. . .
It was almost midnight when an inkling of sleep crept up on Cyril, despite his horrible situation. Athene and Jack had torn parts of their garments off to wrap around his bleeding wounds. He was physically stable for now…except, he worried his broken leg would soon develop gangrene, as parts of the bones were sticking out of the skin.
Then it would have to be amputated or Gital might decide to let him die a slow death instead. Jack kept him and Athene occupied with talking their ears off about his life and career. His father had died in World War II while aiding the French Resistance, leaving seven children and a wife behind in Boston.
They also learned the family had adopted two more boys from an orphanage that had perished in a fire. His youngest brother had a French father who disappeared shortly after he was born. Supposedly, this mysterious man had worked with Jack's father during the war and had promised to deliver the news of his death to his widow.
But he would infrequently reappear in their lives. Each time, his Ma and family would have to move. The Frenchman stopped showing up completely sometime after 1957.
Jack also wanted to hear about Athene and Cyril's own lives – he was like an open book. And like those kinds of social people, they erroneously assumed everyone they met was the same way.
Athene was open about her life and how she was recruited by Mann Co. But being a clone, she had to make up a story of where she grew up. She was afraid that if she told Jack and Cyril the truth, they would think she was mad as a hatter.
Of course, she didn't know that Cyril harbored the same secret. While discussing his life and job, the marksman was still careful about discussing his covert line of work and having to reluctantly lie that he was from Tasmania – hence, his Australian 'heritage.'
Athene knew of his general purpose in the war, but she was respectful and didn't reveal any sensitive information to Jack. After letting out a few yawns, the young man finally dozed off. Cyril noted that like BLU Scout, he was quite chatty.
His thoughts flew to the captured children. The encounter with Jenny's twin sister the first night he was here still disturbed him. He knew the absolutely disgusting things that Tarjack implicated with her.
Just about eight feet away, Athene observed him and noted his troubled demeanor.
"Cyril?" she softly inquired.
His thoughts interrupted, he turned to her. "Yes?"
"What's…the matter?"
There was a slight smirk to his bruised features. "Do I look that obvious?"
All Athene could do was nod, sincerely.
He then gravely glanced at the hall outside their cell. "It's downright fucking evil what they're doing here. Those poor girls…" he gritted his teeth. "And I thought I had it bad in the Gravel Wars."
She knew what he was inferring. Soon, poignancy and sorrow flooded her mind. "That monster is condoning pedophilia. I can't believe he would do such a sickening thing. It's not right!"
The strong, righteous anger was back. "Yeah, those poor kids are never going to be the same again. When I first met one of the girls, she had already been through alot. There was a frightened, lost look in her eyes. That heartless bastard, Tarjack, did something to her."
Athene winced at the mention of one of her rapists, but ignored the brief terror to add, "Yes, from what little Jenny hinted at, it implies that she and her sister were already being…"
She couldn't finish it. It was too much for her. But the BLU perfectly knew what she meant. It made the bile in his gut rise. He suppressed a few involuntary gags, trying to purge his mind of those poisonous thoughts.
Shuddering a breath, he closed his eyes. "He needs to be stopped or he will hurt more innocent people."
"But how? With us locked up like we were in a maximum-security prison, how are we going to get help?"
"I'm hoping some friends could so that." He glanced over at her, a hint of mirth in his eyes. "But you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Why is that?"
There was a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You'd have to suspend your disbelief to actually get it. It's not who you think it would be. Hell, I didn't even believe it the first time it happened."
"Are they people who practice voodoo magic and can communicate with the dead?"
Cyril let out a small chuckle. "Voodoo magic? Crikey, no! I can't imagine these little guys performing bizarre rituals and chanting spells over a bonfire. And talking to ghosts? Nope, not their specialty either."
"Little guys…are they kids?"
How can children help? Unless he was planning to befriend one of them here and sneak them out of the facility. But how? Digging a tunnel through the floor?
"Nah, they're far from kids."
Now Athene was intrigued and folded her arms, expectant. "I may not believe it, but knowing certain things that previously weren't possible…" She thought of her identity as a clone, a biotechnological achievement that had, until now, only existed in science fiction. "…I'm always up for a story that might sound like cockamamie. So, try me."
"Okay…" he conceded. "What if I told you these friends had feathers?"
He was a tad amused by the funny look she gave him. "Birds?"
"Yep. Owls, specifically. I can speak to them."
Athene was wrapping her mind around the ludicrous concept. A part of her wanted to believe it, but then another part thought it was plain absurd.
"So…" she carefully began. "You can communicate with owls, and they'll somehow help us get out of here?"
"That's the idea." Now fully smiling, he used his good leg to hoist himself up, using the wall as support. "Here, I'll show ya."
