The den’s cement walls were cold, and damp. Marcus’s shoulder collided against their rough, unforgiving greys, and ricocheted backwards. A steel table top caught his fall, knocking against his ribs, stealing his breath, as the Golaith, and suited blonde Devil followed behind. The shrill squeal of an old oxidized lock followed a thud as the door slammed, and his fate sealed.
The back of the Goliath’s knuckles struck across his jaw, and Marcus was manhandled upright and into a rigid folding chair. Pain welted across Marcus’s cheeks. He could feel red blush bubble behind his stubble. His body ached. At no point had the pair been gentle since they’d stolen him from the street.
A bare fluorescent bulb illuminated the stark room in a greeny, sickening light. Dust spiraled along an almost unnoticeable breeze from a wheezing fan limping above. The decor cliched to a degree that seemed borderline intentional. Marcus kept his gaze fixed on their hazy reflections across the table top. Refusing to make eye contact, or give any semblance of satisfaction to his captures. He could feel their leers. The penetrative peels of their peering as they decoded his defiant jaw.
An unnerving thud from a toolbox dropping against the table and broke his trance. The suited voice, shroud in shadow, piped from the corner of the room. “i see we have your attention again.”
Exhaled smoke danced between the callused words, and the responded silence. The room hung in an uncomfortable vacuum, quiet enough to hear the sizzle of paper as the patient suited bastard dragged again from his cigarette. The time suspended felt longer than it lasted. Broken by an unceremonious snap towards the thug, and the instant sound of his mammoth mitts tearing open the screeching, rusted tool box, and clattered its contents across the table without care.
There was nothing spectacular or unique about the tools. Their normality only made them all the more grotesque and frightening. Marcus recognized each from his childhood, working on projects with his father. Wrenches, pliers, clamps, screw drivers, hammers, nails and screws. All pedestrian items. The thug straightened his leather vest, and a slight smirk raised from the corner of his mouth. He lifted a pair of pliers, and Marcus shot out from the chair. The handle of pinchers struck hard against his head, cracking his skull. The blood drops that pattered across Marcus’s jeans made more noise than they did sense. There wasn’t a second to comprehend the warm sticky liquid dripping across his fingers before the goon’s paws wrapped around his throat and strangled him back to his seat.
One.
Two.
Three more blows fell. The Mammoth pinned Marcus’s limp limbs behind the back of the chair, and coiled galvanized wire around his wrists. Clipped, and twisted, the sharp ends intentionally pointed to his forearms. A smooth palm lifted his cheek and dapped the blood away from his forehead with a soft hanker-chief. “Well, that wasn’t too kind, was it? Trying to run from your host’s before we’d even had a conversation?”
Marcus avoided the devil’s sharp blue eyes. The fingers firmed, snapping his clutched chin into a direct line of sight. The suit pulled out his pistol, dragged it across Marcus’s jaw, then stuffed it in his mouth, clipping his teeth until he ate it, and the gaze was met. The devil fed him hackneyed lines regarding what directions the interrogation could go.
He answered the threats with a look. Marcus dared them. The gun pressed to the back of his throat, and he fought the urge to gag, he kept his sight focused. Covered in saliva the pistol was placed between his eyes. The captive swallowed any hint of fear, and kept urging the trigger onwards. A string of spit followed the gun a few inches back, and Marcus stared down the barrel, peering into its abyss. In its darkness he saw his friends, his comrades, he saw their pride and pleas, and knew what to do. The cause had to come first. Always.
Eyes squeezed shut, he swallowed his pride, and gave them what they wanted. Marcus let the worries, and quiet fears that he’d pushed down for so long override and overwhelm. He focused on what would happen to the people he cared about should he fail. He hid away his defiance. Marcus knew he would die tonight. An fact imperative he keep his captors from. A tear trickled. His voice cracked. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
The Devil’s voice blase, yet charming, thorny, dripping with honey. “Hate to do such things,” He sat upon the table and placed his piece within reach. “But you know we have to stop the movement. We can’t let your kind’s dangerous, parasitical ideas spread, or hurt more people.” His hand moved to Marcus’s shoulder, and voice softened as if towards a cherub. “You understand that right? Understand your intentions are misguided, that you’re being misled by Alexander? That the SDL are the villains. Our policies may scare you, may be overbearing for some. They exist for a reason.” He started to whisper, and comb Marcus’s hair with his fingers. “Here to protect you, us, everyone. Without rule, there would be chaos. Ideas that you think may be so virtuous, they hurt people. These philosophies, these words, they fall fast, cause pain, and tremendous suffering. Crumple societies. You understand that right?”
