Fortnightly Writing Competition: PRISON DRAMA (RESULTS!)

[Stupot]

Hello fellow pens men and women.

This fortnight we take a break from zombies and ghouls, and turn our attentions to monsters of a different kind. Prisoners. Okay not all prisoners are monsters, and some are even innocent but that's beside the point.
For this contest the only rule is to set your story in some kind of prison. Any kind will do but preferably it will be populated with enough people to create some kind of drama. It can be anything from a state penitentiary to a local nick to a basement full of slaves. I'm not fussy.

There was a great turnout last week so I'm sure you've all got another story in there locked up awaiting release. So get away from your cells, break out your writing tools, head to the chair... by your computer desk, don't be nobody's bitch and get writing.

Here are the voting categories (sorry I forgot to include them):

Best Character: Most unique, captivating, believable
Best Plot: Best pacing, most coherent, best overall story arc
Best Atmosphere: Strongest most consistent overall feeling
Best Setting: Best and most memorable use of time and place
Best Word Choice/Style Most unique and interesting narrative "voice"

Deadline is the 9th of December at MIDDAY GMT

Best of luck folks.

[WHAM]

It's in the blood

Rain falls down on the heads and shoulders of men at sea, as five longboats tether themselves to the side of a far larger ship, which stands still amidst the waves, despite the ocean waves crashing into it's sides. Lightning flashes high above, revealing the dark silhouettes of men at the railings, followed by a roaring boom of thunder.

“Get up there, ya gits! Move on up, or you'll never see the light o' day again! Up! Up the ladder!”

Rough hands push and shove at the ragged young boys cowering at the side of the two longboats, as they desperately reach up at the rope ladders swinging in the wind. Two boys on each ladder are holding on for dear life, knuckles raw and teeth gritted, and trying desperately to pull themselves up. Sprays of salt water soak them from head to toe, and the longboat rolls and heaves as wave after wave rebounds from the hulking side of the larger vessel.

To the left and to the right, other longboats carrying provisions are offloaded, the kegs and crates hauled up and away on crude rope pulleys as men curse and shout abuse somewhere in the darkness above.

“Please, Sir! I'm not supposed to... I'm not-”

A man in a red coat slams a flintlock pistol sideways and into the jaw of the pleading boy, who looks like he's barely fifteen.

“Up the ladder you sorry scum, or it'll be a drowning death!” -he shouts as others grab the bloodied boy before he falls over the side and into the waves.

More boys join the climb, goaded on by the soldiers in the red coats, as well as shouts hooting laughter from above. Up top, one of them slips and loses his grasp. He shrieks like some otherworldly beast as he tumbles, gets tangled in the ropes and finally falls, head first. There is a loud crack and a chorus of frightened shouts as the falling boy strikes the side of the longboat, which responds by swinging even more violently than before. The lifeless body tumbles overboard and disappears in the blackness of the sea.

“Last one's coming up! Depart!” -comes a shout, and the other longboat carrying fresh prisoners pushes away from the larger ship. A skinny young boy, with blonde hair and pale green eyes, his face covered in little cuts and bruises and his crude shirt stained with blood, grabs the rope ladder and begins his ascent. Sprays of salt water sting his eyes and make his cuts sting painfully. He makes the climb slowly, his hands and feet shaking with every pull, but after a couple of minutes he can finally feel the rough wooden deck under his feet once more.

Looking back down he can see the longboats pulling away, the men in the red coats barely visible in the light of the dim lanterns below. Somewhere in the darkness a boy wretches and whines as he empties his stomach over the railing, while some others weep and whine.

“Lis'n up, scum!”

A thunderous voice, rivalled only by the distant rumbling of the heavens, echoes across the deck. Silence falls over the young boys like a curtain, as glistening faces both pale and tan turn towards it's source. A flash of lightning illuminates the deck for a split second. It is enough to see shapes that might be more boys, huddled around the edges of the deck, to see a line of two dozen men, armed with nasty looking cudgels and knives, and the two dozen new arrivals, standing in a group, looking lost and confused.

“I'm cap'n Smith, an' I run this shithole! You, scum, have two options: do as you're told ‘n be quiet, or sleep with th' fishes! Welcome, scum, to the HMS Conviction!”

It sounded like he had hatefully spat out the last few words, and the finality of them was like the sound of the death knell in the air. The guards and their cudgels went to work immediately, herding the boys below decks and knocking down the older ones who tried to resist or showed any attitude other than obedience.

“Come ‘ere!”

The young boy with the blonde hair was yanked to the side by a guard, then shoved down to his knees. A minute passed in silence, before he had the courage to open his eyes. The other boys and the guards had stepped inside, save for the one guard who still remained. The boy looked up, but in the darkness and the rain all he could make out was the thick full beard on his face.

“What yer name, boy?” -the guard asked in a gruff voice.

“Sam.” -the boy replied “Why are y-”

“How old are you?” -the guard asked, interrupting the boy's question.

“Thirteen.”

“Your mother from London?”

“Yes.”

Why was he asking all these questions. All the other boys had gone below.

“Name!” -the booming voice caused the boy to jump.

“M-My mother's name was Maryanne. She lived in Jane Street, north of the river.”

“Is she alive?”

The boy paused for a moment. The question was odd and it gave him pause, but he replied nonetheless: “No. She drowned when I was ten. Three summers ago.”

The backhand blow came sudden and unexpected, sending the boy reeling.

“You lie!” -the guard hissed between gritted teeth.

The young boy, confused and afraid, looked up at the man now towering above him in the storm-wrought deck.

“Tell me, Sam, why did they send you here. What did you do?”

“I got caught stealing. I had to do it.” -poor Sam confessed, his voice shrill and desperate. “My uncle got hit by a horsecar and my father is in prison, so I was on the streets. I was alone. Please, sir, don't hit me. I...”

A hand with a grip like a vice grabbed the boy's slim neck and lifted him up so that only the tips of his toes touched the deck. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, and for a split second the boy could see the face of the guard; the thick beard and moustache that covered his features, the thin wisps of hair that were now glued to his scalp, and the pale green eyes that swelled with tears.

The guard's voice was a faint whisper: “My son is no thief.”

A roar of thunder drowned out all sound for miles, and it seems that the world shook and trembled at God's wrath. As the light subsided and the world went dark once more, the guard stood at the railing of the HMS Captivity, alone. No-one could hear him as he screamed in rage.

[Adeel]

Finally! You've the gratitude of the God(s), Stu! I'll try coming up with something.

[Stupot]

@WHAM - You weren't lying about feeling writey. Thanks for getting the ball rolling.
@Adeel - You're welcome dude. Now go forth and storify.

[Baron]

This is an awesome topic!  I'm already sketching out ideas.

[Stupot]

One week down, one to go.
Is anyone gonna give WHAM a run for his money?

[Sinitrena]

Prisoner‘s Dilemma(1)

Day 20903(2)

The smell of blood still lingered in his nose and the metallic taste was still in his mouth when the bell rang. He licked his lips and then bared his teeth. Who would dare disturb him at this time of day? He was hardly finished eating. There was no excuse for this! But the bell had been rung, announcing a visitor at the gate, who would soon enter the part of his prison that was meant as a meeting place.

