The harsh hum of the city’s underbelly reverberated through the dimly lit corridors as they dragged me from my cell, the stale air thick with the stench of decay and sweat. My head still throbbed from the probe's assault, each pulse a reminder of the violation.
I forced myself to focus, eyes darting over the crumbling walls adorned with grimy murals, faded remnants of propaganda from an era long gone. The rust clung to every surface, eating away at the metal and every crack of this forsaken place.
The guards flanked me, their patchwork armor a motley mix of rusted plates, frayed straps, and scavenged tech held together by a blend of desperation and ingenuity. Their stun guns, battered but functional, hung loosely at their sides, the very sight of them a silent threat. They spoke in low, clipped tones, their words laced with the casual brutality of those who had long since adapted to the harshness of their world.
“Ya heard 'bout them Red Talons, yeah?” growled one of them, his voice rough as gravel. “Bloody maniacs, they are. Left a line o’ stiffs to the old refinery.”
The other guard snorted, a dismissive grunt lacing his words. “Pfft, Black Veil’s been at it too. Knocked out one o’ Underhand’s hidey-holes last night. Boss ain’t gonna be happy 'bout that.”
Their words formed a dissonant backdrop to the gnawing anxiety in my gut. Despite my body’s strange ability to process the toxic air, each breath felt heavy, as if the atmosphere itself was weighing me down, sapping my strength. My eyes darted to every shadow, wary of potential threats.
The chamber we entered reeked of sweat, oil, and something fouler—scorched metal, maybe. A circular platform dominated the place, its surface slick with grime and streaked with rust. A rough-hewn rail encircled it, acting as a makeshift barrier between the platform and the crowd below—a collection of slavers, buyers, and onlookers, each more peculiar and twisted than the last.
The slaver, evidently the one in charge, was a sight to behold—an eccentric mix of control and excess, a grotesque parody of opulence. His outfit was a chaotic riot of colors and patterns, bright fabrics layered with gaudy, mismatched adornments. Each piece seemed chosen at random, yet somehow, in its very absurdity, it commanded attention. His eyes, magnified by thick, round spectacles, gleamed with unsettling precision. The lenses distorted his gaze, making his eyes seem insectoid, cold and calculating. Every movement he made was a theatrical flourish, his voice dripping with a peculiar blend of formality and condescension.
“Ah, splendid! A most curious specimen,” he drawled, adjusting his glasses with meticulous care. “Such a fascinatingly refined… character.”
His words slithered through the air, each syllable enunciated with a deliberate, almost obsessive precision. He circled me, his gaze flitting over my form, assessing, calculating. His fingers twitched, as if itching to touch, to prod, but he refrained, the restraint only amplifying the unnerving nature of his scrutiny.
“By the divines, what an exquisite find!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch, as if he were on the verge of some great revelation. “Truly, a marvel!”
The gang leader, a hulking brute with a face like carved granite, lumbered forward, his shadow swallowing the space between us. He loomed over the slaver, his voice a gravelly rumble thick with an uncouth drawl. “Price just went up,” he growled, jerking a thumb in my direction. “Ain’t like the others, this one. Got that fancy look, with the hair and them eyes. And breathin’ the miasma? That’s worth a damn lot more.”
The slaver’s eyes gleamed behind his lenses, a sharp, calculating glint. He nodded slowly, almost reverently. “Fancy look, you say? Breathing the miasma,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Now that is something. How much are we talking, my good man?”
The gang leader, whom the guards called Jax, leaned in, his breath rancid with the smell of cheap synth-beer and half-rotted food. “Triple what ya’d pay for any of the other poor bastards in this hellhole,” he snarled, spitting a glob of saliva onto the floor for emphasis. “Then we can talk business.”
“Triple, you say? My, my, ambitious, aren’t we?” The slaver tilted his head, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “But let us not descend into crassness. Surely, you understand the importance of mutual satisfaction in these matters. We wouldn’t want to sour a potentially lucrative relationship, now would we?”
Jax’s eyes narrowed, the threat of violence simmering just beneath the surface. “Ain’t no relationship here, pal. Just a sale. You wanna play, you pay up.”
“Very well,” the slaver said smoothly, as if he were entertaining a child’s tantrum. “But do remember, deals are best when both parties leave the table with their dignity intact. Don’t push too hard, dear boy. It’s unbecoming.”
My head buzzed, the slaver’s silky words clashing with the gang leader’s rough growl. I could feel the tension ratcheting up between them, a taut wire ready to snap. But amidst the haggling, I felt something else—Arvie’s presence, a subtle pulse of energy at the back of my mind.
“Quite the show, eh, master?” her voice whispered, light and teasing. “I’d say this is the part where you make your grand escape, but something tells me you’re not quite ready to leave the stage just yet.”
I couldn’t help but smirk, even as the slaver and Jax kept up their verbal sparring. “Yeah, I hear you,” I thought back to Arvie, keeping my expression neutral. "But we both know I’m stuck in this mess for now.”
“Yes, I know,” Arvie replied, her tone shifting from playful to serious. “This place reeks of death and bad deals. These guys won’t stop until they’ve bled each other dry—and you along with them, if they get the chance.”
The slaver’s eyes flickered back to me, the cold glow of calculation behind those thick, antiquated lenses. He nodded, a slow, deliberate gesture, murmuring to himself in a tone that oozed self-satisfaction. “A rare asset... breathing the miasma, he says. Quite the addition to the right collection, indeed…”
The deal closed with the efficiency of old, well-oiled machinery—credits and goods changing hands as if preordained. The slaver’s muscle, two gaunt figures with the pallor of forgotten things, moved in with practiced precision. Rough hands slapped a blindfold over my eyes, the fabric rough and acrid against my skin, and the world shrank to the hum of hydraulics and the rasp of my own breath.
They guided me to the transport, its presence a mass of cold metal and thrumming power. The low, guttural vibrations coursed through the floor, telling of something big and heavy, armored maybe, built for grinding through the wastelands rather than darting across them.
The journey blurred into a series of disconnected impressions—the transport’s rhythmic shudder, the suffocating dark of the blindfold, hushed voices speaking in a code of low growls and clipped syllables. The engine’s resonance settled into my bones, a mechanical heartbeat that synced with my own, lulling me into a numb acceptance. Arvie’s voice flitted through my thoughts like a ghost, teasing at the edges of my awareness, offering a distant thread of comfort as the dread settled in.
When we stopped, the blindfold vanished, replaced by the harsh glare of a seedy med den. The air was thick, cloying with the scent of antiseptic and something more insidious. They wasted no time, shoving me into a pod, the metal cold and unyielding against my skin. Activity buzzed around me, fragmented and surreal, as the pod sealed shut, the interior closing in, molding around me like a second skin, trapping me within its tight, suffocating embrace.
A hiss filled the pod, gas swirling like some malevolent fog. My thoughts slowed, the world slipping away as consciousness faded. Arvie’s voice lingered, the last tether to something real, whispering through the encroaching void.
“We’ll get through this, you and I…”
And then, nothing. Just the cold embrace of my bartered destiny.73Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMxFqiIMlmN
