Four:
A Slow Day at the Office
Victoria awoke long before dawn the next morning to the sound of Jasper pottering about her room, delivering her breakfast and the gear she'd wanted to take with her to the Keep. He was making an effort to keep silent, however, and, in turn, she stared up at the darkened ceiling, feigning sleep. The room was bathed in shadow, hiding everyday objects in the gloom. The reflections in her mirror, when she rolled toward it, were fuzzier than ever. She waited until he'd returned to the Sanctuary to forcibly pull herself into a seated position and was immediately greeted with kisses and a wagging tail from Nero. She'd been plagued with nightmares the previous night and, shaking with the memory and the lack of sleep, it was a long while before she could drag herself from her bed. When she finally did, she curled up on the couch with Nero, making sure to bring a warm blanket and her breakfast tray with her. Victoria alternated between scratching his ears and giving him bits of her breakfast as she stared out at the dark gardens. It was a quiet morning, she decided. Not even the birds had risen yet.
She didn't know what to think about her impending voyage. About what possibilities laid in wait for her and what troubles would come. In fact, she didn't want to. She wanted to keep her thoughts as blank and even as a fresh piece of stationary, but thoughts kept creeping in. Both the Crawler's and her own. That she was failing the kingdom, that nothing she did would ever be good enough for the people of Albion. And she hated it. Hated it more than words could say. She knew the majority of it was rubbish, idle comments the Crawler was using to play off her fears and insecurities, but they sounded like the truth. Somehow that was worse.
Walter discovered her there almost an hour later, lost in thought and still not dressed. At first he said nothing. He simply sat down beside her, occasionally reaching out to scratch Nero's ears, and her thoughts seemed to quiet in response. Walter may not have been her father, but he was the closest she'd had to one since her father's death. The one who had stayed with her and supported her and comforted her when no one else could. And, as much as she loved Jasper and could say the same things about him, nothing would ever replace Sir Walter Beck. She almost felt stronger with him here, secure. Like her decisions made sense. Victoria knew what she had to do, she simply had no desire to do it.
"I don't agree with this," Walter finally murmured, leaning back against the couch. His red doublet gaped open at the movement, but he neither seemed to care nor notice.
"I know. But what else am I to do? Sit here and not look into why or who might want me dead?"
Walter frowned. "I didn't say I didn't understand—you know I do. And I would do the same. I just wish you didn't need to do it."
"As do I."
"At the very least, I wish you weren't considering taking a pacifist and a man who would gladly betray you for the proper sum. Take soldiers; damn it, ask Scarlet to retu—"
"Scarlet just had a child," Victoria interrupted quietly. She tried to keep her tone neutral but it was difficult. Her temper had been annoyingly close to the surface lately. "And soldiers might be seen as a threat. Jericho is one of the most brilliant people I've ever met and I'm not the one to refuse her. As for Reaver…I don't like it, either, but he made a good case. Loathe though I may be to admit it. He might be a wastrel, but he has his uses on occasion."
"I still wish you didn't need to go."
I know. She stared out the window. Though she couldn't see it from here, she knew, to the east, the first tinges of dawn had begun to kiss the horizon. The stars would begin to fade from view soon and the birds would awaken, calling to each other in a chorus of notes. She was certain the staff had been up for a while now, preparing for any visitors and working en masse to keep the old castle in fine repair. Soon the gardeners would be up, tending to the winding hedgerows and flowers with care. She suddenly felt a pang of homesickness stir in her gut and she tried to brush it away. This was not the first time she'd prepared to leave on a long journey and she doubted this would be the last, either. "You'll keep an eye on things for me, won't you? Make sure everything stays in order while I'm gone?"
"Of course. Both eyes, if possible." He huffed a laugh, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about an old sod like me. The Keep's going to be enough trouble on its own. We'll be fine."
Smiling to herself, she found she actually believed him. Maybe, just maybe, it would be fine after all.
The morning progressed smoother than Victoria had expected. In almost no time at all, she'd issued a quick bit of instructions to her housekeeper. Milton and Jericho had already departed for the docks in the time it had taken Victoria to fill her "bag of endless stuff". Reaver had not, apparently, left yet. And, after all the fuss he'd made to convince her to let him come along, she suspected that was not on purpose. However, that also meant someone needed to go warn him about the swiftly approaching departure time. No one wanted to be the one to warn him, though, and so Victoria took it upon herself to volunteer for the task. She found herself regretting it with every step.
The halls were mostly empty; only staff were around, cleaning and bustling about as quickly as possible. She nodded to those who wished her a good morning, trying to keep her expression pleasant. Usually, she enjoyed stopping to chat with her staff—finding out how they and the castle were doing, what rumours they had for her that no one else would tell her, and conversations they'd overheard from the nobility who had assumed their words were completely private—but today was an exception. She was in too much of a hurry. Somewhere in her mental stream of complaints and frustrations, there was a trickle of guilt. I'm sorry. I appreciate what you do for me, I really do. She just…didn't want to talk to Reaver. The thought both confused and annoyed her. She knew perfectly well why she had originally been angry with him, but there was a part of her that didn't understand why she was still angry at him. Why she was insisting on wasting her energy on a person who was never going to apologise. Wasn't it better to move on? No; he's an ass. She ignored the thought that that wasn't an actual reason.