The room as rectangular with a round cage in the middle, made from two lines of bars up to the ceiling. They were spaced about two meters apart, so that neither visitor nor prisoner could reach the other side, and there was not a single gate in this room. Between the two lines someone had drawn strange symbols on the floor. Two doors lead into the room, one for the visitor, one through a corridor of grates for the prisoner, that lead to the rest of his prison. A lonely chair stood in the middle of the cage, a second one had been placed in the gallery for the visitors. No physical contact between the prisoner and other people was ever allowed. Even when they brought him food it was through a special gate that made it impossible for him to reach the guards.

He didn't like visitors at this time of day, when his teeth were long and sharp and his shirt soaked in blood, when his pupils were slits and his nostrils still flared from the enticing smell of fear and death â€" when it was less likely for him to control himself. He could have stayed away. He could have stayed in the three rooms of his prison that were for him alone â€" his bedroom, his library and the room he called his dining hall even though it was just a dark and empty room with bare walls and a cold stone floor that would have looked and felt to everyone else like a slaughterhouse â€" a room that stank of death and decay, a room where old, dried blood plastered the walls brown and where the rotting remains of his feasts lay undisturbed. He could have stayed away from his visitor. They could not force him into the cage. They could not punish him.

But he was curious. Who dared disturbing him at this time? Most of them respected the hours he liked to keep and when someone broke this unspoken agreement it was usually for a very serious reason â€" or when Neschta came to see him, his old friend Neschta.

But it wasn't Neschta. The steps didn't sound like her delicate feet and the smell wasn't of fear or anxiety like he would have expected when there was a real problem and danger about. No, his visitor smelled young and his steps were wide and purposeful, arrogant. So, a young fool it was who thought the imprisonment took some of his danger away, who thought that iron bars and spells were protection enough and that the prisoner was a tamed monster.

When the visitor came nearer through the long corridor that lead to the cage, the prisoner smelled other things as well: The powder the visitor used in his hair was expensive, the oils on his skin were scented with roses and incense, his boots were of the thick leather of some reptile and at least some of his clothes were made from silk.

So he's rich and arrogant and thoroughly underestimates me, the prisoner thought, and his magic is weak at best. That will be fun.

The prisoner was waiting in his cage, sitting on his lonely chair when the visitor entered the room. He walked with his head held high and a certain sense of purpose in his steps, displaying all signs of arrogance the prisoner had already guessed from his smell. Other than his expensive â€" and non-regulation â€" boots, he wore the uniform of a cadet of the order. He was young, not a boy any more but not quite a man yet either. The rapier that was supposed to go with the uniform was obviously absent because nobody was allowed to go near the prisoner armed.

Most people couldn't tell if it was for the prisoners protection or their own. The cadet thought he knew and had argued with the guards that he was perfectly fine and in control of the situation and his own emotions and that the prisoner would not be able to entice any unwanted reaction. The guards had laughed, taken the rapier and sent the boy through the outer rooms of the building to the inside and to a meeting that most sane people feared.

When he looked at the prisoner now he was sure all rumours about the fabled monster in the cage were exaggerations. Sure, there was blood on the man's shirt and his canine teeth were longer and very visible when he smiled â€" which he did just now â€" and his pupils were slits and shone yellow in the darkened room, but other than that he looked like any other man. He was of average heights and wore his long dark hair in a ponytail as was fashionable at the moment. His clothes were neither elegant nor shabby, not old but certainly not new either. He sat on the chair with his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, and his hands behind his neck in a lazy position that would have screamed of the danger he really possessed to anyone else. But to the visitor the laziness seemed forced and the smile fearful so that he read insecurity and anxiety in the docile monster.

And afraid he should be, the young man thought. He is only alive because we allow him to stay alive and if he doesn't do as we tell him, there is no reason to keep him around. He's useful and knowledgeable, they say, and maybe it's true, but in the end of it, he solely depends on our mercy. There's nothing he can do, ever. It's kind of sad, really. But he has to obey, as it should be, and he will.

Visitor and prisoner studied each other for a while and then the cadet barked: “On your feet, boy! Show some respect!”

The prisoner obeyed immediately and stood. He looked to the ground in a show of submission but the smile did not disappear from his lips. If anything, it got wider and more dangerous.

“I apologize, my lord. Please forgive my impertinence.” The cadet graciously forgave the prisoner with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“So”, he said, “you are the famous older vampire, Ystichor, our order is so proud of, known around the world for the deaths you caused and condoned to live here because of a supposed unsurpassed knowledge about magic.”

“That is the usual description.”, the vampire said, inclining his head.

“You don't look like much to me.”

“Of course not, my lord.” The cadet heard neither the sarcasm nor the smile in Ystichor's voice. “As is well known, I am nothing compared to a strong sorcerer such as yourself.”

“So it is, boy, so it is.”, the cadet said, bathing in the kind of undeserved flattery he had heard all his life. “You may sit, boy.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Ystichor sat, his eyes still downcast but it became increasingly more difficult to stop himself from laughing outright.

He didn't like to be disturbed right after his meal and so he had decided to play with this boy but in all honesty he really wanted to break through the iron bars and ram his teeth in the boy's neck. It was easier for him to stay in control of himself when he liked the people he talked to and he certainly didn't like people who thought they could treat him like a pet.

There were reasons he lived in this prison, there were reasons he wanted to live there and he actually liked sharing his knowledge with the order but all the older members knew to treat him with respect. This boy did not and he wasn't the first one. As time went by and more and more people died who remembered when the prison was built for him and new faces filled the ranks of the order, they also seemed to forget that he had come of his own accord and that he and the order had come to an agreement a long time ago. Nowadays they only seemed to remember that he was their prisoner and that he had to do as he was told. They had begun to treat him like simple source for knowledge â€" instead of a partner to find new information â€" and a convenient way for scary executions of murderers and traitors â€" he didn't complain about that; it was better than pigs. When he had first arrived they had feared him properly and had discussed magic eye to eye with him. They still brought him all the books he wanted and his library was as big as the study library for the cadets but with every new year of cadets a bit of respect was lost.

Maybe a reminder was in order. It would hurt Neschta and she would be angry with him but she would also understand. She understood that they needed him to some degree and she knew that he might leave if they ever broke the agreement. She knew that she would die soon and that she was the last one alive who had actually signed the paper such a long time ago.

Is Ystichor decided to fight, the order would not only lose its source of knowledge, a lot of them would lose their lives as well. Time for a demonstration.

“My name is prince Estoi of Nairdaram.”, the cadet said, bringing the vampire's thoughts back to the cell. “But I allow you to call me <my lord>, boy.”

“How very gracious of you, my lord.”

“I know it is, boy, no need to say so.”

Ystichor bowed his head, seething on the inside.

“So, they say you have a great knowledge about magic. You may prove it. Tell me the main parts of a binding spell.”

Ystichor looked up sharply. How stupid was this boy? The general principles of all binding spells were very basic and this question part of the curriculum of the first semester for every aspiring cadet. That sounded suspiciously like homework and something that could be looked up in the library in about an hour or even much less if you bothered to read the right book like “The Introduction to Simple Magicks” by Zolower Caratan. But of course it was easier to come to an old vampire and ask.