Ummm, maybe he's cuckoo indeed. Wonderful. I'm falling for one of those… she thought.
Still, his friendly mannerisms and subtle charm anchored her attractiveness to him in place. Okay, so he might have been kooky, but atleast he was a nice one.
Seeing him struggling to walk towards the open window with a noticeable pain, she rose up. "Do you need help?"
"No, I think I got it."
"But your injuries-here." Before Athene realized what she was doing, she went over to him, ducking under one of his arms and securing it over her shoulders. Immediately, the newfound fear of being raped seized control of her psyche.
No, he's not going to do it! Even if that were the case, he's too messed up to even try…plus, he's a good guy! He stood up for me against Gital's cronies.
She managed to put a proverbial lid on the fear, though she couldn't tell how long it could hold off the pressure. The Samaritan in her insisted that she help him.
"Here, step out with your good leg and I'll take the next step on the left side."
Now the concern was back on his face. "You sure about this, Athene?"
She nodded. "The trauma's not as bad as it was before. I can…do this."
Nodding, he let her half-carry him over towards the window. Despite him being heavier than her, she was holding up well. Her back and shoulders started to ache a bit, even if she was using her toned legs to support most of his weight.
"Let go now. I can hold myself against the windowsill."
She complied, carefully releasing him as he used his right leg to balance himself. He brought his good hand and what was left of his other hand to grip the concrete ledge of the window. Her anxiety at being near a potential attacker started to recede a little. All the while, Jack continued to sleep, curled up on the pile of hay.
Cyril stared out into the vast, isolated desert, noting the Sangre De Cristo mountains in the distance. The night sky was a clear sapphire hue, accented by several cumulus clouds.
Closing his eyes, he projected a signal out to any nearby owls who might answer his call. He wasn't sure if his telepathy was strong as it was with Bubo in the past. Traveler had managed to track him down, so that was a good sign.
A minute or so passed before he received the first response.
Cyril!
It's him? The human that can talk to us?
Maybe he's got food!
So the marksman requested that they home in on his 'signal,' inviting them to meet him. Again, the warm feeling of relief and familiarity washed over him. He felt particularly alive when he was communicating with them.
Soon, two little Pigmy owls appeared and landed, sliding through the window bars.
Athene was astounded. "Wow! Did you really do that?"
"Yeah. I don't know how, but I have a close connection with them. They can understand me too…most of the time."
The two Pigmys were nearly pushed off the window ledge when a burrowing owl landed next.
Cyril recognized this owl as another nomad, who loved traveling around the desert and residing in different ground holes, hollow trees and the occasional abandoned shack. Since he couldn't pronounce the raptor's name, he called him 'Vaggy,' which was short for vagabond.
Vaggy chirped excitedly, glad to see his human comrade. Though, the raptor also noticed how badly injured Cyril was; concerned, he started inquiring about it. Cyril tried to keep up with all the chatter they were sending his way, his mind interpreting it as best as he could.
Admiring the birds, Athene asked, "Can I pet one of them?"
"Well, owls don't usually like it. Not like how parrots, doves or ducks do anyway. I can still ask." He requested permission, reassuring them that Athene was not dangerous. He really didn't anticipate them to be interested in the idea since they were wild animals. But one of the Pigmy owls came forward, curious about Athene. The young woman reached over and gently brushed its head, slightly rubbing towards the cere.
"You're so cute," she cooed. The burrowing owl stuck his torso out, wanting to feel her touch after seeing how the Pigmy owl was enjoying it. "You too? Hey, these guys are pretty friendly."
"Yeah, I don't see that often. They normally avoid humans. The only exception is a few that I befriended back at my base."
"Why wouldn't they like head scratches?" Athene wondered.
"It's most owl species, but there are several that actually enjoy it. It's normally done between mates who preen each other," Cyril confirmed. "So, it's considered an intimate activity. Some species, like the Eagle Owl and the Long-Eared Owl, especially don't like it. Then you have your other ones, such as the Barred, Barn and Spotted Owls, who seem to like it."
His thoughts flew to Bubo, whose species was known for being docile and curious towards humans. Hell, they were hunted by more aggressive, bigger owls. He missed the unique little raptor, who had become like a brother to him.
"Also, not stroking them so much leaves the natural oil on their feathers," he continued. "Mainly their heads and wings. It helps keep them in order and intact. It's also a waterproof barrier during rainy seasons. Otherwise, without the oil, their feathers would heavily soak up the water and it would be difficult to fly."
"Fascinating." Athene used the back of her hand to stroke Vaggy's breastbone. The Pigmy owl impatiently butted in, wanting a turn and she lightly laughed.
Their moment of solace was interrupted when several henchmen appeared at their cell.
"Mercenary!" one of them barked.