Victoria nearly crashed into a maid as she neared Reaver's temporary quarters. Stumbling back, she started to apologise…only to pause. The maid was flushed, adjusting her clothes almost guiltily. Wait…. When Victoria said nothing, the maid murmured a quick "good morning, Ma'am" and an apology before hurrying off. Victoria was left standing there, irritation growing. You son of a hobbe. Reason was telling her to knock on the door and tell him it was time to leave. She wasn't in the mood to listen to reason.
She threw open the bedroom door, heart pounding in her ears, and barely managed to keep the door from slamming into the silk-papered wall. Reaver stood before a mirror on the opposite end of the room, fastidiously fixing the last details of his wardrobe. He glanced up from tying his tie to stare almost obliviously at her. She'd expected smugness and flirtation to be thrown at her almost immediately. Taunting steps to get under her skin and to annoy her furtherly, as was his usual custom. She had not expected to catch him off guard. Momentarily thrown off, she froze, fumbling for her lost words.
"It's a tad early for such violence, is it not?" Reaver queried dryly, tucking his tie into his waistcoat and pinning it down.
Says the man who shoots people who challenge him, Victoria thought. The words were returning, more than she wanted or needed to say and too quickly to keep track of them all. Just tell him we need to leave. Just that; nothing more. Drawing herself up, she felt the wrong words slip past her lips and did absolutely nothing to stop them. "I didn't realise that acquiescing to give you lodging was the same as extending an invitation for you to fuck my staff."
Reaver paused and turned to look at her fully. The deviousness was returning, a smug smile beginning to stir at the corners of his mouth and revelation sparking in his eyes. She almost cursed, realising she'd thrown away her advantage.
"Oh? I assumed it was of no consequence," he replied almost delicately, slowly crossing the distance between them. "Or are you concerned about the honour of servants now?"
"Of course I am. My staff are under my protection. You taking advantage of them is exceedingly rude to both them and myself."
He came to a stop before her, a little too much force in his steps as they echoed about the room. He seemed intrigued—thoughtful, if the way he was staring at her was any indication—and she hated that deviousness was a look he wore so well. Victoria tried to focus on the room behind him—anything other than the curve of his lips and the way he looked at her from behind tousled half-curls—but it wasn't working.
Leaning in, he purred, "And why ever does it bother you?"
Victoria scoffed, rolling her eyes as she returned her attention to him. "The only thing that bothers me is your utter lack of regard for anyone but yourself. I would appreciate you not extending that discourtesy to my staff."
"Is that really all that has you angry?"
No, not by half. "Yes."
"Are you certain?"
"Reaver, why would anything else be bothering me?" she snapped, unable to find a single scrap of patience left for him. "If you'll excuse me, time is short a—"
He had taken one last step closer, leaning in until he was able to whisper against her ear: "Then why are you so flushed?"
She wanted to slap him. A tingle had started in her palm, scratchy like the need to move. She clenched her hands instead, willing herself to not connect her fist with his nose. To not feel the bone and cartilage shatter under the blow. To not watch the shock and pain that would flash across his face in response, blood dripping down his cheeks and chin. No. Victoria stepped back, forcing herself to relax and to not hit him. She lifted her head, defiant and hoping to look as cool and unaffected as possible. The air felt cold against her cheeks and her throat hurt.
"The last carriage leaves for the docks in five minutes," she said. Victoria was relieved to hear her voice was clipped and calm, and that she didn't sound like she might snap at any moment. "Whether or not you're in it is your prerogative, but we will not wait for you. You might wish to consider being on time for once. Good morning."
Watching Bowerstone fade from view felt oddly surreal. She'd left Albion before, but it usually didn't make her feel like she was exchanging her home for a trap. However, the soldiers were polite, even if they weren't very conversational. Milton didn't have much time to chat, either. He would stay on deck to give orders to his men, but then, without fail, he'd be gone. Back into his quarters with little more than a word of greeting. Jericho was similarly absent, keeping to her rooms for almost the entire journey. Luckily, Hobson discovered he didn't take to sea travel very well and was similarly absent—resting so as not to be sick. She'd been mildly concerned about only having Reaver to talk to, but he seemed to realise he was the least welcome of the group and kept the farthest distance from her he could whilst still remaining vaguely close. Certainly, there were times he would offer an unwelcome comment, but, for the most part, he wandered about the deck or wrote in one of his little leather books.
In turn, Victoria kept to herself and kept an eye on the sea. She watched as Albion and its surrounding islands faded from view and as open water took over her surroundings. Days passed by in a slow, almost unchanging fashion. She woke, she waited, she ate, she researched, she slept, and then the process repeated itself. They were alone with no sign of life that wasn't avian. And, all the while, they sailed further South.
At one point, they sailed close enough to land for Reaver to call out to Milton: "I didn't realise the Keep was so close to Bloodstone."