“A binding spell, my lord?”, Ystichor said, “Well, first and foremost you need to know what you want to bind. An intimate knowledge of the being you wish to trap is not only necessary but essential.” - true - “This knowledge leads you to the second step, namely the possession of things the bindling likes, for example a virgin for a dragon. “ - a lie; dragons weren't really interested in the sexual experiences of their victims, while books were certainly enticing to Ystichor but the company of humans and a peaceful co-existence were even more important to him - “Third, you need the appropriate magical signs, namely the Bjanor, the binding sign, then the signs of the names, Sirals, and then the name of the being itself.” - true, but never as easy to obtain as the vampire made it sound - “And last but not least the most important part is of course your own magic you need to pour into the spell.” - true, but not the most important part,for far more important was it that the bound creature agreed to the binding.

With weak-minded creatures it was not difficult to convince them that their will meant nothing or that it was actually their will to be imprisoned but for a human being or a vampire it took more than that. But the prince did not need to know, in the old vampires opinion. As a matter of fact, it suited him perfectly fine for his demonstration when the boy did not understand this part.

“With these four points in mind, a sorcerer can bind any creature he wishes, my lord.” - false, obviously.

“Well done, boy.”, prince Estoi said graciously while already walking away from the prisoner. “You may return to your cell.”

Ystichor did so, if you could call an opulently furnished library with the newest and oldest books alike a cell. He fell in his winged chair, filled one of his crystal glasses with a mixture of an old wine and the blood of a recently executed murderer and laughed for half an hour. He was amazed at himself. He always feared to lose his cool, to lose control and show his monstrous face when he was disturbed such a short time after he had killed, but playing the humble prisoner for this fool seemed to have had the same effect as actually attacking him.

He had lived for years, for centuries in the wilderness when he had realised that he didn't need human blood to survive and only craved it like a drug â€" though he was sure that it was actually necessary in his youth. But he had missed the company of humans, the exchange of knowledge, the books he had so loved while he himself was still human and he was drawn to the towns and smaller communities and for a while he managed to suppress his bloodlust and he even became friends with some people. But it became increasingly more difficult the longer he stayed, the more humans were assembled where he lived... Twice he lost control and trice he fled before he did and then he met Neschta, Neschta, who was hunting an other vampire, a younger one, and thought Ystichor was the culprit when she met him. She wanted to kill him â€" and then they talked.

They still talked as often as possible but it was a long time since Neschta was a powerful warrioress, strong and muscular with a mind for magic unsurpassed by anyone else in her generation. Today, this evening, a frail old woman sat on the visitor's chair of the vampire's prison. Her mind was still sharp and her magic still impressive but her body had begun to fail her years before. Her curly brown hair had become grey and lank, her calloused hands were littered with age spots, her hazel eyes were clouded by cataract and her once proud and tall body was frail and small, especially since she walked with a stick that shook in her arthritic hands.

“It's been a while.”; the vampire said with his forehead pressed against the bars of his cell.

“Yes, it has. But I'm feeling better now.”, she croaked.

“Don't bother.”, Ystichor said with an indulgent sad smile, “I know it's not true. I can smell the sickness in your body, as you very well know. You are dying, Nesch. There is not much time left for  you in this world.”

Neschta laughed. “Diplomatic and polite as ever. - Are you going to offer to make me one of your kind again?”

Ystichor shook his head. “I made this offer over forty years ago and it is one of the very few things I regret. I will never do this to you, even if you ask â€" which you won't do. People die. We both know this, we both accept it. We accepted it a long time ago.”

“Xibrim.”

“Xibrim, yes.”

“I still miss him sometimes. And sometimes I fear I am the last to remember him.” There were tears in the old woman's eyes.

“I'll remember him.”, Ystichor said, “And I'll remember you.”

“I know you will.”

They were both silent for a long while, looking in each other eyes even when tears filled them and rolled down their cheeks. They were not ashamed of each other tears.

After what felt like hours, Neschta stood up and walked to the cage. She stretched her arms through the bars and Ystichor did the same but the two grills were too far from each other to touch. They had not felt the other's skin in half a century. Instead they both called onto their magic, Neschta calling for light and Ystichor calling for rain, and watched the little specks of rainbows that so reminded them of Xibrim's grave near the lake in the forest.

The spell was broken when Neschta began to cough. Blood splattered onto the floor. She pressed her hands against the grills, steadying herself. But it wasn't enough. Her strength was gone, she was exhausted. She stumbled to the ground in front of the iron bars.

Ystichor roared with anger. He felt so helpless. His friend died just three meters away and there was nothing he could do to help her. He was not meant to heal, he was meant to kill and Neschta's illness was incurable. He shook the bars of his cage, he ran against the walls, he roared and screamed and the scent of blood became ever stronger in his nose. Death lay close and called him over. His teeth didn't grow larger even though he always thought they did when his control slipped but they definitely felt sharper. His eyes became slits and his vision focused on a single event. His view was tinted by his own blood pulsing through the veins of his reptilian eyes. Someone died close by and he was not the reason for this death.

But he wanted it to be. He wanted to be the one drinking this woman's blood, to suck the life out of her helpless body. He wanted to feel it get weak in his arms and to see the look of incomprehension in her eyes. He wanted to taste her, to cradle her like a child, like one of his many victims he had killed such a long time ago. He wanted to be the one who killed. No-one else was allowed to have her, to taker her â€" to take her away from him.

Neschta, his friend Neschta, his old friend Neschta. How could sickness take her away? Her? She was so strong, so powerful, her laughter so clear, her anger so hot, her love for Xibrim so passionate, her friendship so honest.

The vampire screamed his pain to the world and filled his cage with eternal flames.

But he was still Ystichor, he was sill her friend, even as his control slipped away for the moment, he still stopped himself before he broke the spell. He still allowed the binding spell to stay intact, he was still an older vampire and his will had not yet changed.

When Ystichor came came from his rage, he sat against the back wall of his cell with his arms around his legs, rocking slightly. A lot of people were in the visitor's part of the room, though he didn't bother to count them. Some of them took care of Neschta's lifeless body, others eyed him warily. A man seemed to try to calm him down. Ystichor vaguely recognised him as Imteron, one of the current members of the council. He didn't really hear him.

“Leave; fast.”, the vampire said.

“You need to listen to me.”, the man said with a soothing voice that would have been appropriate for a wild animal. “You need to calm down. Everything is all right...”

“Neschta is dead.”, Ystichor snarled, baring his teeth, “Take her corpse and go  â€"  a â€" way. - Now!”

“As you wish.” The man inclined his head and ushered the other people out of the room.

Most of them had never seen him like that, most of them thought that he was tamed, most of them believed that the cages and the spells would keep him locked-in forever. They had seen it. They had seen him lose control and they had seen the bars withstand his attack. They didn't realise that Ystichor's strongest chain was his own will and as long as they didn't understand this, they wouldn't treat him with the respect he deserved and they were in danger.

