Hard Time

Ch.2

The concept of Hell is never a pretty one, but that is okay because it is never something we must witness face-to-face. Like telling ghost stories at a campfire, it is something we speak of only because it scares is, but what happens when we find ourselves in those stories? What happens when we find Hell manifest? The House on the Hill was as close to a real hell as anyone could hope to get.

The fires of the House burned eternally, burned everywhere, made the entire prison glow in orange and red heat that always persisted in every nook and cranny of that Arceus-forsaken place. With the fires, came the machines. The walls of that place were covered with a multitude of pipes and cables, metal sheets and proofing, giant gears and pulleys that operated the lifts and dumbwaiters that dotted the place. All this coupled with the constant movement of the prison, the grinding of machinery and lifts as they scratched across the walls and floors, and the miasma of steam that found its way, crept its way more like, to the most unsavory parts of the House.

Yes all of this, the eternal heat, the mockery of ordered movement, and the breath of steam made the House seem less like a prison and more like the inside of some great beast. A gargantuan monstrosity of fire and iron that had swallowed all those inside long ago and amused itself in keeping them alive in its own body of living fire, metal veins, and breath of steam. A living Hell.

And like Hell, the House went deep. True the building itself was large, crowning the hill on which it stood in dull gray stone, but this was only what was seen on the outside, what the non-convicts saw and accepted as truth. To use an ironic metaphor: it was only the tip of the iceberg. The truth went so much deeper. Into the unmitigated depths of fire and shadow the House went, far down into the hill on which it stood. How far exactly the network of pipes and corridors and cells went few, if any, could have said. Except maybe for the man, the Heatmor, who had built it all. Who had, with the labor of his own clawed hands and possibly warped mind, had created Hell on earth.

Warden Tinker stood in his small box-shaped office, hands behind his back, looking out at his fiery world. Compared to the rest of the facility, the Warden's office was a paradise. The walls were a dull red and metal like most of the House, but on the ground was real carpet, a large wooden desk and two matching chairs also stood out. On the desk, a black pocket watch with matching chain was open and ticked away contently, muffled by the sound of machinery and the hiss of steam being released.

Below the cracked window he looked through, a small group of Pokemon lined up single file on a metal mesh platform and marched following the commands of a few guards and Durants assisting in the background. The group was not too large, nor too small. The Warden could make out the head of the Hydreigon from a few hours ago. He, along with a scant few of the other convicts in the group, look mortified…..but not all.

Warden, the latest convicts are ready for processing. A small but rough voice resonated in the Heatmor's head. However, the Warden did not seem surprised to hear the voice in his head, he didn't even turn from the window.

"I trust there were no difficulties Zenon?" he asked.

A Misdreavus faded through the nearby red wall and stopped, facing the Warden's back. He wore around his neck, beads of bight gold rather than the usual pink of his kind; it marked his rank of Head Guard of the House. His voice, which echoed through the Warden's brain, was filled with age, experience, and annoyance.

No more than could be expected from a lot like this. Zenon grumbled.

"Oh? Anything special about these deliveries?" the Warden asked without sounding too interested or looking away from the window.

Neh, just the usual low-lifes and scumbags with the occasional troubled soul thrown in. The old Misdreavus grumbled. Nothing I'd be worried about.

The Warden did not respond for a few moments, when he did his voice had taken an odd tone too its usual coolness. "Nothing you would be worried about." He mimicked and finally he turned from the window and faced Zenon. "Then it would seem you and I are worried about very different things." Zenon furrowed his small brow in question; the Warden beckoned him over to the window with a single large claw.

As he floated toward the window, Zenon became aware of more sounds over the usual cacophony of machines and steam. Sure enough as he reached the window, he saw down below an all-out brawl occurring. All eight of the guards were involved in it, three of them already suffering from serious wounds, two of them unconscious…make that three.

