Ch. 4 Blood Cell

Randel looked up. A soft glow illuminated his tiny square of a cell. The moon was in its full glory tonight and brought with it a small measure of rare comfort. He stood in the corner, stretching to his full height, just to try to see it. He could smell the salty sea air. Even rotting seaweed smelled much better than the prison. He could almost reach the window, but even if he could, it was far too small for him to fit through.

The Lieutenant could fit through, came the unbidden thought. He shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking of her, not now. The company he kept these days was always on the lookout for potential weakness. If they knew he was more like Ferdinand the Bull rather than the proclaimed warmonger, and now, pit fighter, it would be a feeding frenzy worse than sharks feasting on chum. He had to keep a menacing exterior at all times. It was a matter of survival.

The reason Randel became a pit fighter was purely for survival, too. It really was that simple. Ice Cliff Penitentiary, nicknamed the Ice Box, was the oldest and largest prison in the Republic. It was run by an old-fashioned warden whose ideas about how a prison should be run were primeval. After a long day of back-breaking manual labor, Randel was forced along with everyone else to watch the horrific displays, which harkened back to the days of the Roman gladiators.

Randel hadn't even been in the prison for a week when without warning, someone pushed him in.

Later on he learned that it happened often, especially to new meat. Someone gets shoved into the pit and suddenly had to prove he wasn't a coward. Most of the time, the fighter had to face another fellow inmate, or the toughest set of guards, while at other times they brought out the dogs. Randel thought that whoever had pushed him was probably one of the guards, and was either just curious or figured Randel was too big to waste so much of their food provisions on.

Randel's first fight involved the dogs. It all happened so fast. One minute he was looking at the dogs from above, noting how riled they were. He counted their ribs and pitied them. The next minute he had fallen in and the dogs were instantly tearing into him.

Everyone who watched never forgot that fight. They all thought it was over…until the dogs started yelping. Randel counted himself lucky that there were only three of them. He was biting them back, grasping handfuls of sand and gravel and rubbing it in their eyes. He eventually found a rock and used it on their poor skulls.

It took several long moments before he was free enough to scramble for the nearest real weapon he could find, which happened to be an old and rusted fire axe. With his bicep mangled almost beyond repair, he could only use one arm. Still, he tried to kill them as fast as possible, and it wasn't just to save his own life; he just didn't want them to suffer needlessly.

His tough visage slipped only once at the end when, unable to stop himself, he stroked the last dead dog's scrawny body. He forced himself back, dropping the axe as he was subdued by the collar that now resided on his and every inmate's neck. It was only when he was alone in the infirmary that he allowed himself to cry quietly and mourn what he had done.

One might assume committing such deeds would be horrible because of the violence-their being on the outside of normal human behavior. However, this is why Randel was a good soldier: the fury, the frenzy, the sheer chaos that is the heat of battling for one's life hour by hour, and sometimes minute by minute; this is Randel's version of 'normal.' It was when he had to face civilians and live a civilian life that he was very much afraid.

Normal? What was a normal life supposed to look like? He had no idea. It had been such a long, and terrible war. He grew up within the war. The prospect of fitting back into a society that feared him, gawked at him and didn't really want him seemed insurmountable. He wasn't afraid to try, but he honestly didn't always know what the correct response was. He tried different tactics. He softened his voice, hunched over to make himself smaller, treated everyone gently and mostly made himself watch and listen to the people around him. It hadn't helped much. All a person had to do was look at Randel's face to decide he was probably trouble. It didn't matter if it were true or not. The truth seemed irrelevant in the war as well. Another year or two like that would have driven him insane.

Yet then… then he met Alice.

The solitude of having a cell all to himself was both a blessing and a curse. Without any bunkmates, he could drop his mask of intimidation and let himself breathe, if only for a little while. He didn't have to worry about keeping one eye open while he slept, although he did so anyway out of habit. However, it was also torture to be alone with only one's thoughts for company.

Sometimes his memories of Alice and his beloved Pumpkin Scissors cheered him, but at other times, like tonight, it made him painfully aware of how alone and vulnerable he was.