"Not too close, fortunately," Milton replied, wandering over to him. Victoria stared at the distant cliffs and hills with a frown. That didn't seem very safe…or secure. A prison so close to a pirate town; what had her father been thinking?
Apparently Reaver agreed with her, for he asked, "Do you have many problems with pirates?"
"A few in the past," Milton confessed. "They attempted to take the Keep. After the first three or so ships, they stopped."
Reaver's only response was a noncommittal hum, but Victoria found herself more curious than ever. Her ponderings followed her the rest of their journey.
They arrived at Ravenscar Keep on a damp, grey morning just over a week after they'd departed from Bowerstone. Her initial thoughts, as they stepped off the ship and onto a small dock, was that it wasn't especially impressive. That said, the Keep itself was shrouded in a thick layer of mist, only allowing her to catch sight of the faint outline of a very large building in the distance. She cast a surreptitious eye around the fenced in dock, taking in the various debris and empty crates littering the space, before exchanging frowns with Jericho. Where are the workers?
"Welcome to the Keep, Your Majesty," Milton said, starting for the stairs at the far end of the dock without further ado. They slowly followed him—Reaver and Victoria occupying the front of the group, followed by Hobson, with Jericho at the back—past a boathouse and up a winding set of stone stairs. Milton didn't check to make sure they were with him as he added: "I sent a bird ahead to let my men know you were joining us. If you'd like, it wouldn't take much time to inspect the cells."
"I'll consider it," Victoria replied. She wasn't certain it'd be wise to parade herself in front of the prisoners. But she did want to see what their conditions were like and how Milton and his men were treating them. What better way to ensure they were safe than to see them with her own eyes?
"Is it…safe?" Hobson piped up before anyone else could get a word in. "Recent events have made me somewhat wary of convicts."
Victoria rolled her eyes; couldn't help it. She thought back to before she was a Hero—so innocent, so naïve—and she wondered if she'd ever been so oblivious to how dangerous the world could be. Had she ever been convinced that any part of Albion beyond the castle's walls was safe? She didn't think so. If she had, it was before she could remember—though she doubted that even a younger version of herself would have believed that Ravenscar Keep was safe.
Milton paused as though taken aback. He seemed almost lost before finally replying, "We have accumulated a number of dangerous prisoners over the years, but most of the population are harmless political prisoners sent here by King Logan. I doubt they'd try to bother you."
"Yes, but the harmless ones generally aren't the ones to worry about, either," Reaver observed dryly.
The soft gasp of horror Reaver's words elicited from Hobson was almost enough to make Victoria smile. Almost. Neither Milton nor Jericho offered any comments, however, as they continued up the stairs.
Sparse trees cropped up at random intervals, roots twisting against the rocky ground in a desperate attempt to keep themselves in place. Ancient, rusted iron lampposts lined the path, sitting crooked and too far apart like unwelcome relatives at a reunion. As they drew closer, Victoria realised her earlier thoughts about the Keep not being impressive were wrong. It was enormous and squat, sprawled atop the island's highest point like a fat hen atop a nest. A spire stood guard up ahead, connected to the prison proper by a long bridge. She could see the hazy outlines of others just like it in the distance.
Behind her, Jericho murmured something too low for Victoria to hear. Despite not knowing the words, she couldn't help but agree with the surprise in her tone. It wasn't just the size of the building that was impressive, either. The air…something in the air felt off. Confining. Heavy. Was a prison supposed to feel despairing? Or was it just her imagination?
Milton stopped halfway down the path and turned to her with a contemplative frown. "I think I might be able to find answers about who attacked you. It might be nothing, but I am prepared to lau—"
BANG.
An explosion rocked the area, sending Hobson cowering with his hands over his ears whilst everyone else reached for their weapons. They could hear voices shouting, panicked, up ahead.
"I take it this isn't part of your welcome presentation?" Reaver queried before Victoria could demand answers.
"No," Milton replied, removing his rifle from the sling on his back. "Something's wrong."
They hurried forward, Hobson ranting about how he's known the Keep was a death-trap all along. Victoria attempted to tune him out. Either this was a remarkable coincidence or Milton was a fantastic actor. She was hoping for the former.
The gate leading up to the Keep was locked and, more importantly, on fire. Flaming debris lied piled up against the opposite side of the bars. A small squadron of soldiers was waiting for them, apparently lost about what to do. At the sight of their commander, those that weren't wounded, or tending to them, sprang to attention.
"What the hell happened here, Lieutenant?" Milton demanded, striding up to one of the soldiers.
A very young, nervous voice answered: "Nobody quite knows, sir."
Reaver barked a humourless laugh. "I'm terribly sorry, but you don't know how the gate's on fire? What exactly is it you do here?"
Behind his helmet, the Lieutenant flushed and stammered out, "Some of the prisoners in Block A got free—started a riot, got 'hold of weapons, started killing our men! We can't break through! And now this."
He gestured awkwardly to the flaming path ahead. Milton remained quiet, clearly lost in thought. Victoria, however, was fighting the itch to run, move, to do anything. There weren't just soldiers at risk in there, but prisoners, as well. Smoke belched from a high up window and a trickle of dread made its way down her spine. Fire had no allegiances; it would consume anything in its way.