“I'm thinking about leaving, Nesch.”, Ystichor whispered to the empty cell some hours later, “Now that you are gone, what is keeping me here? No spell and no wall and no guard can hold me if I don't want it so. You knew this and once the whole order knew it, but now? They are still supposed to learn it, but... Have you seen this boy who was here this noon? Such a short time ago, such a short time. He thinks he owns the world. Did you know him? Did you teach him? Was he one of your students? I hope not. I hope you chose your disciples wiser. He paid for the admission to the order, didn't he? Or, more like, his parents paid. He claims to be a prince. A second son or a third? Probably a fourth. Worthless, really. No political power, not enough magic to become a court magician. So they brought him here, where commoners are valued for their skills and noblemen pay for a position they don't deserve. Did you know him, Nesch? I'm sure you'd hated him. And if you'd heard how he called me <boy> over and over again, you would have hanged him head over heels from the Tall Tower for a while, so that I could see him from the library's window. We would have laughed about it the net time you visited and the boy would never have dared to show his face in my world again. - I don't know if I want to stay, Nesch. I don't know if I can. I don't know if I want to go. Its so strange; this single paragraph in our old agreement that allows me to leave whenever I want and guarantees free passage to the mountains of Zillamor. I never thought I'd take this path and in all honesty, I don't want to. I don't want this loneliness and this emptiness. I lived like that for much too long. It felt so good to be here, to be free. It felt so good not to fear myself, to talk to people and not always feel the urge to kill them. Not to be hungry and not to resort to pigs either. I know how some of the order feel about this part of the agreement, I know how you hated it that I am an executioner. Did you hate that they have to die like that or did you hate that I am used for such a task? I was never quite sure, I never asked, and now it is too late. Maybe, Nesch, just maybe I should have made you into a vampire forty years ago...”

Ystichor fell in a restless slumber in the corner of the forlorn double-barred cage.

[Sinitrena]

This is part two of the story. For part one, refer to the post above.

Day 20904(2)

The prisoners arms were bound behind his back. A look of sheer terror was on his face. The door fell to behind him and a surge of magical energy pulsed through the wall.

The room was empty and silent, bare of any furniture or decoration. The smell of decaying bodies reached his nose through the door on the opposite wall. You could hardly call he place a room at all; it was just the place between the two doors of a gate.

The prisoner tried to stand up. The guards hadn't bothered with securing his legs but it was still nearly impossible with his bound hands. Besides, there was no hope of escape. Until the door had closed behind him he had tried to fight back and had not allowed himself to succumb to despair but once they had thrown him and a single piece of paper through the door, he knew he was lost.

He had heard the vampire's screams just yesterday. The whole prison had heard the noise from this single unconnected building that was separated from all others by high walls and magic and that housed a prisoner that was executioner as well.

The door opened and the prisoner cried out in blatant and undisguised panic. He tried to run but there was nowhere to go and he fell on his arse, scrambling away from the vampire in front of him. Ystichor knelt down next to the man.

“So, what have you done?”, he asked conversationally.

“What?”, the prisoner croaked, confused.

“Yes, what? I mean, I could just read the verdict but I'd really like you to tell me. And if you tell me, I might even let you live a bit longer. After all, I can do for a long time without blood and I don't really need human blood at all. And I just ate yesterday. Was he maybe a friend of yours? Did you commit your crimes together? Do you have an interesting story to tell? Make it a long one, dear, make it a good one â€" and you may even live. Come with me, now.”

He roughly turned the man around who had pissed himself moments before and was about to vomit. Ystichor loosened the prisoner's bounds and pulled him to his feet. The man was unable to speak as the vampire guided him into his dining hall, where the body of his comrade, killed just the previous day, still lay. His eyes were open and empty, his face was wan, the skin wrinkled and cold. Ystichor pushed the prisoner to the ground where he retched up the meagre meal they had given him just this morning.

“Don't bother talking.”, Ystichor said with malice in his voice, “I already know what your friend and you did. You stole three boys from a village, none older than ten, you raped them, you forced them to watch as you mutilated them one after the other by cutting off their testicles and then you displayed them in front of the village's gate â€" all because the peasants couldn't pay the money you tried to extort from them. I saw it all through your comrade's eyes when I killed him.”

The prisoner was frozen in panic. Not even his eyes dared to plead with the monster standing over him.

“You know, some of the people they bring to me try to stop me. They say they aren't as bad as I am or that we are alike but while I do have a certain affinity to killing, I actually like humans and their company. I never enjoyed torture until I came here and met the likes of you. That's when I learned to kill slowly and to watch the fear grow in the eyes of my victims while their life disappears. I thought it would be good for me to live in a secured location and associate with humans but now I come to think that I would be better off far, far away. What do you think?”

The doomed man gave no answer and Ystichor didn't really expect one either.

“All right.”, he shrugged, “Let's get this over with, shall we?”, and rammed his teeth into the man's neck.

The prisoner cried out but soon fell silent as his blood surged into Ystichor's mouth. He didn't actively suck at first, but waited for the weakening heart to pump the blood to him. Only when the blood pressure became too faint and the heart to quiet, did he begin to slurp the blood into his throat. Where he had watched the day before, he closed his eyes now to the magic and did not witness the murder of the children a second time.

The scholars of the order had asked him once if he could drink blood and watch the scenes of a human's life without killing him. Some of them had even volunteered as test subjects when there were still some among them who knew him well and knew that he was trustworthy. He had refused. Maybe it was possible but he was not willing to risk it just to figure out if someone was guilty of a crime when there was even the slightest chance to kill an innocent man. The scholars had stopped these inquiries soon after.

Nowadays, Ystichor would not be surprised if someone just brought a suspect to him and ordered him to extract his memories. It seemed so long since the majority of his guards remembered that it was a mutual agreement that had brought him here and not chains and threats of death.

He could have killed Xibrim and Neschta when he met them, but instead he had helped them to kill another one of his kind, one who was more powerful than the two warriors of the order. Did the world outside even remember that his actions in this one year and his knowledge in numerous years afterwards had saved countless lives?

The body of the murderer had slumped in the vampire's arms but the last drop of blood hadn't left the system yet when the bell rang again, announcing a visitor at the worst time possible. The blood was still warm in his mouth, the liveliness of death still fresh, the memories of mutilated children still new and strong and the need to kill again and again and again still at the forefront of his mind. Other than that, there were also his own thoughts, the pain of Neschta's death, the impression that the world around him had changed too much while his existence had come to a stillstand in a self-imposed exile in the middle of one of the biggest cities of the world.

But he knew who his visitor was. He knew it even before he smelled him because he had expected him. The events he had set in motion just the previous day when he wasn't even sure yet if he would go through with his plan, were ready to unfold.

“Your majesty.”, Ystichor greeted the cadet, inclining his head.

“You lied to me!”, the prince tried to thunder but it sounded more like a whiny shriek.

“My lord?”

“You told me there were four ingredients to a binding spell! There are five, you stupid, little shit! You forgot to mention that the bindling needs to agree to the spell! I failed a test because of you, boy!”

“I do apologise to you, my lord, but I did not lie.”

“So you were simply mistaken? You, the greatest scholar in the theory of magic and author of over a hundred books on magic and monsters?”

“No, my lord, I was not mistaken.”

“Then what are you saying, boy?”

“I am not wrong, my lord, and your answer was not wrong. How could it be, coming from you? No, my lord, what your teacher told you is merely what weak magicians like him want to believe. While it is true, that a binging spell becomes easier when the bindling agrees to the binding, a strong sorcerer such as yourself does not need such a crutch. No, my lord, your magic alone would be sufficient to bind such a creature as myself. How else do you think this prison could possibly hold me?”

“You are lying.”

“No, my lord. You know that I depend on the mercy of my captors and you have all possible power over me. - And it is easy enough to prove. You can feel the magic in this room, can you not?”