It had to have been about two years since he was kidnapped and brought here, by his reckoning. He knew they would search for him. After all, when he left for Rodelia, they came looking for him. Were they still searching now? Did they have any clue where he was? Were they all right? Was Alice safe and alive? Had they given him up for dead?

Of course, he knew he wasn't alone in his thoughts, in a sense. Indeed, almost every man in there was tortured by lost or unfulfilled love or desire. Often the only cure was a quickie with a mag. A skin mag was often the most prized possession, if anyone was allowed to have anything at all. There were punishments and rewards, the favored and the bullied. It was an archaic system.

If Randel was lucky enough, if he was extra impressive in the pit and the head guard was feeling unusually generous, he was allowed to have a visitor-a prostitute. He pitied them even more than the dogs. They were pathetic creatures, aged well beyond their actual years, with garish makeup and equally garish costumes. Randel was as accommodating as he knew how to be. He never forced them to do anything, even allowing them to sleep in his own bed. Many were often confused-why look a gift horse in the mouth? Some wondered if he was secretly a dandy, but the older ones understood, and appreciated his kindness, although they had to take pains to pretend he was like any other inmate. In return, they brought him news about the outside world. Unfortunately, they didn't know much about what was happening in enemy territory, that is, the Empire. Still, a Republican newspaper was better than nothing.

Now, it wasn't that some of them didn't at least try to seduce Randel into sleeping with them. The Big Guy Upstairs knew they tried. Randel even heard that there was a betting pool among them to see just who would get him to crack. He'd have found the whole thing hilarious if it wasn't so pathetic. Imagine what Sub-Lieutenant Oreldo would think! Randel remembered how his suave superior would sometimes ask him if he wanted to go to places like the Windmuhle for fun. Randel always turned him down, often stating he had his cats to care for.

It was an excuse, of course. Randel just couldn't do it, not then, and especially not now. Even though he knew they would never have to worry about certain issues like having his child, he knew he couldn't allow that part of himself to awaken. He knew that if he did, he ran the risk of hurting them. Once fed, that hunger would never abate. He knew it to his bones. Randel just assumed that physical intimacy wasn't in the cards for him. He was just too…large. He thought of Sister Rosetta's insistence and it still made him blush all these years later. After the war, women and young girls desperate for money practically threw themselves at him, even though his mere visage had them shaking in their shoes. He didn't touch them, not once. After Galiena, he thought he'd never find anyone who wouldn't find him at least a little frightening.

But Alice…his Valkyrie, his guardian angel …was almost fearless. Randel leaned against the wall and sighed, sliding to the floor. While their first meeting was a little intimidating for her, especially when she saw him use his lantern, she treated him as a comrade, as one of the guys, working with him. Later on, even though she was royal nobility, she had allowed him to get close to her, to watch over her after she had collapsed in the train tunnel, touching his face in Essen while chiding him, sitting with him as he held little Dieter in his arms.

Those memories were safe, but then the unsafe ones would crawl in. Lifting her up after she had passed out at the ball, grabbing her from behind to save her from falling, feeling her writhe underneath him when the cave collapsed, seeing her again as though for the first time in that shimmering, gauzy Dove costume, holding her little body in the hospital, and at last, kissing her…it was all he could do not to groan aloud. He couldn't ever trade that kiss, not for anything. He hugged his arms, reliving the feel of her small, lithe frame against his.

Randel was so torn. He wanted to forget what had happened between them. He knew it wasn't right, with her being a noble, and him a…well, nobody. He also wanted to remember every last detail. He couldn't help it. The more he fought against them, the more intense his feelings for her grew. Some time ago, just seeing her again would have been enough. Now he wasn't so sure.

He chuckled to himself, trying to stop again. If she had any idea what he wanted to with her right then, he'd get much more than a slap!

Just fleshing out this chapter a bit more, also adding a much more mature tone. Remember, Randel is a grown man, and quite a manly man at that, imho. Imagine what it must be like to be in a world where everyone and everything is so much smaller than you. It has to be quite frustrating, and I think I'll be able to explore that much more later on.