"Soldier, send a detachment to collect water," Victoria instructed, stepping forward. The realisation in their faces as the men figured out who she was wasn't gratifying. There was too much work to be done to waste time being star struck. "We need this fire put out as soon as possible. There are people inside who could be injured and, if anything's on fire in there, that number will grow. We need to contain it. Go."
Milton didn't disagree and there was a chorus of "yes, Ma'am!" before the soldiers grouped together once more and began deciding who should do what. She looked over her companions with a critical eye. Reaver still didn't seem concerned, but a worried tick had started in Jericho's jaw.
Hobson stood to the side, wringing his hands. "I believe I shall stay here…and…make certain no one blows up the ship."
He was sweating, though. Eyes darting from side to side as though he feared someone was behind him, waiting to attack. It occurred to Victoria that she'd never seen him scared before. He was always pompous and skeevy, as though the world couldn't touch him. Well…it was now. She almost felt guilty as she enquired, "What are you going to do if someone unfriendly finds their way here? It would be safer to stay with us."
Jericho stepped up to Hobson as he let out a squeak of terror. With a gentle hand, she patted his shoulder. "It will be okay, Mr. Hobson. I can protect you."
"I've got it," Milton murmured before Hobson could say anything in response. "Right. We're not going to be able to get in through the front. Once that door's locked, it can only be opened from the inside. Fortunately, I know this prison better than any inmate. There's a way in…but it won't be pleasant. You can stay here if you wish…unless you're up to getting your hands dirty."
Jericho nodded, quietly voicing her assent and clutching her walking stick a bit tighter. In return, Hobson whimpered and stepped closer to her.
Reaver scoffed, briefly meeting Victoria's eyes. "What's life without a little risk?"
"I think we can handle it, Commander," Victoria replied. "None of us are used to sitting on our hands. Lead the way."
"With pleasure, Your Majesty."
They followed him a short distance back down their previous path, shouts from the soldiers trailing after them. Milton led them to a gap in the path's railing. One by one, they squeezed through, finding themselves on the edge of a series of drops far above ground.
Milton nodded and pointed towards the remains of a drainage channel in the base of the Keep. "Down there."
He hopped down the first of the cliffs, carefully searching for low sections to drop down from, and Reaver followed. Together, Victoria and Jericho made sure Hobson was able to descend safely. After the last drop, they landed with a splash in ankle-deep water. Judging by the off-putting colour and the murkiness of it, Victoria had the terrible feeling they'd just landed in a puddle of sewage. Reaver cursed under his breath, bemoaning the fate of his boots. Victoria didn't think he had much room to complain; after all, everyone here was wearing boots…everyone with the exception of Hobson, whose shoes were just low enough for a flood of dank, fetid water to pour inside. She'd never seen such a look of abject suffering before.
"Commander," Victoria called out, "please tell me we're not doing what I think we're doing."
He gave her a grim, apologetic half-smile. "The old sewer system leads into the lower levels…it's as secure as the rest of the Keep, but I can get us through."
Victoria cringed. Sewers…she'd seen a lot of sewers during the fight to overthrow Logan. They were the fastest way to get around Bowerstone without being seen. They were like underground rivers, providing hiding holes for those up to no good and homes for those with none. Some swathes were actually cleaner that certain alleys in Bowerstone, but that didn't make them pleasant. She had a feeling this was not going to be one of the nicer sewers she'd traversed.
They trudged through the sludge, making their way towards an over-sized grate. The metal had long-since fallen away, but the stone arch remained strong and standing…leading into darkness.
The Crawler's laughter echoed through her mind in response to the unease. Her stomach clenched and hands trembled, but she tried to ignore it and focus on where to place her feet. Their steps squelched, muck pulling at their shoes, as the walls grew tighter around them. The earth under their feet slowly hardened. In the dim light she could see frilly mushrooms and dark moss clinging to the sides of the walls. Fortunately, the air didn't smell as bad as she'd assumed, but it was still somewhat…mephitic.
It was like walking into a mine tunnel, she decided. The only sound, apart from the rustling and breathing of her companions, was the faint drip of running water. It was soon too dark to see by any natural means and then the only source of light became the eerie blue glow of Victoria's tattoos struggling through her clothing.
"Commander Milton," Jericho enquired, "do you have an idea as to who may be behind this?"
"I suspect it's General Turner," Milton replied, wincing as Hobson stumbled through a puddle. His voice echoed oddly here, strange and grave. "I've been the warden here for seven years and I've never seen a prisoner like him. No one here has. It's like he has some sort of strange control over people—gets into their heads. We had to move him to a special block."
"Funny what…special abilities fail to make it into the stories," Reaver drawled, not bothering with any semblance of quiet.
"Yeah…well…I suspect you'll see just how close those stories are to real life soon enough."
They ventured deeper into the sewer, taking care not to splash through the stream of water running through the centre of the passageway. Victoria vaguely wondered what this place had originally been like. The tunnel seemed much too tall to be a sewer. Had the tide been higher once? Perhaps high enough to float a boat through? Or was there another purpose behind the tunnel's size? Mysteries for another time, she decided, well aware she'd probably never learn the answers.
