NationStates Jolt Archive

'...is a fantasy. Release a fevered dream. Do not struggle. Do not resist. It is meaningless folly. Escape...'

A goggle-masked guard stepped out of the small knot of crimson-clad officers and stabbed out with his prod. One of the prisoners twitched and thrashed under the electrical assault before falling to the metal decking where he laid howling in silent agony.

"No eye contact!" The guard stood over the prisoner and brandished his arcing bludgeon at the rest of the line-up. A dozen pairs of eyes dropped to the floor or were suddenly riveted to the back of the prisoner in front of them. There was a small moan from the miserable heap on the floor and the prod dropped again to send him spasming across the floor. "And no talking! No noise... at all!"

The guard stepped away and back into the cluster of guards, dropping his prod back into it's holster but keeping one hand on his belt. Several laughed and they returned to their private conversation as the prisoners tried to ignore them.

'...a fevered dream. Do not struggle. Do not resist. It is...'

One by one they stepped up to the the station where one guard stripped them of their shackles while two others stood ready with their prods while yet another stood on a slight platform with a riot gun.

"Hand or head?"

The question, asked in a snarl, was a simple one but one most of those in line spent much time considering. It was the first choice they had been given. All were wearing the same dark gray prison fatigues. All had the same short haircut if they had hair at all. The same rusty brown dust slowly covering them as they sat, moved, or even stood there. Now they had a choice and though it was a painful one it was still to be carefully considered.

The prisoner stepped forward and began to open his mouth before noticing the prods of the two guards moving towards him and quickly reconsidering. He raised his hand and the guard picked up the brander from the pedestal beside him and placed it over the back of his hand. A thick braided cable linked it back to the pedestal both for security and to provide the power the primitive unit would need. Red lights lit up, one after the other, and the prisoner clenched his fist and gritted his teeth as searing pain roared through his nerves.

"You are now prisoner five seven two two nine seven. Your brand will get you food, your number is your name. Use no other or you will be punished."

The brander was removed and another guard stepped up to clamp an iron hand on his shoulder.

"This way."

He was surprised to hear a female voice though even she spoke with a menacing tone. It was impossible to tell anything about the guards aside from their general build - segmented crimson hard armor over a black jumpsuit and a pullover hood with attached black goggles wiped out everything else. A series of random characters was printed across their chest as well: Name or number, it didn't matter really.

'...is a fantasy. Release a fevered dream. Do not struggle. Do not resist. It is meaningless folly. Escape...'

She led him over to the doors and all the prisoners turned and watched though they had seen it a dozen times so far. Once again they opened and red light spilled across the room and the dim sounds of screams and howls could be heard. There was a room beyond but the lights did little to reveal it's shadows and everyone could see a number of shapeless bundles wrapped in rags pull themselves further away from the light. The guards were un-fazed and the occasional laughter from their whispered conversation provided a jarring counterpoint to the screams.

The guard shoved him forward and pointed a light at a wall panel where a dim green light glowed. "There is where you will get your food once a day. There are more down there..." She pointed the light at a series of openings, large and small, with their doors crudely removed. Another shove and he was through the door and he turned around as it slammed shut with a final crunch. Behind him he heard footsteps and he spun again, clutching his branded hand, and peered into the dim red shadows. All around him the piles of rags were moving. Some were moving further into the light while others were moving carefully over to the green-lit food dispenser. A face came out of the shadows and he recognized the prisoner who had stood in front of him in line.

"Hey. We should stick together chum..."

He was instantly on his guard - he'd never been in prison before but the man looked rough. If he was even human. Ragged scars split his face into a rough 'Y' and he had chosen to be branded right across his forehead. A branding he had taken in stony silence.

"I hear things about this place you know? Things like there are cannibals down here. Like any one of these bastards will shiv you for your daily meal."

He nodded and the other prisoner stepped forward a bit then stopped as one of the ragged prisoners grabbed at his leg.

"Fooood.... Please... Food..."

"Get away from me you filthy..."