Before Marcus could counter, the Goliath’s fist followed a nod from the Devil, and cracked him in the jaw.
“Do we have to hurt you to save others from being hurt? As much as we’d hate to do it, we’ll do so. This can be easier. It’s Alexander we want. You only have a few easy questions to answer. Where is he hiding? Where are they?”
He knew he couldn’t spill immediately. Had to maintain his charade. Keep quiet. It wasn’t until he felt the metallic ridges of the pliers ridged teeth bite above his knuckle did he buckle and beg. Pleaded for the opportunity to answer. The devil wiped his face again. Through his stutters and sobs Marcus outed the neighborhoods in distant districts of the city that harboured their safe houses. Warned how the SDL communicated and alternated between locations. Gave them a rubric to decode and predict the patterns of their movement.
The Devil lit another cigarette, stood, buttoned his blazer, and made a call. He kicked the spare chair to the corner for the Mammoth, and rapped his knuckles on the door to leave. The entrance opened and shut without another word or glance. The Terror in the corner ignored the seat, and continued to stare the rebel down from behind steely black glasses.
Marcus closed his eyes and focused on his betrayal. Fixated on the excruciating reality of his actions. Used internal tools he’d so often implemented against fear, physical discomfort, against his glee. Pushed away any hint of satisfaction from his orchestrated goose chase. Avoided the knowledge how the Order’s movements would be recognized, and caught by his comrades. That things were in motion. How the forces the SDL had spent so much time evading would trigger alarms in empty rooms, buying the rebellion days to move to safety, to escalate their motions. He used the barbs of his restrains against his captures, and tore at his own flesh with purpose. His distracted mind quieted and returned to perceived sorrows, and false guilt. Let soft moans escape amongst whimpers.
The violence that woke him felt like a freight train. Hours, days, it was impossible to decipher how much time passed before the blonde devil returned to the dank room. Marcus found himself wheezing, pinned under his chair, face down against the wall. The wire dug deeper. The brute’s talons clamped over his shoulders and lifted him back upright with ease. The familiar taste of blood flooded as he blinked against the blinding bright of the light.
Patient, with one leg across the other, the suited Devil waited with a smile. “i suppose you think that’s funny? You think lying to us will get you further?” With a casual hand he turned to the scattered tools across the table, selected a well worn hammer and passed it the Mammoth.
“They must have gone! Noticed my absence...” his voice quivered as he shook away tears. “They must have known i would betray them, knew i would sell them out. They must have known...” Marcus leaned into shame, and sobbed.
The hammer rose.
“No! No! It could only mean one thing!” The Mammoth hung the suspended bludgeon to the ceiling, distorting the light. The demon paused the strike with a hand and he beckoned Marcus to continue. “The Serpents! They must have known you were on to them, and finally caved, aligned with the Serpents, moved to the safety of their nest.”
The Serpents. A union of gangs that had controlled the underground for decades. The only other operation to outflank the Order. A band of felons, bigots, the vile, the corrupted. Despised by the SDL, though a thorn in the hand of the control, a necessary union had never been off the table. The propagandists already insulated one of such. Tainting the public’s opinion, besmirching the resistance’s reputation, tapering support.
“And i suppose you know where that is?”
“It’s never been so hard. Shocked you haven’t stamped it out yourselves.”
“Snakes have their uses...” the Devil trailed, “you’re certain this is where Alexander’s gone? One that pretends such piety, such virtue would stoop?”
“Where else would a King stand, but in another kingdom? Alliances like these are made all the time.” He gave the coordinates for the stronghold known to the SDL, and cautioned “if he’s there, they’ll be ready. They’ll know you’re coming.”
The Devil grinned, thrilled with anticipation. “That doesn’t worry us. Don’t go anywhere,” he chuckled, “i’ll send for food.”
A plate arrived, restraints removed, and Marcus ate. It was fine. Nicer than any meals he’d had in the well over year. He fought to maintain his disarray. Between forkful’s he focused on the cuts and indentations around his wrists. Avoided thinking about one army mobilizing on the other. Two of the Resistance’s problems on a collision course for one another. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, the thought made it almost impossible not to smirk.