The boy looked around and at the runes on the ground. Yes, he felt the magic and the strength of the spell and he had seen how weak and docile the vampire was. And he could believe without a second thought that weak wizards lied to themselves because they couldn't admit their own weakness. These arrogant fools had told him that his magic wasn't strong but they just didn't understand his full potential. These theories and cautionary tales were for weaklings and peasants, not for a prince who was better suited to rule than to serve as a lowly cadet in an old-fashioned order that hunted monsters. Just because he was the forth son didn't mean that he should spent his time with commoners.

Ystichor didn't know the exact thoughts of his victim but he had already guessed the day before where his mind would go when nudged in the right direction. But he didn't want him to get too distracted from the magic runes.

“You can feel it, my lord, pulsing through the walls and the air between the cages. Reach out to them, my lord, feel their power. You know that this is true magic, magic like only someone like you could create. Feel it surge through you.”, he coaxed and the boy did as he was told, “Feel it, Estoi, and become one with the spell. You are stronger than the magic in this room, you can control it, you can break it!” - And the boy did as he was told!

In an instant all magic vanished from the prison and a split second later the vampire had bend the iron bars of the inner and outer cage and jumped his victim. The boy screamed in terror like the murderer just an hour ago. But Ystichor did not sink his teeth in the cadet's neck.

He didn't want to kill him, not just yet, and he didn't want to flee either. He could have broken the spell himself whenever he wanted, he didn't need a stupid child to do it for him. He could have done it when Neschta died but he wanted to stay in control of the situation, not succumb to his lust. He wanted the boy and the guards and the council to see what he was capable of when he really set his mind to it, and the easiest way to show it was with a royal hostage.

After this day and night they would either treat him with the same respect they had shown him nearly sixty years ago or he would leave and find a new home for himself.

He really wanted to stay. He would miss the company and his library, especially his library, which was filled with books from all over the world on every imaginable topic, many of them â€" those considered the best on any given subject by scholars of all major universities â€" written by himself.

“Be quiet.”, Ystichor hissed and pulled the trembling cadet back into the innermost part of his prison. “I don't want you dead, not just yet. I'm just going to teach you a lesson.”

“A lesson?”, Estoi screamed in a high-pitched voice. “You're nothing but a prisoner, a slave, boy. You will behave or you will die! I'll make...”

“Be quiet, boy. Do you really think it's a good idea to antagonise me while I hold you in my hands? Literally? Who ever told you it was a good idea to act like I am inferior to you, anyway?”

“You will pay for this! I am prince Es...”

“Be quiet, I say. - And sit, boy.” With these words Ystichor pushed the young cadet into the winged chair of his library.

“How dare you...”

“Oh, would you just stop it, please? You're embarrassing yourself. Your behaviour is not becoming of a prince and even less of a member of the order of Dalanor. You're just a whiny, lazy, arrogant, pathetic child that fell for the easiest trick imaginable.”

“I...”

“You are still talking boy, when you are supposed to listen.”

“The order won't stand for this! They will kill you!”

“Will they? - No, that's not a rhetoric question. I'm actually wondering this. Fifty years ago... Well, fifty years ago I wouldn't have needed to do something like this because they knew how dangerous I can be. But they wouldn't have tried to kill me for it because they realised that I am alive more useful to them than dead â€" and that my life is worth more than the life of a weakling of a cadet like you. And today, what will they do?”

“They'll kill you!”

“You said as much already. The truth of the matter is that they can't, so they won't, but the question is if they'll try.”

“They will!”

“So you accept now that that is all they can do?”

“I...”

“No, don't answer that. I could lead you into admitting that you are a toad with logic like that. That's not how you are supposed to argue. You did learn the proper way to form an argument from some tutor, didn't you? Or did you demand that someone spoon-feeds it for you?”

Ystichor squatted down in front of the chair and put his elbows on the arm-rests so that his face was on the hight of the boy's knees.

“Before I was a prisoner, I was a shepherd in Zillamor. Before that I worked as a blacksmith in a small village and some other professions in some other villages. Before that I was a hunter of game and before that of men and women. But before that I was a wizard in a land you probably never heard of in a town that fell in a war where a vampire was a soldier for a warlord. I wrote books about magic and I taught what I knew to everyone who liked to listen. I founded a school. I taught orphans how to read ant to write and aristocrats the artes liberales(3). I wouldn't have condoned a behaviour like yours from any student of mine but that is beside the point.”

Ystichor was silent for a moment and prince Estoi dared to ask: “What... what is your point?”

Ystichor laughed. “You are beginning to listen! That is actually one of my points. Another one is that I'm waiting for some guards to realise that something is amiss and show up. And then there is the point that I am somewhere deep down in my heart, underneath the prisoner and the monster, the blacksmith and the thief of life, a scholar and a teacher. I didn't come here to be treated like a slave. I didn't come here to be asked questions every serious student of magic can answer in a heartbeat. I didn't come here to torture murderers. I didn't come here to watch my friends die while I rage behind a wall and wish to be the one who kills them. I came here to teach. I came here to help. I came here to research. I came here to discuss new discoveries with the best minds of the world. I came here to learn and to educate and to fight against monsters â€" the monster I am through a wall and through spells binding me to this place and the monsters out in the world through knowledge and the hands of people who had learned from me. But people stopped coming. People stopped learning. I became part of the inventory of this prison â€" an object, not a person; a book instead of a teacher; an experiment instead of the scientist. - But I am conducting one last experiment, master Imteron.”, he said, standing up and wheeling around in a single movement.

In the doorway of his library stood the member of the council, Imteron, who had tried to calm him the day before, together with at least four guards, their muskets trained at Ystichor.

Estoi hadn't noticed them, transfixed by the vampire, but Ystichor had heard and smelled them some time ago.

“What kind of experiment?”, Imteron asked , his hand in the air in a stalling gesture to his men.

“The kind that will tell me if it is worth staying here, of course. You heard enough of what I said to understand that I might leave soon. Will I stay? Will I go? Will this little prince die? Will your men fire? Will you die? Will the order live to see another day? It all depends. It all depends â€" on you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven't figured it out yet, have you? There are muskets in your men's hands. Not that they â€" or your magic â€" could stand a chance against me, but this is, again, beside the point. I lost my last friend yesterday. I had other friends I met here, after I was imprisoned. But they died younger than Neschta and so my oldest friend was also my last one. I had friends before I came here, people I loved, and I can find friends when I go â€" but it seems like there are none to be found here. I live here because I wanted companionship without having to fear I'll kill them. But now that Nesch is gone, there are only murderers and idiots like this boy to keep me company. I actually think I prefer the loneliness of a forest to the loneliness of a crowded city where I hear people talk to each other but not to me. So my question, my experiment is this: How much is this vampire worth? Do you want me to stay, to teach, to talk? Do you want to fight me, to punish me because I threatened this boy? Do you want me to leave? What am I worth to you?”

“Kill him!”, the young cadet ordered, who â€" seeing the guards â€" had found his courage again.

Ystichor turned around slowly, a menacing sweet smile on his lips. “Why are you screaming for me to kill you, boy? If I wanted you dead, you'd died half an hour ago. No be quiet, child, and let the adults talk.”

“You really think you could kill us before we kill you?”, Imteron asked.

“I know I can kill every single person in this city without even receiving a scratch. I also know that I am guaranteed free passage should I ever want to leave. I assume some semblance of honour still exists in this order.” He cocked his head.