The group turned a corner and were met with a grisly sight: a mouldering corpse lay against the bars of a gate spanning the entire passage; its arm outstretched toward a freedom it couldn't achieve.
"Well, well, it appears this path is not as unknown as you'd hoped for," Reaver observed.
Milton shook his head, but his tone was even as he replied, "It's impossible to get past this gate without a key. And I have the only copy."
He stepped up to the gate, fitting the key into its lock and giving it a slow twist to fight against the lock's growing rust. It swung open easily, however, when he gave it a light push. The others followed him through and Victoria struggled to name the sensation that settled over the group like fog. In the end, naming it didn't seem to matter. They were stopped by Milton before they could furtherly progress and he addressed them once more: "Before we go any further, there's something you need to know: we'll be coming out into the prison's lowest level. We call it 'the Pit'. The inmates here are…not right. Barely human. And quarters will be close."
If he was expecting one of them to call the mission off or to flee, he failed to get it. Instead, Victoria and Jericho's postures simply shifted; both of them readying to a fight they hoped would not take place.
"Lead on," Victoria instructed.
They slipped through a hole in the sewer's wall and into a filthy, compact hallway. Heavy iron doors lined both walls; the only way to see in or out of the cells they hid was a tiny window that couldn't even fit a hand. The air smelled strongly of mould and decay and screams echoed through the cramped hallways. A discarded wheelchair lay on its side, one wheel spinning forlornly. Victoria was fairly certain her heart was breaking.
"Welcome to the Pit," Milton declared, voice grim and tight.
Victoria looked to her companions, silently begging them to indicate she was seeing this incorrectly, but their expressions proved the opposite. Jericho's face mirrored Victoria's emotions, showing a sorrowful pain that seemed far too great for someone so young. Behind Jericho, Hobson had gone a paler shade of green and, at Victoria's side, Reaver's easy smirk had taken on a fixed and disingenuous quality. Despite how much it hurt to know this vision was not an illusion, it only strengthened the need to fix whatever was wrong here. This place hadn't just fallen into disrepair; this was caused by years and years of neglect. They needed to make this place safe again—to chase the demons from the halls and, if they were lucky, let Ravenscar Keep begin anew.
Still, Victoria didn't think she'd seen a more miserable place. Whispers filled the halls like a wisp of wind. The clank of metal, shuffling steps, the faint drip of water, and the fact that it was nearly too dark to see made the air even more unpleasant and eerie. If the Keep had ever intended on rehabilitating this people, then it was clear they had abandoned those intentions quite quickly.
Yes…give to us your fear…your terror…let us embrace you…let us take you….
Oh shit, Victoria thought, barely keeping the words from escaping. She could feel the Crawler unravelling, spreading, stretching the space she'd confined it to within her mind to its limit. Pain prickled just under her skin in response.
Come to me; let us fly into your heart.
She hated times like these, when it was trying its hardest to coerce her to give in. It crooned the words like a lover. Tempting. Soft. But they were poison. Followed always by agony and a fight to keep control over her body. She couldn't let the others know about the Crawler, though. Couldn't reveal that something was amiss. She was too afraid of how they would react. Would they kill her, worried she would turn on them at any time? Would they shun her? Or, worst of all, would they pretend they accepted it whilst still staring at her as though she were a monster?
And then she realised he wasn't actually talking to her.
The inmates' whispers had grown louder, more fearful. She could hear them moving about frantically in their cells. Their voices rose up in a cacophony. Shouts echoed through the halls. Pleas for salvation and to be spared rang out loud enough to hurt her ears. Faceless voices begging for them to "keep the monster away".
"What the devil's gotten into them?" Milton queried, staring about in confusion.
But the answer lied in the question itself: a devil. A dirty trick Victoria hadn't realised it was capable of.
You need to stop this, she demanded.
They will all embrace the darkness eventually, it countered. They will turn to moss and dust like those before them. Stopping will not save them.
That doesn't matter, damn you! Do you realise what will happen if they discover us?
They cannot touch us, little bird.
Really? And what exactly do you think two experienced fighters and a Hero will do to us, then? Tickle us into submission?
The Crawler laughed; its cackles echoing through her mind for a solid minute before fading into nothingness. And, when he grew quiet, she could feel nothing from him. No movement. No whispers. The inmates began to quiet down—their shouts becoming mewling whimpers and sobs.
Her companions were speaking to each other, but she wasn't listening. She concentrated on where to put her feet and hoped they left the ward soon.
"What a ghastly sight," Hobson griped.
They were nearly up to ground level, or so Victoria hoped—they'd been walking for ages, irregardless. They'd left the Pit and its labyrinth of wards behind, trading it for winding staircases that were arguably easier to see in. She'd assumed they would come out into one of the main blocks, but she had assumed wrong. It was a rounded room, dusty and full of out-dated equipment. At the far end of the room, on a low plinth, sat two blood-stained chairs crowned with metal domes. She instantly knew what they were. Old model shock chairs. She shot Milton a damning, accusatory look.