He kicked at him and the ragged strips of cloth were shoved back to reveal a pair of withered arms and a single clawing hand. The other was a ragged stump wrapped in bloody bandages.

"You see? If we don't stick together we'll end up like him. Someone cut off his hand for chrisake. For his food!"

(Rules: Single character only. Characters can be imprisoned for any number of reasons, but they don't know who or where they are being held. The facility is roughly equal to a modern large office building in terms of technology / facilities. I will be providing the guards, miscellaneous prisoners, and any other information that might be needed. If you can't get on IRC to ask questions I wouldn't bother.)

Piracy had always been regarded as a strange sort of crime. Many nations considered it repulsive, outlawing it with the harshest penalties known to man. Other nations used piracy for their own means, trying, instead, to utilize pirates to achieve the goals which they wanted to be carried out. Most nations, Jensen Svralis had learned, stayed somewhat in the middle, authoring legislation that seemed to oppose the act of piracy, but nonetheless keeping room open for the hiring of privateers, if necessary. Of course, most privateers considered themselves as wholly separate from pirates, but Svralis knew that this had always been nonsense. It was not difficult, at all, to get a letter of marque from this nation or another. He had had many in his time riding the winds of space.

Naturally, pirates came in as many shades as the nations that chased them. For every uppity privateer who insisted that he was a "naval captain", and not a simple pirate, was an intelligent freebooter, who preyed on merchant ships. For every freebooter were two dirtier villains, who not only attacked the merchant shipping, but also sold their crew into slavery, pillaged, wrecked, and took everything of value. These were the sort who most often came on the international newsreels, which flashed pictures of dead crew members, repugnant slave marts, and who always reiterated the calls for a "ending of piracy". It was definitely not a realistic goal, but the media had never had any inclination towards realistic news. Sensationalism sold, after all.

Svralis had dabbled in all sorts of piracy in his career. He had found the sort of "upper-class" piracy practiced by most freebooters more to his liking, which was perhaps the reason that he was alive. Killing, despite his career choice, had never quite been to his taste, and despite the fact that most pirates tended to scoff at those whom they considered "weak". Svralis had never felt the need to take the talk of insignificant fools personally. Most of the time, they only tended to talk in that way because they were jealous of his successes. People tended to be like that. Jealously, Svralis had noticed, was among the most useful motivators of men. Besides fear, of course.

And success had come to Svralis, brining with it all its unpleasant companions. Nonetheless, Svralis, like any good pirate of his sort, had taken the good with the bad. Which meant, essentially, that he was enjoying the good life (or as much of the "good life" as a pirate could). Success was something which, the realization had come to Svralis, one could enjoy, no matter the circumstances. Pirates, of all people, were especially good at enjoying success. Despite the fact that he had come to have had second thoughts about all those nights in the bars of Auxilia, enjoying exotic women, fine food, and the company of his compatriots, Svralis knew that, given an opportunity like that again, he would have taken it, and taken it seriously. Success was something that Svralis knew that he would always covet and enjoy.

There had been downsides to piracy, of course, prison and the need to escape the authorities being the most formidable of those. Svralis had avoided those, for the most part, through a deft combination of skill, intelligence, and, well, luck. Luck was an essential part for escaping the authorities. That was probably why, Svralis reflected, there had been such a large price on his head. He still did not know how he had been caught - whether he had been betrayed by someone in his trusted crew (Svralis made sure to pick trustworthy crew members, but not to trust them too much) or he had simply been found by a clever member of an enemy force, or for some other reason all together. He had been captured, and that was all that he knew. Simply that.

Of course, Svralis had no idea where he was, either. Leaning back against...something hard (it felt like some kind of metal, but Svralis had never been very good at differentiating different materials), Svralis looked upwards, into darkness. His hand still burned from that night, so long ago. (He had chosen "hand", of course. Almost no one, he thought, chose "head.) He looked down, gazing at his hand once more. "No name." he whispered to himself. Prior to his imprisonment, Svralis had not been the sort to talk to himself. Since then, he had learned that, too often, the best friend of a man was himself. "Simply a number." That was all it was. That was all they were, now, simply numbers, like the materials on a rich merchant's list of inventory.