Imteron waved the guns of his men down “It does.”, he said, “And I know that you are a valuable source of knowledge to us...”

Ystichor howled like a trapped wolf. “I am not a source of knowledge.”, he hissed, “I am not e mere keeper of knowledge; I'm a creator. Your people can't just come to me once in a while when they are too lazy to look something up in a book. I want to talk to people eye to eye. I don't want to be treated like a caged animal or wild beast. I'm as human as you are, at least in some aspects and according to a certain definition. I don't need walls or spells and I can't stand to be ogled like a circus clown. And I am sick and tired of the memories of murderers. I am sick and tires of seeing pain and knowing that in theses memories someone enjoyed it.”

“So, what do you want, Ystichor?”

Ystichor looked up sharply. Very few people had actually used his name in a long time â€" with the exception of Neschta, of course. Some simply called him vampire, some used a degrading term like Estoi did, but most used no form of address at all.

“Freedom.”, Ystichor whispered, “I want freedom.”

“You want to leave?”

“No.”, he said, making one step towards Imteron, “No. I want to stay. I want people to talk to and I want to teach. I want to write books and I want to discuss them with equal-minded people. I want to lay on a patch of grass in the moonlight and to look at the stars. I want to visit Xibrim's grave at the lake and I want to bury Neschta next to him like they always wanted. I want to watch a rainbow connecting their graves.” He laughed. “I want a house with a garden and a cat. I want to feel people's skin and their warmth, I want to smell their perfumes and their oils, not the fear and stench of a prisoner. I want to run and to dance and to swim. I want to compose music and tend to pigs. I want to â€" I want to feel alive again.”

“These are just dreams, Ystichor.”

“Don't talk to me like I am a child!”, Ystichor snarled, “I am not. And these are not dreams. You want a concrete answer to your question, a substantial one? Fine. I want the small lake in the forest about five kilometres from the city where Xibrim is interred and â€" as I already said â€" I want to bury Neschta there. I want to live there but I don't want walls or spells or chains. I'll built a house for me there and bring my books. I'll teach if people are willing to learn and I'll have pigs or sheep to eat or â€" when I feel like it â€" wild animals from the forest. I won't serve as your executioner anymore. I live there when I want to and I go wherever I want. I won't come to the city and only I decide who is allowed near my lake. Is this clear enough?”

“I can't allow this! You are dangerous! What if you lose control?”

“I could have broken the spell anytime I wanted, as you should know. I nearly did yesterday when Neschta died and I stopped myself. I could have killed this boy but I didn't. And the agreement grants me free passage if I want to leave. You think I'm less of a danger somewhere else? What shall it be? I leave outright, I live in the forest, or you try to kill me and everyone in this city dies?”

“Would you really kill every single person in this town if we tried to stop you?”

“Yes.”

“Even innocent women and children?”

“What do I care about them? Yes.”

“And if mistress Neschta had asked this question, would your answer have been the same?”

The question stopped Ystichor cold. He had thought there was nobody left who knew him well enough to call him out on a lie like that.

“No.”, he admitted, “I never lied to her. I wouldn't take revenge on a whole city just because of one stupid decision of a single man. But I would fight back. Everyone who attacked me, everyone who tried to stop me would die.”

Imteron sighed resigned. “I believe you. I believe that you would fight and I believe that you would win. When the council signed the agreement over fifty years ago, they knew that they could never hold you against your will. I sometimes wonder if you can really call this place a prison, or you a prisoner. This will most likely cost me my position in the council but: The lake and the surrounding land is yours. Mistress Neschta's body lies in the chapel of the graveyard to be interred tomorrow. Take her. Do as you wish. It's probably what she'd had wanted. You can come and get your books whenever you want just please don't frighten the citizens too much. Let us know what subjects you wish to teach and what students you are willing to take on. I'll make sure that you receive a herd of sheep or pigs or whatever you want. I'll write a new agreement and sent it to you. And if there is anything else you need, just let me know. You are free.”

Ystichor walked to the door where the guards stepped aside for him but an angry scream stopped him in his track.

“You can't do that!”, Estoi bristled, “He's a monster, a murderer, a vampire. He threatened me! He took me hostage! You can't let him walk free!”

Ystichor sighed and was about to answer when Imteron beat him to it: “Be quiet, boy. You don't know what you are talking about.”

Ystichor left, smiling and without looking back.


-----------------------------------------------------------

Notes:

(1) Prisoner‘s Dilemma: You might have heard of a prisoner‘s dilemma from game theory. The title of my story has absolutely nothing to do with this. ;-)
(2) 20903 days / 20904 days equals 57 years, 2 months 25 days / 26 days (+/-; depending on leap years and longer and shorter months, of course)
(3) Artes Liberales: To quote wikipedia:

The liberal arts (Latin: artes liberales) are those subjects or skills that in classical antiquity were considered essential for a free person (Latin: liberal, "worthy of a free person")[1] to know in order to take an active part in civic life […] Grammar, rhetoric, and logic were the core liberal arts, while arithmetic, geometry, the theory of music, and astronomy also played a (somewhat lesser) part in education.

One would assume that in the world of this story, magical theory is also part of this.

[Stupot]

Krikey, Sinitrena. I'm going to have to book a day off work to read this ;-)
But thanks for entering. One quick glance it looks interesting. Looking forward to sitting down to read it. :-)

[Stupot]

Any more for any more?
I'm counting on you Adeel.
If anyone wants a day or two extra, I'm fine with that.

[Baron]

Man, I totally spaced on this due to MAGS.  Writing now, but I might need that extension.

[Stupot]

Man, I totally spaced on this due to MAGS.  Writing now, but I might need that extension.

No problem mate. How does 48hrs sound?

[Baron]

I want 52 hours.  And a helicopter.  And some pizza while I'm waiting.  And don't try anything funny!

[Adeel]

If anyone wants a day or two extra, I'm fine with that.

No problem mate. How does 48hrs sound?

Yes, please. I have an interesting idea, which I would love to pen down.

[Stupot]

Okay. you basically have until it's no longer 11th December anywhere in the world.
Go!

[Baron]

A bit more swearing than I care to admit to writing, but how else do you make prison dialogue feel authentic I ask?

The Facility

   They told me I'd be working my pipe in prison.  I hate it when stupid people are right.

   I'm Roach.  It's not my real name, but a little guy like me's gotta play the niches in a place like this.  As in, curl up in the cracks so you don't get squished.  I'm quick to skitter, but I always bounce back once the light goes out.  I got myself a set of smarts, both the street type and the mouth type, which is why I've also got myself a twelve year ticket here at the Facility.

   It started to go down last Tuesday.  I was with my people: Gripes, Poops, and Rocco my cellmate.  He was into hot rods and hot women before the Man put him on ice for 14 years.  Nice guy.  Dumb as green spit dripping off your chin, but big and strong and easy going because of it.  Nobody picked a fight with Rocco, or he'd cheerfully put your head through your shoulders.  But as I said, if you kept on his right side he was cool, and a cockroach like me can get away with a shit-load in the shadow of that kind of giant, know what I mean?  There was also Gripes, a grizzled lifer working on his third decade, and Poops, a chunky regular finishing the back nine of an 18 year game.  My people ain't pretty, and they sure as hell ain't good company, but in a place like this they'll at least keep the hyenas off your back.

