The fog very slowly lifted from his mind, the thick blanket of lead uncovering his body piece-by-piece. It was a long time before his eyes opened to the blinding light above him, glaring down upon him with a fierce gleam. The room seemed ten-times louder with light thanks to the metal sheets covering every inch, polished into pin-point precision. Looking in, one would think there were seven of him, two defying the laws of logic and gravity.
Shaky hands pushed the frail body from the icy floor, realizing how badly he shivered. Pushing red strands away, groggy blue pools gazed about the room in half-interest. He held himself, body trembling violently with chills, and swore he could see his breath.
He was still too downed to feel that fact was quickly banished as loud metal footsteps clunked past the door at the front of the cell. They did not stop, soon disappearing somewhere far off, but the trembling had tripled, nearly toppling him over as he tried to stand atop uncertain legs. He flung himself to the door, looking as best he could out of the metal bars of the tiny window.
No.
No, no, no.
From his window, he could see a portal to the right. Left from there was a huge hole in the floor, in the center of which stood a platform. On said island rested a vicious looking machine. Long arms extended downward at sharp angles, menacingly long needle points reaching almost to the hard metal bed they hung over. While the bed itself was clean, spotless, the floor around it held deep, set-in stains. Blackened with time, as he hoped, smears of deep maroon and pure jet were ground into the cracks and scratches. Huge vat loomed over the top of it all, surely filled with pure acid. A control panel stood not far away, and a long bridge connected the island to the mainland.
He shook his head, stepping back from the door. No, no. No!
A pleading whimper escaped his lips as he hugged himself in terror, searching the room in earnest for any escape route. But not even a mouse-hole could dig itself through thick only three openings to the outside world were the window in the door, the toilet, and a tiny vent the size of his hand when he spread his fingers. The only other things in the room being himself and a long mattress laying on a metal table.
He closed his eyes, horrified fingers gripping his sharp red hair in agony as he shook his head hard, his mind's shouting ringing in his ears.
Why didn't they just kill me? Why couldn't they just kill me? I'll die here-- Horrible, terrible--
No real words formed, only pictures and memories. Had his entire life come to this? He had been ready to die to the underground rebellion, to overthrow the monster sitting on the throne. He'd been ready to die.
But not to live like this.
He'd heard stories of what happened to people brought into the prison. He'd personally seen the outcome once. Melting flesh and boiling blood, shrieks of agonizing pain and anguish, eyeballs exploding with oozing--
The lock clicked.
Wide eyes jerked forward, blurring slightly as he blinked away the frantic tears.
The lock spun, and a loud hiss was heard as the door gave way and opened. It was nearly ten-inches thick.
A top of light red hair strode in, calculating, cold eyes looking him over. Though their colors were similar, the two could not have been more different.
He, himself, was taller and thin. Unporportional body, his hair spiked straight and cut short. Dirt covered him still, though his clothes had been exchanged for striped prison rags, the missing of a single object around his neck leaving him feeling more naked than he could ever feel without clothes.
The one standing across from him stood with a straight back, thick arms folded over an equally thick chest. He was shorter, but made up for it easily with his bulk. But it was lean, somehow. Like the muscles had been worked for certain movements rather than sheer mass.
"What's your real name?" came a rather high, velvety voice.
Daxter quickly clamped his mouth tightly shut around slightly-protruding eyeteeth. He stared at the man with blank worry he could not hide.
"I said what is your real name?" His voice rose slightly as he held up an ID. "The underground never uses real names. Cooperate and I may be lenient." He waited. But when he was once again met with silence, he straightened, his nose rising into the air. "I see... I've broken heroes before. And you, boy, are no hero. You will die before the week is through."
He spun on his heel, striding from the cell, his guards following him. Daxter watched without changing expression as the door hissed loudly shut. But once the footsteps had faded, his eyes fluttered shut, his knees finally giving out and dropping him to the floor. He hugged himself tightly, a tiny sob catching barely in his throat.
Just remember, he told himself. Death is good. Death is freedom from this Hell. He nodded. Pray for it. Wish for it.
But don't ever beg for it.
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The freezing air clung to him like ice water, touching his very bones. He ran a hand limply up a thick bicep, goosebumps raising with tingles as the warmth left the skin. Lazy orbs gazed about the room he sat in, resting on the edge of the make-shift bed. A tiny vent broke the monotony, but did little to improve the mood of the room.
A sharp hiss met his ears, and he turned his head to see a group of three walk into his cell.
His cell.
He'd only just woken, and he was already claiming the space.
A redhead stood at the front of the pack, obviously leader over them for a reason. Paling red hair curled in jagged spikes over his head, icy eyes staring down at him in amusement. Red seemed to be popular this season.
"What is your name?" His voice was sharp and controlled, though no amount of control could keep the sense of impending doom from dripping out of his mouth. When no response met him, he frowned. "Why is no one talking to me today?" He looked at one of the guards, who shrugged. The redhead shook his head, sighing. "If you cooperate, I'll be lenient." He waited. "Tell me your name, or face the consequences." Nothing. "Fine. Have it your way."
The three of them turned sharply, striding out of the room noisily. The blonde only watched with half-lidded eyes. He would have made an escape, save for the fact of six more guards standing with rifles at the ready right outside the door, and for the fact he, for once, wasn't sure if he could defeat the redhead.
Lean muscles didn't compare to his own thick bulk, but the man had been weaselly and quick with his movements. He was probably fast, something he would not be able to defeat unless he got in a good hit. Which was unlikely without surprise or a weapon fighting alongside him.
He looked back to the vent. Rising, he let his hands fall to his sides and, upon arriving to the wall, set one in front of the vent. Warm air seeped through lazily. He paused before dropping to the floor in front of the vent, leaning back and resting his spine against the warm air. He hugged his front, knees up near his chest, closing his eyes. His mind began whirring, calculating a great escape.
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Fixed the problem with the POV changes. I'd had something there, but it didn't come through when I transferred the doc. :)
This chapter is a little lighter (I think, anyway) than the last. But I'm going to be trying to make the next dark and evilly (but I don't write those well! Here goes nothing, lol!) Hope you like, please review~!
CrazyFanGirl: Thank you so much for the review~ So fast! Oo I went ahead and fixed the problem, thank you for pointing it out~! :)