"That's all I am now." Svralis gazed around again, then, raising his head from brown hand, he faced the sky. "I am nothing more anymore."

Re-edit for post later. No time at work to enter a long post. Thanks.

(Bump for later post, no time)

Kovich 'Hector' Magliozzi or Zero-Zero-Seven-Five-Zero-One-Six-Two as he was now called had no recollection of the events proceeding his arrival. Just a man finding himself in a system with no hope for anything but the next meal, he had chosen to hide away and mind his own business while he tried everything he had to recall what it was exactly that landed him here. Never mind that even, he wondered where he was since any attempts to communicate with the staff were met with either silence or a demand to 'proceed'.

' Proceed through what exactly? ' he wondered to himself. ' Who am I? And why the hell do I deserve to be in here? '

Looking away from the glaring faces that seemed to be sizing him up for whatever reason, he lost himself in his thought before finding what seemed to be a decent resting point with a view of the life he now had. Shielding his forehand in the meanwhile from being bumped or hurt further, he took a deep breath and tried to relax in the anarchy that surrounded him. His back against a wall and everything before him, he reassured himself that everything would be just fine and that he would be 'surely' released once it was realized that whoever was in charge had made a mistake. After all, he was a good man with a decent past, right? Everybody had made some mistake, but it wasn't like he had killed anybody.

Not that he remembered, anyway.

Noticing a man who he recognized from the various queues to be stamped, identified, et cetera on his way in, he approached him cautiously. Kovich was a large man, so he was fairly confident in his ability to protect himself if necessary. Of course, the world had its various surprises like him being in the entire place for example. And it wouldn't take much to surprise him at this point given his entire situation was a shock in itself.

"Hi," he spoke up when he got closer to the man. "I'm... well, you can call me Kovich for short. I noticed you from some of the queue's earlier... I'm uh, fairly new myself."

Green eyes in the dark, study the numbers on the back of his right hand. Crouched in the shadow, in the vain hope that he'll be left alone, nothing to do but wait and hope, which was, to say, nothing to do...

A child's voice stirs him from his solace: "You know, you could just kill them all"

He clutches his legs to his chest, glaring off into space, hate in his eyes.

"Go 'way."

"What? You're just going to keep hiding? You want to die like this? You want to die a Thing?"

"You're dead. Go away, little bird..."

He whistles tunelessly. It doesn't really matter if They find him or not, They leave him alone -- the intricate tattoos on the left side of his face mark him...They fear the tattoos. Most of Them haven't the vaguest clue what they really mean, but what They Think they mean is close enough...

His hands clench and unclench mindlessly, and he laughs softly, manicly. He looks up, and his eyes are wild.

"What would she think, seeing you like this?"

He closes his eyes, shakes his head.

"She'd hate me."

"So why do you let Them do this to you?"

He snarls, "Because She's dead. So are you, little bird...you're all dead. Leave me alone."

"Fine. You can run from me, Fine. But do you think you can run so easily from Her?"

He whimpers. Time passes...

His eyes have closed, he seems to sleep...but not long, never long. The voices won't let him alone...

"Look at you, Shadow-man. You're a mess!"

He stirs, opens his eyes, then clamps them shut again.

"Go 'way. You're dead, Trish. They threw you out an airlock."

Soft laughter, a brushing touch on his cheek.

"That's just what They told you, and when have They ever told the truth?"

"Don't matter, anyways..."

"That's not my Shadow-man. Oh, what have They done to you?"

He opens his eyes, though he does not see...

"Lots. Don' wanna talk 'bout it."

"And you're going to let Them get away with it?"

He laughed, a harsh thing...

"They already have, Trisha. Or haven't you noticed?"

"Fine. You can shut me out, but do you really think you can do the same to Her?"

He clamped his eyes shut, dropped his head into his arms, and wept. And time passed.

"So you're finally done, huh, Darksider? What's it feel like? To know that you're finally beat?"

The voice is different from the others -- prouder, more boisterous, with none of the sadness and pity. This voice gloats.