   Anyway, we were in the yard watching the aerial traffic stream by overhead in the beltway corridor.  Rocco likes to try to pick out the latest models and, like I said, he's a good guy to follow close.  And then Poops drops the bomb:

   â€œWord is that old Boney did the Dutch.”

   â€œHell!” Gripes muttered, shaking his head.  'The Dutch' is a kind of backdoor parole, only you're the only one sitting on the board.  Hey, if you want out bad enough, there's not an army of shrinks or guards gonna stop you.

   â€œHow?” Rocco asked.

   â€œWho cares how!” Gripes spat.  He was a lifer for life, in every sense of the word.  He didn't hold with fellas pussying out with a braided bed-sheet or cup of toilet cleaner.

   Poops got a mean looking grin on his face. “Now who do you think Finks is gonna lean on?” he asked.

   â€œShit,” I said, putting all the pieces together.  Finks and Boney were cellmates next door to me and Rocco.  Finks talked ceaselessly like an old lady at a tea-party, and old Boney bore the brunt of it.  With him gone Finks was bound to wedge his head up against the corner of his cell door and run his mouth like a broken faucet at us.  “Shit,” I repeated.  “I hope they find him a new cellmate fast.”

   Yeah, I'd eat those words.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   His name was El Lobo, and he was a piece of work.  Long hair tied back mercilessly, a sharp razor of a moustache, and in between a pair of steely eyes so cold and hard that they could have doubled as industrial ball-bearings.  His arms were tattooed with venomous snakes and spiders, and word was he was clicked up good with some nasty people on the outside.  Normally the piranhas would give a new piece of meat a nibble or two just to see if it still had some kick left in it, but from the moment this guy chained-in it was like he was in an invisible ten-foot gerbil ball.  It didn't take a rocket scientist like me to figure out that El Lobo was Spanish for Murder You With One Fucking Finger Bitch.

   Now I'd done a bit or two in my day, and I'd seen the occasional Gangsta Prince strut his stuff around his concrete castle.  Guys like that would squish you like an ant, or even have it done for them by a fawning fan-boy, but you gotta consider that on any given sidewalk there are just too many ants for even the most vindictive son of a bitch to squish.  The trick with these guys is to avoid, defer, and at all cost not attract their malicious attentions.  Too bad we were his god damned neighbours.

   â€œHey.  You guys.  Get over here.”  You couldn't see him around the wall of the cell that night, but a disembodied tattooed arm beckoned sinisterly through the bars where our cell door abutted his.  Rocco and I obeyed without question.

   â€œWhat's with this guy in here?” the arm asked in a light Hispanic accent.  We could hear the faint snivels of a high-pitched whine echoing from around the corner.  “It's like he needs a new set of brakes or something.”

   Rocco and I didn't say anything.  We figured that Finks was pretty much fucked.  Right now we were more interested in saving our own skins.

   â€œThe thing is,” the arm went on, swivelling exasperatedly, “I'm more of a body man.  Knocking out dings and shit, yeah?  You put me on a brake job and I'd probably rip out the whole fucking engine.”  The hand clasped into a fist for emphasis, then disappeared.  Rocco and I held our breaths, waiting for the inevitable, but to our surprise the hand returned with a scrap of paper.

   â€œGo on, take it,” the hand insisted.  Rocco shook his head at me.

   â€œIt ain't been down no rabbit hole, if that's what you think.  What, you think I'm a dirty guy?”

   â€œNo, we don't think that,” I said, snatching the paper.  Mother fucker, it was a schematic plan of the Facility.  This Lobo guy was gonna make a road trip and he wanted us in the car.

   â€œI'm going to need a few things,” the hand continued.  It was understood that we could not refuse the favour now asked of us.  “Things that might be hard to get, and hard to move around, yeah?  I'm thinking you can use those plans to figure out how to get all that kit up here in your cell.  The list is on the back.”  The hand withdrew sinisterly.

   I spoke up quick: “Whoa, hang on there Cuz!  This is gonna take some time, man.”

   â€œI figure they put me in here knowing that I would murder this worm,” the voice whispered, now disembodied.  “And then they would put me in their hole.  I cannot go down another hole.  In three days I will rip out this squeaky man's throat: I can not restrain myself longer.  But before I do, I will make sure that there are a number of ...coincidental misfortunes on this tier.  Do I make myself understood?”

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   What the fuck would you do?!?  You got a bomb on your hands with a three day fuse burning, you'd damn well haul ass to stop it sizzling too.  Some of the things were easy to get and move, like axle grease from the shop and a garbage bag from the canteen.  But some of the things were fucking moon shots.  An M3 Med-Kit?  They were locked down tighter than the nurse's ass up in the Resuscitation Ward.  And how the hell do you move a 14-inch metal pipe through a place laced with security cameras, guards, metal detectors and freelance snitches? 

   Mr. Lobo wasn't much of a help.  “What, you want me to write you a ticket to the Resuscitation Ward?” the hand asked with more than a little relish.

   Poops found a good pipe for us on detail down in the pumping room.  He just ripped something out of service right out of the wall.  Me, I work a shift down in Waste, so I was able to salvage about six dozen shoe-laces to make one tripping rope.  Using the plans we were able to figure a way to fish that pipe up through the drains right into the cell.  Turns out those drains are almost ten inches wide: not big enough for a man, obviously, but wide enough not to get jammed up with all the crap that we juice-suits flush down there.  The hard part was getting the damn toilet off the stack on our end.  Old Gripes helped out with a homemade wrench that he carved out of a wooden spoon on kitchen detail.

   â€œConsider it a farewell gift,” he said sarcastically, shoving it down the back of my pants when we were in a blind.  I think there was a tear in his eye when he left, muttering to himself.

   Assorted screwdrivers, a plastic shiv, a blanket, a watch, and at least six feet of 12 gauge wire.  The last would have been impossible to move even if we could lay our hands on it, but miraculously we found a length of slightly inferior wire behind the fixture in our own cell with the screwdrivers and some creative balancing acts.

   Now there was just that Med-Kit.  They use them for everything from gashes to broken bones, a technologically modern way to piece you together again so they can send you back to your lumps as fast as possible.  Gripes said it used to be that a man could get a two week holiday in rehab for being shanked, but now it's a 20 minute patch job and you're back on the block.  I've seen some bottom feeders beaten to a pulp three times in a session: they just do a rough patch job in R-Ward with the Med-Kit and send you right back into the fray.  Something about not wasting the hard time we've all earned for ourselves down here.  God damned right-wing politicians and the medical industrial complex that caters to their every whim....

   But fuck me it'd be sweet to have one, to cure whatever ails you.  Me, I was fixing on redoing my bum knee before turning over the goods to El Lobo.  Rocco, showing off his inner pretty-boy, wanted to take off a few scars.  But we were literally pipe-dreaming if we thought we could fish us something like that.  On the second evening we hatched a desperate plan.

   â€œWe gotta break something,” I said.  “You know, like a bone.”

   Rocco nodded, sizing me up.

   â€œNo, dumbo,” I shook my head.  “I work the Waste shift tomorrow, remember?  You get  banged up and taken up to the Resuscitation Ward and use that charisma of yours to distract one of them love-lorn technicians up there, and send the Med-Kit down the conventional waste chute.  NOT the medical waste chute, mind: we don't get access to that down in Waste.  You get it down the conventional and it will end up in the main stream.”