He accepted it with a placating gesture and answered Hobson: "I closed this room when I took over. The doctors who used it said it was for 'electrical rehabilitation therapy'. But we all knew the truth. It wasn't rehabilitation, it was torture. Most of the prisoners back there—" he gestured back towards the Pit— "sat in those chairs every day. If they weren't insane when they came in…" He broke off, shaking his head. "Let's just say I'd rather die than be strapped into one of those things."
Without further word, he turned and began walking towards the exit. A profound silence had settled over the group as they followed him. Another ward awaited, but this one was lighter and quieter. Victoria didn't hear any movement coming from the cells, but there was definitely noise coming from somewhere nearby. She wondered if they were sedated, resting, and, a moment later, she received an answer as they stepped into the next room. It was a morgue. There wasn't anyone in those cells. Or…no one among the living.
"It rather sounds like we're getting closer," Reaver observed, prodding at an empty coffin—one of many stacked against the walls.
A clatter in the next hallway sent Milton creeping forward to investigate. "Closer than expected!" he barked, leaping out of the doorway seconds before a bullet thudded into the frame just beside where his head had previously been. "Here they come!"
"Don't kill them!" Jericho insisted, readying her walking stick and shoving Hobson down, out of range, behind a table.
Reaver scoffed. "'Don't kill them'?! What are we supposed to do? Dissuade them from attacking with harsh language?"
Victoria roughly holstered her pistol with a huff. "She's right. Disarm and subdue them; don't kill them if you can avoid it. We can lock them in an empty cell until the riot's over."
Reaver tsked in disgust, shoving his own pistol back into its holster and stepping back to lean against the nearest wall in stubborn refusal to take part in any of this. Victoria struggled not to yell at him about it. Milton rushed forward, ducking under a rifle to plant a gloved fist in one of the prisoner's faces before turning to engage another with his sword. Jericho had slid into the fray, almost elegant in the way she lashed out with her stick and then withdrew. Victoria, however, was too annoyed to plan out her tactics. She was too angry to be certain she'd not accidentally kill anyone and there just…wasn't time for this. Sitting here, tending to a minor annoyance when Avo-knew-what was happening elsewhere in the Keep.
"Move!" she commanded, raising a hand. Jericho dove back into the morgue and Milton dropped like a stone as an invisible wave of force burst from her fingertips. The prisoners were lifted off their feet, shouts of surprise and horror spilling from them, before they were slammed into the sides of the hallway.
Milton murmured what sounded like a curse under his breath, staring at the dazed prisoners as though he'd never seen such a thing before. Silence barely had time to fall over them before Victoria hurried forward, carefully disarming the nearest prisoner and picking him up.
"We should hurry before they awaken," she muttered, moving back towards the cells.
Jericho and Milton slowly regained their feet, rising to join her efforts. Reaver, however, pushed off the wall and did nothing; watching with a cool, calculating expression.
The prisoners were beginning to stir as Milton got the last placed into a cell. "We'll be back for you," he said to one who was staring blearily up at him. He closed the door on them, the metal protesting with a loud screech, and began hurrying towards the staircase. "We need to regain control of the prison before this dissolves into a real bloodbath."
What if it already has? Victoria and Reaver moved to follow him as Jericho pulled Hobson out of cover. They ran up staircase after staircase, no longer attempting to hide their footsteps. It would be difficult enough for anyone to hear them over the sounds of fighting coming from above them. And, if anyone did hear them…well…did it matter? They'd be joining the fray soon enough.
They came out into a hospital full of injured—or dead—soldiers. The scent of blood assaulted Victoria's nostrils and smoke from a nearby fire burned her eyes. Two nurses were cowering behind one of the screens, staring up at them with wide, terror-filled eyes, and Victoria barely caught Milton's furious whisper of "this wasn't supposed to happen".
Silent, they left the hospital and made their way through the main hall. They paused just long enough for Milton to unlock the entrance, throwing open the doors and allowing the rest of his men to finally enter the prison, before entering what appeared to be Block A. Fires and fighting filled the hall; a cacophony of sound crashing against their ears. Those who hadn't been able to get out of their cells earlier either cowered as far away from the bars as they could or cheered on those still fighting. A guard's corpse dangled over the edge of the upper walkway, a chain wrapped around his neck.
"I don't believe subduing them will work this time," Reaver remarked, almost casually shooting a prisoner in the head.
Victoria didn't reply. He was probably right, but they had to try. Instead of arguing, she pushed her Will into the fires and extinguished them. Almost immediately, she felt exhaustion sweep through her body in response, protesting the over-use of Will. She tried to ignore it.
With aid from the new soldiers, they swept through both of the main blocks—locking away or killing any prisoner who tried to attack them. When it was over, however, they became aware of something they'd missed over the din of the fighting: a klaxon wail of alarms. Red lights flashing over a far doorway.
Milton cursed.
"The maximum security prisoners," he explained, rushing towards the passage. "We need to get there before he can make a break!"