His face stills, the tears have long since dried away, and he seems to loosen up, relax.

"I was wondering when you'd come by to gloat, Rand."

"You know me too well, Darksider..."

Rand moves to sit beside him...

"I never thought you'd go out like this, really. I've dreamt your death a thousand times...but dying alone, broken, afraid? Not you. All those years, you know, I really admired you -- you understood as much as I did that we were both necessary parts of the system. You were one in a million, Darksider...and now you're nothing."

He smiles, "Yup, Rand. That's me. Nothing. I'm surprised, really...I thought you'd be the first to dance on my grave..."

"We're all full of surprises..."

He closes his eyes, "Not me. Not anymore. Go 'way, Rand. You won. Enjoy it."

"No, I didn't. There can't be a Rand without a Darksider, and none of the others play the Game as well as you did. You're dragging me down with you, you bastard!"

"Pity, that..."

"Fine. You can turn your back on me, but do you really think you can turn your back on Her?"

He shook his head, slowly, then leans back, stares off into the darkness, sees nothing...is nothing. Time passes.

"Why?"

"Because you wanted it."

"How can you say that?"

"Because it's true."

"How...?"

"You know."

"You never cared before..."

"I cared then."

"Now what?"

"Don't know."

"That's it? You're just going to sit there until your body gives out?"

"Seems as good as anything."

"Fine. Die. I don't care. But She will."

Time passes...and then it doesn't. Darkness receeds, and he opens his eyes, and can't close them...can't look away...

"Why did you let them take you, Shade?"

He tries to steady his face, like he used to, but he can't. He stops trying.

"That's not my name. Not anymore."

She walks forward, rapidly, seizes his hand, points at the back, at the number burned there...

"And this is? This is your name, now?"

"I have no name."

"You never did, did you?"

"I don't remember."

"You didn't answer my question."

"You know why."

"They did it anyway. You changed nothing by giving up. Nothing. You gave up for Nothing."

"What do you care?"

"I still need you...and you left me..."

He nods, because he doesn't trust his voice...

"Come back to me..."

Nothing. He reaches out with his hand, grasping into the darkness, then slumps back against the wall. It is some time again before his eyes open. But when they do, they're different. He grunts to himself, swings his arm up above him, searching for a handhold, finds something. He pulls himself to his feet, unsteadily, wobbly.

He comes to lean against the wall, stumbles along. Light plays upon for the first time, but he does not flinch away. He is revealed to be a tall, hard man -- all the softness has been pared away, leaving behind only that which is too stubborn to die.

The left side of his face is covered in an intricate tattoo, a fierce thing, marking him for what he was, though few knew the exact meaning...even fewer did not know the gist. 'Beware.'

His hair is long and scraggly, though he has no facial hair. Presumably this is the result of some sort of dipilatory therapy received prior to his incarceration. It is a harsh choice, as a beard would have softened the chiseled harshness of his face.

He steadies himself, pushes away from the wall, walks more confidently, then he begins to pace the length of the small chamber he has claimed as his own. He does not stop until he is confident in his movements.

Things that had seemed insignificant at the time begin to come back -- even in the depths of depression, he missed little and remembered more. Perhaps he had always known that he would need it -- it was hard to say, as he no longer knew his own mind.

His eyes come to rest on the number branded into the back of his hand -- another name to add to the list. He has been many things to many people, and he be could the number, but, no, that would not do. A number did not inspire fear the way words did...and though They had taken all of his weapons, even the implanted orbital-steel claw in his right fore-arm (the wound from that 'procedure' ached of nights...and there was nothing but night...)...he smiled, for the second time in a long time.

Names would come. They always did.

“...is a fantasy. Release a fevered dream. Do not struggle. Do not resist. It is meaningless folly. Escape...”

Her onyx curled eyelashes flutter, while her shoulders rose and dipped with each respiration and exhalation. Her crimson plump lips separated and opal white shown in contrast to her ruby lips. Her arms rested on her thighs with her left hand cupped around her right hand, faced upward. Her legs were crossed with her feet under her thighs. Her silky smooth ebony hair hung down to the middle of her back, with unruly strands that fell before her emerald eyes and tickled her button nose.