Surprisingly though, all the convicts were up against the side of the metal gating. Their Ever-stone cuffs were holding true on their arms, wings, and other appendages. Most were yelling, cheering, for the single figure that fought against the punches and kicks alone.

The Cacturne was obviously a skilled fighter, even without being able to use his moves and his arms bound in front of him by Ever-stone cuffs, he was handling his own against guards who were not held back by anything. He was quick and swift, dodging most of the attacks and physical contacts, sometimes using the large cuffs to slam against someone's head.

Zenon smiled and released a wheezing laugh. Well that guy's got some spirit don't he?

"Spirit, Zenon? Is that what you would call it?" the Warden asked obviously not amused. He went to his desk and delicately picked up the black pocket watch which he dangled in front of Zenon's face. "What is the key to running a facility like this Zenon?"

The Misdreavus grumbled angrily at being subject to such rookie treatment. Oder, Warden Tinker.

"Order, precisely, I couldn't have said it better myself." He replied happily, knowing full well he had given this same speech to Zenon and many other guards and convicts before. "This facility is like a clock, you see. There are countless parts inside it all doing different things at different times. Normally of course, such a thing would cause havoc and destruction, but with order it can become a thing of beauty, of peace. However…" here he turned back toward the window and saw that the Cacturne convict was very close to defeating the last of the guards. "…all it takes is for a single worthless cog or spring to go against the planned movements before the order is ruined."

Warden Tinker snapped the black watch shut with a satisfyingly loud click. As if this were a signal from high above, the platform the convicts were on became swamped in a crowd of Durants. They scuttled past the cheering prisoners, leaving them in fearful silence as they then began to swarm over the Cacturne. The brave, bound soul was not going down without a fight, and he did manage to throw a few of the bugs off, but eventually sheer number over powered him. When the blanket of bugs cleared and they scurried off to some unseen dark places in the House, he was laying on the metal floor, green body covered in bite marks of varying sizes. He was brought to his feet none too gently by the very guards he had bruised, and shoved into the line of convicts that now continued to march without any word or complaint.

The Warden turned away from the window yet again and sat at his large desk. "I will go down and speak to this group myself, I think." He said.

Suit yourself sir, Zenon replied. If that's all I still have some things I need to see to on the 3rd wing.

"Just one more thing, we do have the file on that Cacturne, yes?"

Should have come in with the others this morning. He said nodding toward the tall file cabinet near the corner of the office. Taking a special interest in this one are you sir?

"That will be all Zenon." The Warden replied coldly

With another grunt the Misdreavus faded back through the wall he had come from. Warden Tinker waited until he was sure Zenon was out of telepathic range before he went to the cabinet and removed several files. The one he paid the most attention too went like this.

#15914- "Pins" Atticus Patrick

Crime: Subject was brought in for disturbing the peace and destruction of public property in the town's public garden. Later it was found that the subject was involved in several cases involving hired violence, smuggling, and larceny.

Personal Notes: Subject appears to be well versed in etiquette, and takes much in way of pride and appearances. Classic case of narcissism, coupled with an inability to handle being seen as weak. Despite this the subject appears to be highly cultured and knowledgeable despite no formal education.

Sentence: "House Treatment"

Warden Tinker found himself smiling at that last part. A phrase he had often seen in the paperwork of convicts sent to his facility. "House Treatment" indeed. You could complain about the House's methods even if you really had no idea what went on inside, but you could not argue with results.

"He will have to be watched…very carefully. Him and the others." He stared at the other files on his desk. "Welcome to the House." He grinned.

And there it is the next installment. To everyone who sent in an OC, thank you and they will be used, but I did warn you I probably wouldn't be able to use them right away. Don't worry though they will be making appearances very, very soon. I hope everyone is enjoying the story, and to those of you who have read Somewhere in the Shadows, please join me in welcoming back Pins!

Zenon is copyrighted by Snowsheba

The House and Tinker belong to Helpless Inc. (aka Me)

And Pokemon belongs to some pretty awesome Japanese people whose names I cannot spell.