* * *
No pain? No feeling. No light.
He tried to move, could not, but felt nothing holding him down. He could not feel his arms, his legs, his body. He floated in a senseless limbo, ethereal, incorporeal. A welcome respite to the eons of pain he had endured. Darkness, painless. Such pleasure he would not have dreamed possible.
He remembered. The prison, the attack. His enforcers and allies beaten, murdered. His enemies coming for him in the night. The torture they inflicted.
"Can you hear me, Mr. Vance?"
A voice stabbed through the silence. It reverberated with strength, power, and assurance. He did not recognize it.
"Can you hear me, Mr. Vance?"
The same question. He tried to speak, to answer. Nothing. A faint twitch near the mouth. He remembered. They had torn his tongue out. He cringed, the pain had been unbearable.
"Reduce the inhibitor."
The voice was softer, no longer directed at him.
A gnawing ache grew in his mouth, eyes, neck, his whole body. The pain returned. Not as terrible as before, but a haunting reminder.
"Can you hear me, Mr. Vance?"
This time he could feel himself nodding, and there was a slight resistance, a coolness on his face, a bubbling sound.
"Good," the voice said. "My name is Mr. Johnson. I am here to help you."
He felt the drugs in him, painkillers no doubt. They made it difficult to think, his thoughts muddled, distorted. Johnson offered help, but why?
"Your condition is stabilized, but still serious. You've lost several organs. Your hands and feet have been amputated, and your arms and legs shattered beyond repair. Your eyes are gone, your tongue as well.”
He remembered. They had spent hours torturing him. Cutting, breaking, stabbing. Cybernetic convicts usurping his place as kingpin of the prison.
"You are not in good shape, Marco. I can help you."
But what is the price?
"I can make you better than you were. Replace your damaged pieces with vat jobs, cyberware, even bioware. I have the resources to assure you a perfect recovery. A recovery to a better, stronger, much more lethal Marco Vance."
Lethal. The corners of Marco’s mouth twitched. He remembered his attackers, and they deserved lethal vengeance.
"Would you like me to help you?"
Silence. He could feel bubbles caressing his bare skin. He floated in water, liquid, totally submerged. He felt tubes intruding on his flesh. The pain grew, but so did his lucidity.
"A nod will suffice, Marco."
Johnson wanted something. He was powerless to resist, his only strength in knowing that Johnson needed him. For something. But what? He shook his head.
"Very cautious, Marco. But unwise. Without my help you will die. Painfully."
Threats. He hated threats. Except when he himself made them. He shook his head, harder. Vehemently. Liquid sloshed about his head. For a moment his knee touched something solid.
"You don't enter agreements lightly, I see. In this case, I would think you would be somewhat more yielding. However, if you desire a detailed explanation of my offer, so be it."
Offer. Offer he can't refuse. Comply or die.
"In exchange for my assistance you will deliver something for me. You were once a big player in the Regional Atlanta Metroplex criminal society. I can help you regain that stature. For this, a rebuilt body and return to power, all I ask is that you deliver a simple message to a certain man at a certain time."
Atlanta... Power... Delivery boy? Delivery to whom? Johnson could find any number of henchmen to deliver a message.
"So, Marco. Do you want my help?"
Debt. He will owe Johnson. Owe Johnson a small service. Deliver a message. Simple, strange? But with the machine, his machine, up and running once again, debts may be reneged and debtors eliminated.
He nodded.
Liquid caressed his face.
Dead Dwarves, Dirty Deeds Page 5