They rushed down the passageway, bursting into the small chamber where the maximum security cells were located...only to find they were too late. The cells were all empty. Milton swore again, banging a gloved fist on the doorway with enough force to make Jericho flinch.
"Where are the prisoners?" Hobson squeaked, looking between the other four with wide eyes.
Jericho relaxed her grip on her walking stick, letting it hit the ground with a gentle tap. "They must have escaped during the riot."
Victoria frowned and then started as something brushed past her hip. She looked up just in time to watch Reaver brush past her, his expression unreadable but somehow self-satisfied.
"I knew something was wrong about this," Milton declared. "Breakouts are rare and we haven't had a riot in two decades…but the first time someone breaks out and attempts regicide this happens? No, this wasn't a coincidence. This was Turner. And now he's taken the others with him."
"If they're missing, then we need to get out of here! We'll be butchered!" Hobson fretted, wringing his hands together. He had the look of a deer about him, ready to run at any moment, only…much less graceful and elegant.
Milton heaved a heavy sigh. "Try to rest at ease, Mr. Hobson. I doubt they're anywhere on the island."
"We need to find them," Victoria replied.
"I agree, Your Majesty. As long as they're at large—as long as Turner's out there—Albion's at risk. As much as Turner should be priority, the others are just as dangerous."
"Who are the others?"
"Professor Ernest Faraday," Milton replied, stepping up to one of the cells. "He was a celebrated inventor and the brains behind most of Albion's recent technological advancements…until he turned on Logan. He's always been mild-mannered; never given us any trouble. But his creations…there's no telling what he might build them to do."
Victoria peeked into the cell. Bits of scrap and diagrams covered every covered every available surface of the tiny room. Posters hung on the walls, edges curling. Victoria stared at the one hanging over the lumpy cot in surprise: it was Reaver. Or a poster of his, at least. It had been vandalised to the extreme; paint splattering the surface, holes burned in, even a few slashes as if someone had taken something sharp to it. The word "INDUSTRY" had been crossed out and "DEVIANT" had been scribbled across it in giant red letters. Victoria vaguely remembered the man…or his name. She was aware she'd been introduced to him when she was very young, but she couldn't recall the specifics of the meeting. Logan and her father had spoken with him often, though. He'd been the former Head of Industry in Albion before Reaver, but she had no idea why he'd been removed from his position. She tried to conjure up a mental image of the man, but failed. She sincerely hoped he wasn't as angry with her as he may have been with her brother.
Milton moved on to the next cell. "Miss Mary Godwin—also known as Witchcraft Mary. She was a notable alchemist, but her skill…comes with a very disturbed mind. She was arrested and interred here on charges of witchery after the nature of her experiments was discovered. I…am told they were horrific. And I dread to think what she might do next."
This cell was much more organised, though not neat. Large books rested in stacks on every available surface and, where books didn't reside, vials and bottles rested. Page after page of notes in cramped writing sat on the desk, floor, and cot. It almost looked as though the room were frozen in time, waiting for its occupant to return. Victoria stepped momentarily into the cell, running her fingers over the covers of the books as she tried to think. A tiny figure of a balverine stared up at her, glass eyes glittering in the low light. She could find no memory of this woman. Had never met her. She couldn't recall Logan ever speaking of her, either. What experiments had she been doing to earn such a fate as to be trapped in this prison? Victoria wasn't certain she wanted to know.
"And you're already aware of General Turner," Milton concluded, stepping up to the last cell when Victoria finally departed Mary Godwin's, "the most dangerous of them all. He must have been planning this for months."
The cell was Spartan and clean to an almost obsessive degree. The bed was made with perfectly creased sheets. Nothing was out of place. The only decoration in the cell was a slightly dusty portrait and, with a start, Victoria realised she knew this man. He was stern-faced and severe-looking with a large beard…though the portrait didn't show it, she recalled him being polite and to the point. He'd visited the castle often in her youth, taking orders from both her father and her brother. She almost felt guilty at the thought of hunting him now. Did he truly hate her? Did he really want her dead? Was this all an accident? She didn't know, but it was beginning to disturb her.
"Where do you suggest we begin?" Victoria queried.
"I'm confident I know where we can find Faraday," Milton assured her. "There's only one place I believe he would feel safe hiding in. I propose we sail there immediately. Through that door—" he pointed behind them at a large, metal door— "is the records room; it holds information on every prisoner we've ever held here. I can have my men search for information on Turner and Godwin while we're away."
"Mr. Hobson should stay here with them," Jericho put in quietly.
Hobson stared at her, trying and failing to stutter out a reply.
"She's right; it's not going to be safe out there for you. You can't protect yourself," Victoria agreed with slightly less grace.
"It's not safe here, either!" Hobson protested.
"On the contrary, now that the prisoners are back in their cells, this is safer than most places," Milton added, making no effort to hide that he agreed with them. "I could assign a guard to you. The records room also has additional security. If anything happens, shut yourself in and lock the door. You should be safe."
Hobson floundered a bit, staring blankly between them, before clearing his throat awkwardly. "I…very well. If I must offer my services to this investigation, then…this study is obviously the best place to do so."