Hours passed, and the wires stayed off. Teas and sandwiches arrived, and were devoured by Marcus’s wolfish appetite in an instant. He slept, slouched across the table. The Goliath watched without break. Never initiating conversation. Laying in wait. Meals and rest interchanged without word. Until the Devil arrived again.
There was some irony being served sunnyside up for breakfast. Marcus had barely sipped his coffee and sat halfway cutting through his bacon when the lock screamed open. The menace waltzed inside with a large smile painted across his gob. His suit dishevelled, freckles of dried blood dotted across his brow. Without a word to either, or breaking his stride, he smarted Marcus with a bloodying jab, snatched the mug, and tossed the scalding liquid in Marcus’s howling face. The ceramic plate cracked over his skull, cutting across his crown. Egg yolk, grease, ketchup, flakes of potatoes, and bacon, clung to his hair. The abandoned fork plunged into his shoulder, twisted and retracted. “Hold him down!” The devil barked at the brute as he slammed Marcus’s face and shoulders into the mess across the table.
“Where is he!” The Behemoth vaulted to action, pinning the prisoner down to the chair. “None of your friends were there,” the Devil panted, “imagine that.” Pain flashed, and his wrist viced forward through the food and ceramic shards scattered across the table. A slotted screwdriver plunged between Marcus’s forefinger and nail. Protests were ignored as it levered upwards and tore away.
“How could i know? How could i know!?” he pleaded between screams.
There was no pause between fingers, not till the Devil returned to the thumb, and Marcus’s eyes had rolled back with pain. The limp bleeding hand was tossed to the side. “So where have those little cockroaches scurried off too?”
“Are you sure you went to the right place? The Serpent’s must have other dens,” he panted, “what more do you want of me? How could i know more?”
“i’m losing my patience with you my friend, if you have nothing else to share...”
“The tunnels!” exasperation coated the croak, “they must be back in the tunnels.”
“Oh the tunnels you say,” he mocked and reached for the wounded hand again, grabbed the hammer, and circled around Marcus’s digits. “i have no more interest in lies.”
The city’s foundation was an almost endless labyrinth of old sewage systems, and abandoned metro routes. At its best, host to raves, and experimental art shows. More often, home to the undesirables, addicts, and violent menaces. Impossible efforts to flush out dwellers had been endeavoured over the years, all to no avail. The first meetings of the SDL resistance had been founded in the subterranean wasteland. Representing the dystopian hellscape their psyches resided in above.
As much as it had been scoured over the years, there was always more to discover. Or double back to. The perfect hideaway. With the hammerhead kissing his knuckle, Marcus babbled about old entrances, and pointed to an often overlooked area. He explained the efforts they used to slip by surveillance.
It was plausible enough, the suited Devil, raised unsure eyebrows to his stoic brute. “Well,” he sighed, “it’s worth a try,” and brought the gavel down again and again without mercy until he pulverized Marcus’s battered palm. “i’ll see you soon my friend,” he called from over his shoulder to the screaming man as he left the room.
There was no need to fake anymore as Marcus cradled his broken hand. Easy tears came with bouts of nausea, as waves of shock crested his consciousness. It would be over soon. He knew all the triggers, could count them with his broken fingers. He’d planted them himself. Knew his sacrifice wasn’t in vain. The way their plan had unfolded had been exceptional. The hit on the Serpents, the inevitable dead on either side. And the following draw and strike against the Order.
It was easy to imagine the ensuing chaos. The Order’s forces ready, and blood lusting after encountering the Serpents. What remained of their elite soldiers descending down the tunnels, the triggered explosions trapping them from either side. Close enough to the surface to send for help, cause more delays, draw more resources. Knew Alexander was across town watching from a set of cameras, waiting to fire the next wave of bombs the moment the excavation teams were close to freeing their comrades. Slaughtering the unexpecting surrounding brass moments from success.
His fantasies were answered by a ringing phone. The Golaith answered and ended the call without a word. He raised his sunglasses, and looked Marcus in the eye, unimpeded for the first time. There was no hatred in his gaze. Rather, recognition from one warrior to another. A silent admission of underestimation as he raised his pistol to the prisoner’s forehead.
The relieved lamb removed his mask, lifted his chin, and kissed the revolver without a bleat. The generous trigger pulled before more damage was done.
Marcus felt the rush of a river, a leaf rattling in a breeze, and stepped into the darkness. The Pharaoh stretched out, and waited for his friend with a full heart.
Thanks for reading
-Mr. Write