Oh, I remember the dream. I remember many dreams.
Her eyelashes suddenly stopped fluttering.

It seemed as the darkness behind her eyelids flashed several times to be quickly followed by a sickening thump on the metal flooring. To ascend to horrific screams and shills.

How many times have I heard this? Too many times that I have lost my count. I do wonder what happens to these souls. I do wonder what happens.

She began to rock back and forth with each dramatic movement her hair shimmered behind her.

"No eye contact!"

Her whole body shock as she sighed.

"And no talking! No noise... at all!"

Her eyes rapidly opened and her green crystalline eyes stared at blackness.

“Hello! COME GET ME! I AM TALKING!” She screamed at the top of her lungs to the point of causing her voice to be barely audible rasp.

No one came, nor would they.

Why won’t anyone come? Why am I always left her alone. Well, I am not alone.

As her finger softly grazed lifted skin behind her ear. The raised skin mapped out symbols, she assumed, why else would they be exactly the same behind each ear. As her cells of her finger meshed with the cells of the inflamed skin, her eyelids became heavy and soon did not flutter.

I always have my dreams....
(OOC: Sorry small post, will add more soon.)

Deep in the dark bowels of the prison the harsh clang of the doors slamming shut to herald the arrival was a muffled thump. Most of the residents ignored it to continue about the harsh business of survival or stirring slightly in their fitful sleep. For others however it was their bread and butter in much a literal sense.

'.. . ....... ....... . ....... ..... .. ... ......'

The man knelt - not that he had much choice - with his ear to the floor listening to the reverberations. He could still hear the monotonous chant of the scratchy speakers in the arrival bay though he could not distinguish the words. He was listening for the squeal and clang and the long silence that would signal the end of new arrivals. Next to him was a pile of metal shards - paper was rare and writing instruments rarer still - that he used to count the passage of the new arrivals. Sometimes he could swear he could hear the voices of those who arrived and he distinguished the metal scraps as male or female.

"Seventeen, master..."

Seventeen. His master dismissed the last as simple vanity but could not bring even his own withered heart to begrudge the cripple this one affection. He only cared for the numbers. Numbers meant food - and in this place food was power. Food and sex and cloth.

The scraps of metal were added to the piles - one for men, one for women, and another for the total. The piles were always changing as new prisoners arrives, prisoners were killed or died, or even more rarely were released. The Listener crawled back over to his Master on his hands and stumps to receive his reward. Food in hand he flopped over and greedily gobbled it down. Even here in the safety of his Master's lair he was not safe and there were many who would steal from a legless cripple.

"Sit with me..."

The Master gestured to one of the two women who sat quietly in a corner. Once she was seated at his feet he plucked the cruelly hooked iron bar from it's place next to him and placed it across his knees. Even in his own lair he was not safe. Like the Listener he had learned to guard what was his lest it be taken from him.

"Seventeen. And how many are unaccounted for? Another twenty?"

"Twenty three Master..."

"Twenty three?"

His hand went to the bar and he looked carefully at his friend who sat opposite him. Was he informing him or correcting him? Friends were not always friends always. He knew this well - his friend had been his former Master. Now his hand, like a dozen others, was daily carried to a nearby food dispenser. The rest of him... Things worse than the Master dwelt in the darkness.

"Three left the service of your rival. I have sent my own men to recruit them to your service."

The Master nodded and considered this. Perhaps to confirm that they would remain loyal to him they would have to kill one. Still two was better than none, though none could be useful as well.

"I will leave this to you. That leaves forty though. Forty who could be in my service. If we could bring them all to my service I would have one for every one of my rivals."

"Risky. To bring in the forty we would need to send at least eighty and this would leave us vulnerable. Perhaps we should try to gather the new prisoners only."

"Riskier still. If we send forty to find them there is every chance they will find the same numbers from my rivals. Then the Darkness would decide who would have them."