"Excellent; I'll show you around and we can prepare to leave," Milton replied, leading Hobson towards the study. They both entered the other room, Jericho following soundlessly behind.
Victoria started to follow, but drew up short. It wasn't like Reaver to not add a sarcastic commentary to a conversation—especially an important one. She turned to address him and paused. Reaver had not moved from Faraday's cell. He leaned against the gate's frame, unhurried and contemplative as he stared at his disfigured likeness on the opposite side of the cell. Victoria quietly joined him.
Initially, she didn't know what to say. She didn't really want to converse with him, but…at the same time, she did. She was curious. And Reaver's habit of keeping things from her did nothing to help staunch her curiosity. She stared between him and the cell, slowly attempting to put the pieces together, before remarking: "You knew him."
"As well as two infrequent acquaintances can know one another, I suppose…yes," Reaver replied, attention still focused on the poster.
Victoria turned her gaze to it, as well. "He seems angry with you. What did you do to him?"
"Me?" Reaver laughed. "Why, your brother stripped him of all he held dear and gave them to me. I had no need to do anything."
"Did you know he would be here?"
"I suspected. Where else would one send a traitor?"
"Is he the reason you came with us?"
For the first time in the conversation, Reaver actually met her eyes. A lopsided, almost bitter, smile had taken up residence on his face. With two fingers, he tilted her face towards his and, for a brief second, she thought he was going to kiss her. She'd just barely pulled on her Will, ready to deliver a warning shock, when, barely loud enough for her to hear, he replied: "That's the real mystery, isn't it? The thought you can never find an answer to. Why do I do what I do?"
He released her and slipped away to join the others in the records room. Victoria simply stood there. She licked her lips, brushed her hair from her face, and followed suit. It was going to be a long trip and there was nothing left to say.
AN: I had a very long conversation with my beta reader—a series of conversations, actually. About why I felt the need to put this fic on hiatus (this fic specifically and none of my others if I, hypothetically, had several I was posting right now). And it's been brought to my attention that I've been...perhaps...cruel. I...am a very petty person and it didn't really occur to me that my feelings were being unjustly directed at you (most of you, I'm willing to bet, probably weren't even readers of mine when I first started posting MoI and that makes my behavior even worse). And for that I apologise. I hope you'll allow me to explain. When I first finished posting MoI I received a lot of PMs from people anxiously wanting me to post the sequel and, when I did not immediately follow the custom a lot of other writers at the time were following (posting the first chapter of the sequel as soon as the first story was completed) a good percentage of those PMs turned...nasty. Some turned into threats—to find me or to beat me up or to kill me. This continued on for a couple years. In this time, I also lost the entire first draft of the sequel; over a hundred thousand words just...gone. Vanished. Eaten by my laptop. My notes corrupted to the point I could no longer use them, either. (In hindsight, it was a good thing, DoV would never have been written and MoI would never have been rewritten if Blackout hadn't vanished into the Void; nor would the current version of Blackout be as good as I feel it is.) However, instead of just accepting that those threats were probably either jokes (very inappropriate jokes; threats are never funny) or people unsure how else to get across that they were frustrated and anxious for more, I internalized it and let it become a thing of "if you're going to be an asshole, the least you can do is leave a fucking review". And that bitterness has been building for almost five years. Was it wrong? Probably. Does understanding that make it hurt any less to come back after struggling to get these stories done only to feel like I'm shouting into an uncaring void? No. Make no mistake: this is not an attempt at guilt tripping you. As I've said, I don't expect many of you were actually around at the time. It's wrong of me to put that blame on you and I've very sorry to have done so. I'm going to try to work at being better. I ask that you please be patient with me.
Moving back on topic with the chapter: I hope you enjoyed it. Interaction (reviews/likes/follows) is very, very welcome and is my muse. I'd also appreciate feedback if you're willing. Do you mind the switch to British English for grammar/spelling or have I fucked it up drastically? Are the chapters too long? Not long enough? (Dear Avo, how much longer could I possibly make these? LOL) Is there anything you'd like to see in later chapters or in other bits of the series? Please don't be shy. Until next Monday. I hope everyone has a lovely week and a happy new year.
Dev. Notes: That AN was ungodly long, so I'll try to keep this short. It's been fun exploring the Crawler's abilities with him/it being unable to do whatever it wishes, but I'm not going to go into that atm, because there's...much better chapters to go into it and talk about my asshole son. (He's such a good child, I stg.) Reaver, on the other hand, was the biggest pain in the ass to write this fic. Was he a pain to write in MoI? NOPE. Has he been a pain to write in Blackout? NOT A CHANCE. In here? EVERY SINGLE SCENE. Mr. I-can't-tell-you-my-motivations-for-anything-because-it-ruins-my-cool-aura-of-mystery. REAVER YOU LAUGH AT YOUR OWN JOKES YOU DORK WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO FOOL? Like I said: a pain. Would anyone like to buy an industrialist off me? Very tall, great hair, tells dumb jokes, might shoot you but probably will just get your drunk and be flirty? You can keep him during the day as long as you send him back at night so I can write.