through the persistent cloud cover and the haze of pollution that hangs over the city. That the windows are no longer opaque gets me on my feet and clanking my way across the room, one hand still clutching the pulse dagger. I get as close as the chain will let me, wishing I could at least put my palms on the glass.
I’m being held in one of the island’s taller buildings, maybe the tallest, and a quick tour around the room leads me to conclude that I’m at or near the top of it; I can’t see any other structures that reach this height, and there are no visible parts of this building. It’s a little dizzying. The city below is partially shrouded in fog. Some of the more ostentatious buildings dare to rise through the haze, but they are as dark and unpowered as their shorter neighbors.
Except for the ones that are burning.
Columns of smoke rise across the city.
This place is dying.
I need to pee.
Fuck, there’s not gonna be an elegant way to do this.
I refuse to look at the ceiling and glare, or perhaps make some rude gesture, even though I know in my heart that he’s watching.
Rather not spoil the only clothes I have, so I put the pulse dagger on the floor and yank my underwear and shorts down, sliding them over the end of the shackle and onto the chain. Then, arranging the chain so it’s out of the way, I close my eyes and pretend that nobody’s watching—that I’m not squatting over a small drain, exposed to the world through floor-to-ceiling windows. At first, nothing’s happening. There’s a tension in my gut, and I can’t get my body to relax. I take a couple of deep breaths, exhaling long and slow. Gradually, the tension ebbs away, and when it happens, I can’t help but sigh into the room.
The flow is a deep yellow, which means that along with not getting any food, I’m also not getting enough water. I glance
up at the nozzle in the ceiling, half expecting it to turn on and spray me in the face—something to amuse Calamity Carl.
My body relieved, I’m stepping back into my shorts when the elevator door slides open and my crowned captor steps into the room. That ridiculous smile he’s painted on is wet and gleaming. His head swivels as he surveys the room while moving toward me.
“Water,” I say, grabbing the pulse dagger. I know it doesn’t work, but for some reason, I feel a lot better with my fingers curled around it.
“Look who woke up on the wrong side of the floor this morning! Are you asking for me to give you water?” He crosses his arms but doesn’t stop advancing on me.
I find myself backing up until the chain won’t let me move any farther away from him. Then I start moving sideways, keeping the chain taut. “And I want some food. I’m hungry.” Nothing he doesn’t already know.
“I told you I wasn’t going to feed you. Giving you food would be messy.” He waves his hand in the direction of the drain. “And water…you have to earn.”
Some switch inside me flips, and the static is back. It’s low, buzzing there in the background, whispering to me: You know I didn’t leave. I’ll never do that to you. Did you miss me?
“Stop walking away from me. I’m not someone you can avoid.” His voice is intimate in my ear, as if he were embracing me, holding me secure in his arms.
I force my legs to stop, but I can’t help it when I dip my chin and avert my eyes as he draws near. I’m trembling uncontrollably. Can’t tell if it’s my body protesting physical exertion without a proper source of fuel or if I’m just fearful of the violence to come.
(he’s going to)
(kill you soon)
(run)
“Are you ready to begin?” Calamity Carl asks, one finger on my chin turning my head upward.
I shake my head, “You can go to hell.”
The static flares, just a temporary spike. I flinch, the back of my hand on my cheek, eyes clenched for what’s coming.
But instead of the blow I expect, I hear the unmistakable sound of water streaming from the nozzle in the ceiling across the room. When I lower my hand and open my eyes, I see that Calamity Carl has taken several steps back. Wary of what he’s going to do next, I nevertheless have no choice but to drink every drop of water he allows me.