His friend nodded. The other Masters would be looking to gather the new arrivals to their service and while his numbers were larger his lair was deeper. The Darkness was never safe - if they traveled in numbers they would attract attention, and if they traveled in small groups they would be vulnerable.

"Perhaps while they are fighting over the new arrivals we could try to bring the twenty three into our service?"

"Yes. Bring them to me. Take care how many you send and do not risk them. Perhaps we can come out ahead through caution rather than zeal."

According to his will men and women were thus sent out to bring in the stray sheep and bring them before him. Those that did not resist or were unable to escape into the Darkness would find themselves brought before him. He was dark in flesh and strong in arm, scarred from many battles and always casting his eyes this way and that. Strong men stood at his right and left and at the doors. None stood before him with weapons though many had malice towards him. The row of hands strung above his chair would calm many an angry soul however.

Strange was the last of the new arrivals, to say the least. He had been caught again, no easy feat in itself.

Jekel Slipstream, known to many a lawman as the 'Quiet Butcher', was again in the custody of some nameless maximum security prison. The place stank of unwashed human, a mammilian reek that all but seared his sensetive nostrils. To be brief, it was disgusting...

"Hand or head, freak..."

The voice shook him from his wordless thoughts...

"Excuse me?"

He had no idea what the human was talking about, and the moniker of 'freak' wasn't exactly flattering...

"Hand or head, freak... And no talking!"

Jekel glared at the man, his right hand reaching for a knife that had been there for decades, but had been removed from him on his capture. He cursed inwardly, knowing this was going to involve some measure of pain on his part. As one of four surviving Shadowscale Grandmasters, he was a lethal instrument in his own right, but he loved his knives, how he loved those sharp slivers of steel, the feel of a well-balanced blade in his grip was nothing short of orgasmic to him, a feeling he'd been unable to top through use of recreational drugs or fornication, although both of the latter had been rather fun...

"Then how am I supposed to answer?"

Something hit him across the back of the head, followed instantly by the searing shock and heat of electricity running down his spine. Jekel staggered forward a step, determined to show no weakness. The guard hit him again, and he staggered further forward, almost looking his balance. Darkness crept inward on the corners of his eyes, a sign of unconciousness creeping up on him. He estimated he had maybe two more hits in him before he collapsed, but wasn't willing to test that theory. That would be the end of him, he was sure.

Jekel reluctantly extended his left hand to the man with the machine, who promptly hammered a red-hot iron into the scaly flesh, barely leaving a mark in his dark-colored scales...

"Do it again... He needs a number..."

The device hammered the back of his hand again, the halon chemical in his scales killing the fire before it had a chance to do much damage. His kind had that sort of natural armor, fire being an ineffective weapon, or in this case, method of marking him. It took two more brandings to leave any sort of permanent mark, but when it was done Jekel had become prisoner number five-seven-two-three-zero-zero.

Kicked into the prison proper with little more than a jump-suit, the former assassin surveyed his options. It was a carnival of carnage within, and it still stank horribly. He would need a shank, most definitely, he needed something sharp, if not only for protection but to satisfy his own instinctive desires and put him somewhat at ease. Metal would be needed for that purpose, and provided he could find metal he could always make something sharp, worthy of an assassin of his caliber, but even a shard of glass would do.

It had been his expeirence in the past that there was always some sort of hierarchy within holding areas such as these, led my senior inmates who'd either served the longest sentences or had staged bloody coups to wrest control from the established leaders. In short, they were either very wise or very violent, and Jekel could care less. The point was that they usually had access to weapon material to arm their loyal troops, and Jekel need such materials to arm himself.

He just NEEDED something SHARP. The urge was calling to him, starting softly in the back of his mind, and he calmed it in a few concentrated moments, pushing the urge back into the depths of his brain. Jekel would need to get some cold steel in his grip soon if he was to rid himself of the urge totally.

Perhaps his reputation had preceeded him, perhaps not. There weren't too many black-scaled lizard men who snuck across the universe offing targets with a wide array of knives, but then again this place was apparently highly isolated.

The assassin stepped off wordlessly into the thrashing mob below, pushing and shoving his way through...