   â€œHow you gonna pick it out?”

   â€œI'll find it, don't worry.  From Waste I can hump it as far as the block's metal detector.  From there we'll have to fish it the rest of the way.”

   â€œI don't think a Med-Kit'd fit through the pipes...” Rocco mused, grasping at excuses.  That's when I hit his hand with the pipe.

   â€œFuck!” he tried to shout, but I covered his mouth before much noise could escape.  His hand was broke all right: you could tell by the way he wasn't trying to strangle me with it.

   â€œOne of you pussies drop the soap down there?” the smart-mouthed guard called down the corridor.  His buddy chuckled at the joke.  Bloody fuzz.

   â€œYou just hide that until my shift at 0800, got it?  Then get your ass booked up to the R-Ward.  We only got one shot at this.”

   We lay sleepless that night listening to the sickening squeaks of Finks on his last night on Earth.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   After canteen I joined my chain-gang heading down to Waste.  Rocco was supposed to get in a scuffle and then get booked up to the Resuscitation Ward.  Later that day he told me the whole sordid tale of how he was treated by Creasy Karen, a sixty-something year old med technician that looked more like a dried apricot than a woman.  Rocco let her fix his hand, and then swallowing all shame and not a little bit of vomit, he spontaneously kissed her.  Then he begged her not to report him, he just wanted to remember what it felt like to kiss a real woman again.  He was a little sketchy on the details after that, but suffice it to say that when I fished the med-kit out of the main Waste stream it was tangled up with a double-E industrial strength bra.

   â€œWhat'cha picking at over there?” a fat guard barked at me.

   â€œHoly shit!” I called out, thinking fast.  “The Warden threw out his uniform!”  I tossed the bra to a nearby pack of other prisoners who instantly ran with the joke, instigating a huge uproar.  During the commotion I was able to slip into a blind and tie the med-kit to a shoe-lace rope I'd tossed through the bars that sealed the Waste Division.  After I was through the metal detector I could retrieve it while the guards were distracted by the chunk of metal I'd plant on the guy behind me.  From there I'd do the chain-walk up to the yard for exercise, where I could get it fished up through a window in the confusion of the shift-change with the help of Poops.  He in turn would get it into the pipes where we could fish it the rest of the way into the cell.  It was a ballsy plan in more ways than one, but sometimes you gotta take crazy risks if you're gonna survive in place like the Facility.
   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   That night we triumphantly claimed that we had everything on the list.  I didn't know what El Lobo wanted to do with it, and I've learned that survival sometimes depends on not wanting to know.  We tried to pass the first item around the corner of the cell to him, but he refused, telling us to put it all into the plastic bag except for the 14 inch pipe and the axle grease.

   â€œDo you see the service tunnel marked on the plans?” he asked.

   Fuck.  I thought we were just playing a supporting role, but now it seemed that our involvement was only going to escalate.  I reluctantly looked closely at the paper and told him that I did.

   â€œIn there you will find two main power wires that supply all the blocks on the east side of the Facility.  You must use the shiv to cut the coating and the wire in your bag to cause a short circuit.  Then, using the screw drivers, you must remove the grating so that you can access the maintenance corridor in the basement of this ward.  Do you understand?”

   â€œUh, yeah....” I said, trying to keep the incredulous chuckle from my voice.  “But how the hell is anyone going to make it to that service tunnel?  It's fifty feet underground with no access except from the municipal infrastructure outside the Facility.”

   El Lobo paused ominously, the venom of his tattoos flexing.  “You have one hour,” he said.  “Rocco.  Use the pipe on Roach, then lube him up and stuff him down the drain.”

   I was still processing what exactly the plan entailed when Rocco landed the first cheerful blow. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   Have you ever ooched your way like a worm through a ten-inch diameter tube of filth, most of your larger bones broken, your bleeding wounds salved by nothing but the urine diluted crap of the ass-end of society?  It was pitch black, and the air was foul when it was there at all.  It would have been a fitting end to a guy like me, stuck down a shit pipe like a wad of nastiness.  But you gotta remember something about me: I'm more of an insect than a man.  Yeah my lungs were partially collapsed, and I was more than a half-squished pulp, but like a half-dead insect I was still half-alive.  My limbs still twitched against all odds or reason, and like the cockroach I am, when they beat me down I simply popped up somewhere else.

   Fighting against the numbing pain I was able to force an overflow hatch and heave myself like a grub in metamorphosis into the eerie glow of the phosphorescent-lit service tunnel.  I fumbled desperately with the plastic bag to free the Med-Kit and start piecing myself back together.  How much time had passed?   There was no time to fix the rest of me yet.  I limped towards the wires and started desperately hacking at their covering, sometimes cutting with the shiv and sometimes gnawing with my teeth like a rat until both wires were free.  Then, using the blanket to insulate myself from the shock, I used my smaller wire to create a short-circuit.  Through the maze of pipes above me I heard the familiar alarm bells of the Facility echo hauntingly down into the service pipe before setting to work on the grate.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   I learned from Rocco later that El Lobo had killed poor Finks by stuffing a bar of soap down his throat.  The bubbling looked like a seizure, which convinced the guards to open the cell door.  When I shorted the power El-Lobo was able to quickly kill the distracted guards with his bare hands.  Grabbing the keys and their guns, he then freed Rocco and the two inmates from the other side of his cell.  A mad-dash ensued as they raced through the red-flashing corridors of the ward, the wails of the alarm pumping their blood as their hearts were in their throats.  They were able to bring down two more guards quietly and gain their firearms before they were bogged down in a fire-fight in the exercise yard.

   But then El Lobo doubled back, leaving his hapless compatriots to die in a spectacular lead- and laser-fuelled distraction.  Rocco followed as he wove his way through hallways and stairwells until at last they found the maintenance corridor, just as I was kicking my way through the last grate.

   â€œExcellent work, my friends!” El Lobo called, a smile on his lips.  Then he shot us both in the stomach before slipping through the grate and out the service tunnels to freedom.  I guess we should be grateful, since we'd probably survive the experience.  I guess he figured rotting away the next couple of decades in the Facility was a better reward than a quick head-shot death.  That's the kind of guy he was.  Too bad he forgot about the med-kit and my passive-aggressive tendency to get revenge once my enemies turn their back.

[Adeel]

I'm sorry but I don't think I'll be able to make it. I've an entrance test this coming Sunday and I am busy preparing for that. I feel ashamed to ask further extension because I don't think I deserve it. Sorry for disappointing you yet again, Stu...

[Stupot]

No worries Adeel. Real life has a habit of sneaking up on us sometimes, hence why I'm late with this.
The deadline had of course passed, and the time for voting had begun.  I really enjoyed all three stories, so thanks to Wham, Sinitrena and Baron for your entries.

The vote is now open. Until next Sunday so bite for your favourite a using the criteria in the first post.

A reminder if the entries:
It's in the Blood by WHAM
The Prisoner's Dilemma by Sinitrena
The Facility by Baron.

Get reading and voting, folks xxx

[Baron]

How many votes do we get per category? 

[WHAM]

Good grief, and here I was thinking that I wrote a fairly long piece this fortnight.

I'll try and read both of the stories over the next day or two. With so few participants I really hope we get more voters than just the participants themselves.