08-16-2020, 06:47 PM
Day 1
Ryker knew Butryka. As soon as the guards came in to latch the chains to walk him back to a cell, he struck. The piss-poor minimum wage assholes didn’t have a chance against him. Two were on the ground crying for their mothers before a cattle prod struck him in the back. The jolt sent him seizing, but he was too furious to care.
He woke up in a cell alone. Everything ached, but he just rolled over and let the pain infuse him with purpose. He would get out of here. He was going to kill everyone. Marcus. Oriena. Mikhail. Ivan. Yun Kao. The Yakuza. The Syndicate. And Nikolai fucking Brandon. All of them. Dead under his hands wringing their throats to pulp.
Day 2
The cell they put him in was little bigger than a closet. The walls were cinderblock and if they’d ever been painted, the color was long ago faded. He found a hole where previous fingers used to dig out flakes of the concrete until it was deep enough to plunge the whole bone to the knuckle.
A stainless-steel toilet was anchored to the wall. Below a barred window so dirty he couldn’t see through the glass was a concrete slab that may have once held a mattress. After the anger faded, he passed the time thinking through the events that landed him here, picking apart every minute. He shouldn’t have reacted so strongly to Oriena. Control was too tightly wrestled by years of training and willpower. By that night, the story began to mix in his mind. Memory became a blob.
Day 3
He stumbled going to the toilet, barely catching himself from slapping his skull to the floor. When he rolled over, the ceiling swirled and heaved like the building was breathing. He managed to make it to the toilet, but the piss streamed down the wall instead. He didn’t care and had to crawl back to the slab. When they pushed food through the slot, he fumbled the plate and the slop spilled on the floor. He just stood over it for a few minutes, swaying in place. Finally, he plucked the chunks from the filth and ate them anyway. It tasted as good as steak.
Day 4
Ryker was stretched out on the slab, shivering uncontrollably, clothing soaking wet from being drenched from ice water. When the guards entered with bucket after bucket, he tried to fight them off, but his arms were lead and his legs were logs. As he laid there, light diffused the ceiling from the dirty window, casting shadows to the corners of the room. They seemed to swirl in strange black shapes, like clouds floating across the sky. From one corner crawled a large, black spider. A huntsman spider, he thought. Stuck to the ceiling, its legs moved slow as honey. From the other corner slithered a black snake. Stuck unnaturally upside down, Ryker wondered why it didn’t fall.
When the jailer returned with a fifth bucket. Ryker watched him enter like he moved in slow motion. The bucket turned and out poured a million bees. He screamed and curled his arms around his head.
Day 5
Ryker was curled in the fetal position when they hooked the leads to his wrists. There was no need to double him over to walk, he stumbled badly even upright. When next he saw the face of Marcus DuBois, he was a passive doll positioned in the chair opposite him. The chains around his wrist were anchored to the table. His ankles the same to the floor. His eyes were red and empty. If they even recognized the Consul, there was no sign.
Ryker knew Butryka. As soon as the guards came in to latch the chains to walk him back to a cell, he struck. The piss-poor minimum wage assholes didn’t have a chance against him. Two were on the ground crying for their mothers before a cattle prod struck him in the back. The jolt sent him seizing, but he was too furious to care.
He woke up in a cell alone. Everything ached, but he just rolled over and let the pain infuse him with purpose. He would get out of here. He was going to kill everyone. Marcus. Oriena. Mikhail. Ivan. Yun Kao. The Yakuza. The Syndicate. And Nikolai fucking Brandon. All of them. Dead under his hands wringing their throats to pulp.
Day 2
The cell they put him in was little bigger than a closet. The walls were cinderblock and if they’d ever been painted, the color was long ago faded. He found a hole where previous fingers used to dig out flakes of the concrete until it was deep enough to plunge the whole bone to the knuckle.
A stainless-steel toilet was anchored to the wall. Below a barred window so dirty he couldn’t see through the glass was a concrete slab that may have once held a mattress. After the anger faded, he passed the time thinking through the events that landed him here, picking apart every minute. He shouldn’t have reacted so strongly to Oriena. Control was too tightly wrestled by years of training and willpower. By that night, the story began to mix in his mind. Memory became a blob.
Day 3
He stumbled going to the toilet, barely catching himself from slapping his skull to the floor. When he rolled over, the ceiling swirled and heaved like the building was breathing. He managed to make it to the toilet, but the piss streamed down the wall instead. He didn’t care and had to crawl back to the slab. When they pushed food through the slot, he fumbled the plate and the slop spilled on the floor. He just stood over it for a few minutes, swaying in place. Finally, he plucked the chunks from the filth and ate them anyway. It tasted as good as steak.
Day 4
Ryker was stretched out on the slab, shivering uncontrollably, clothing soaking wet from being drenched from ice water. When the guards entered with bucket after bucket, he tried to fight them off, but his arms were lead and his legs were logs. As he laid there, light diffused the ceiling from the dirty window, casting shadows to the corners of the room. They seemed to swirl in strange black shapes, like clouds floating across the sky. From one corner crawled a large, black spider. A huntsman spider, he thought. Stuck to the ceiling, its legs moved slow as honey. From the other corner slithered a black snake. Stuck unnaturally upside down, Ryker wondered why it didn’t fall.
When the jailer returned with a fifth bucket. Ryker watched him enter like he moved in slow motion. The bucket turned and out poured a million bees. He screamed and curled his arms around his head.
Day 5
Ryker was curled in the fetal position when they hooked the leads to his wrists. There was no need to double him over to walk, he stumbled badly even upright. When next he saw the face of Marcus DuBois, he was a passive doll positioned in the chair opposite him. The chains around his wrist were anchored to the table. His ankles the same to the floor. His eyes were red and empty. If they even recognized the Consul, there was no sign.