Startled, all the owls flew off the ledge and away to safety. Cyril and Athene turned to their enemies, with the latter backing flat against the wall. Jack was jolted from his sleep and scrambled to sit upright.
It wasn't the usual trio who came to torment them. Cyril had never seen these men before, although Athene or Jack may have recognized them.
They unlocked the barred door; two of them barged in, callously grabbing Cyril by the arms to drag him out.
"Please! Hasn't he been tortured enough?" Athene protested.
"That's none of your business, so shut the fuck up," one of them coldly replied. He was welding an M-16, ready to use it in case Athene or Jack tried to fight back.
"Jeez, what ho forgot to suck you off today?" Jack remarked, acerbic.
The henchman struck him across the face with gun's barrel. "Don't get smart with me, tabloid ass-kisser. I'll cut your tongue out if you push me enough."
Rubbing his bruising temple, Jack only stared steadily at him. "Tchh."
They then secured the iron door, walking away with Cyril in tow. Athene felt utterly helpless…she imagined she had her Sharps rifle and would shoot them all just to rescue him. Her abject fear spiked at what they were going to do to him.
"Nooo!" she cried out, furiously pounding the bars. She slid down against them, a few tears falling from her eyes in despair.
Meanwhile, the henchman continued dragging Cyril down several corridors. Some cells they passed were empty, while others contained prisoners. In one enclosure, Cyril thought he saw two figures who looked vaguely familiar…short, grey with inhuman faces. Very large black eyes.
No…
They reminded him of the otherworldly entity who appeared in his dreams, warning him of danger and keeping their esoteric practices a secret.
You must never tell… the ominous being had warned.
Was he just imagining things? Maybe they were simply deformed or extremely malnourished people.
The henchmen stopped at a cell and started to unlock it. Through his good eye, Cyril made out two occupants: an elderly couple. Like with the previous cell, their bedding consisted of piles of mildewed hay. It also contained a small room with a toilet and sink, but no private door.
As they were carelessly handling him, pain shot up through his broken leg, ribs and mutilated hand. He was thrown to the floor as before, except this time, he managed to land on his uninjured side. It still badly hurt and he let out an agonized grunt.
Unlike Tarjack and his thugs, these henchmen weren't as talkative and immediately left upon locking the door.
Why they decided to move him was baffling. Whatever Gital had up his sleeve, it didn't bode well. Sparing a glance at his new company, he saw them staring back at him.
Then…
"M—Mick?" the female gasped out.
The older man came into the light, squinting now. While they wore glasses and could probably fairly see, he wondered if they had mistaken him for someone else.
"By God, it is him!" the man exclaimed.
They spoke with an Australian accent like him and Gital. Great, meeting more of that madman's hapless victims.
"Oh, darlin'!" the woman came over, wrapping her arms tightly around him.
Cyril let out a pained whimper, feeling the pressure down his ribs and igniting the sharp, fiery pain again. Alarmed, she let go as he was panting from the excruciating sensations.
Realizing how injured he was, she cupped her mouth in dismay. "Ohmigod, what—what have they done to you?"
The elderly man hurried over, reaching out a hand to cradle Cyril's bruised face, dried with blood and full of gashes. There was one deep wound that split his corner lip and segued into his inner cheek. Thankfully, the rest of the major wounds were covered by Jack's and Athene's clothing. Bleeding out had also sapped his strength.
"Blimey, that spiteful fucker really did a number on ya." He was just as aghast as presumably his wife was.
He also noticed how the marksman was lightly wheezing, due to the fractured ribs.
What the hell's going on? Cyril wondered. And why did they call me—
"Mick, I'm so glad to see you!" the senior woman was a short and portly person with a jovial demeanor. "You may been put through a meat grinder, but you're alive and that's all that matters!"
This time, she carefully embraced him. He was too dumbfounded to pull away. "I know you don't like to be hugged as much, but I can't help it. You've been dragged to Hell, kickin' and screamin'!"
"Who are you?" Cyril blurted out.
Both of them grew puzzled.
The older man was the first to speak up. "Oh Mickey, they must've really struck ya hard on the noggin.' "
"Don't'cha worry, darlin', you'll remember again," the woman reassured. "Amnesia is usually temporary anyway. But, just to jog your memory, we're your parents!"
"But I don't have any parents," Cyril denied.
She glanced worriedly at her husband. "Oh Jonathan, he's more messed up than he looks!"
"Gital, that pathetic little toad-ass," the old man growled. "Mind-zappin' our son! Thinkin' he's goin' to bring us Mundys down!"
"M—Mundy?" Now it was beginning to make sense. These people were…
"Yeah, that's your family name, son. Michael 'Mick' Mundy, in case ya also forgot that."
Oh, joy. He was stuck in here with the RED Sniper's family.
. . .
