Freya had never been one to hand out trust easily, not even to Sid. As she followed the young Augustus through the winding labyrinth of the alleyway, her hand remained clamped around her gun. She watched his every movement, looking for any sign of a betrayal.
Augustus came to a sudden halt near a grime-streaked wall where the smell of damp brick was heaviest.
"A small piece of advice before we go in," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. He pointed a thin finger at a rusted, overflowing trash can nearby. "Be mindful of your words. The Director can be a bit... cranky."
Sid gave a quick, nervous nod and turned to Freya for some kind of signal, but her expression remained carved from stone. He lingered there for a second, his brow furrowing as the silence stretched out. "Madam?"
Freya didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the boy, her gaze heavy with suspicion. "How can we trust you?"
Augustus didn't offer an excuse. He simply gave a small, cryptic smile and nodded toward the trash before turning his back to them. Freya stayed rooted to her spot, watching in silence as he pried a heavy iron grate from the wall behind the bin. The metal screeched against the pavement. He crouched low, glancing back at them a last time.
"I saw to your salvation," he said softly. "Will you return the favor?"
Then, he disappeared. Freya stood in the sudden quiet of the alley. She had no faith in the child, yet there was something deeply unnerving about him; he didn't sound like a boy. With a reluctant sigh, Freya followed him down into the dark.
"Uh, Madam Freya?"
The whisper came from directly behind her. Sid was struggling, his large frame hunched over and cramped in the narrow, damp space of the tunnel.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, his voice tight with worry.
Freya didn't answer immediately. She kept her eyes on the boy ahead, who turned just enough to catch her eye and offer a slow, mocking wink. Sid caught the look and went quiet. He didn't ask another question for the rest of the long, dark journey ahead.
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"Augh!"
The young man's body jerked against his restraints, his spine arching as another nail was wrenched away. He panted, his jaw clenched. He kept his eyes clamped shut.
"I'll ask again," a voice drifted from the shadows behind the warden. It was deep, steady, and cold. "Where are they?"
The prisoner didn't answer. He only swallowed hard, his throat feeling like it was lined with glass.
"It'll be easier for both of us if you simply confess," the voice continued, drifting closer. "After all, the only thing you gain from staying silent is time. And time, as you are finding out, is a very painful currency."
The speaker stepped into the pool of dim light, his polished oxfords clicking sharply on the concrete. Alistair Weaver. He looked down at the man's ruined hand with detached curiosity. Then, his lips curled into a smile. A genuine chuckle vibrated in the empty room.
"What a sorry sight you are. You know, it's funny, really," Alistair said, leaning over the man. "You work so hard, you endure so much, just to protect the location of your comrades. Yet, have you considered the irony? The very thing that brought you to this chair… was them."
Alistair's smile grew sharp. The young man's head drooped, his chin hitting his chest as the weight of the words, or perhaps just the exhaustion, began to take hold. Alistair reached out, cupping the man's chin with a hand that felt like ice. He forced the man's head up until their eyes locked.
"Give up," Alistair whispered, "You'll only forsake yourself doing this. They aren't coming for you."
The man stared at him for a long beat, his vision swimming in the low light. He let out a dry, rattling laugh. His cut lips stretched into a bloody, jagged grin as he beckoned Alistair closer. When the older man leaned in, the prisoner whispered directly into his ear.
"Fuck... you."
He lunged forward with his last bit of strength and spat. The red glob hit Alistair's cheek clean skin.
Alistair didn't fly into a rage, he seemed unfazed. Instead, his face went perfectly still, his eyes darkening into something abyssal. He pulled back, slowly wiping the blood from his cheek with a silk handkerchief. He pushed the man's face away with a look of pure disgust.
"You disgusting creature," Alistair said softly, his voice more menacing than a shout. "Have it your way. Feli, use Number 8497."
The warden, Feli, stepped forward out of the gloom, grabbing the man's jaw, and tilting his head to the side. The man felt the sharp, cold bite of a needle in the side of his neck. A strange, yellow liquid surged into his veins.
Feli reached down and clicked the cuffs open. Without a word, he shoved the man off the chair. The prisoner crumpled, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He watched, confused, as Feli and Alistair walked toward the door. The heavy iron groan of the door closing was the last thing he heard of them.
"What the hell..."
He tried to push himself up, his fingers slipping on the floor. He stood, reaching for the door, but a sudden, white-hot spike of pain drove itself into his skull. He fell back, clutching his head, a scream tearing from his throat. The pain spread, a tide, drowning his nerves and choking the air from his lungs. Tears blurred his vision.
Fire explodes in his veins, something crackles in his every nerve. He can feel each broken bruises in his body exponentially. Someone was sawing his body in half, tearing it apart. He hears screaming. Probably him. His brain is muddled, he tries calming himself. Like his sister, surely, she would be calm right now, right?
The name of his sister was a silent prayer behind his teeth. He fought the urge to scream it out loud. He knew they were listening, waiting for him to break and call for help. He clawed at the floor, his bloody fingers leaving red streaks on the gray stone.
Images began to fracture before his eyes: a first meeting, the gold of a promotion, the warmth of a lover's touch, the cold marble of a grave, and then... his sister. The floor around him flooded with his tears. His vision began to blur and then, slowly... went dark.
"Tim! Tim! Come on, they're leaving!"
The smell of cold concrete and blood was replaced by the overwhelming scent of mown grass and summer heat. Timothy blinked, his eyes stinging. A girl was standing over him, her silhouette framed by a sun so bright it felt like a halo.
"C-Cat?" his voice was small, the voice of a child.
"Who else, dummy? Get up already." Cat laughed, a sound so clear it made his chest ache. She reached down, her small hand grabbing his and pulling him up from the thick, emerald grass of the estate.
"Mr. Banks?"
A shadow fell over them. An old man in black-and-white butler's uniform approached, his face a map of gentle wrinkles. He clicked his tongue as he looked Timothy over. "Oh dear me, you're a mess. I simply cannot let you two see the Master looking like this. You've been rolling in the weeds again, haven't you?"
"Where-?"
Timothy spun around, his head swimming. The sprawling stone mansion rose up behind them. Realization hit him like a blow to the stomach, a wave of nausea so violent he couldn't stand. He fell to his knees, pressing his mouth shut to keep from being sick on the perfect grass.
"Young Master Banks!" The old butler was at his side in an instant, the cool pressure of a palm resting against Timothy's forehead. "Come now, stay with me. We must find Linda immediately. She'll know what to do."
Linda. The name was a needle to his heart. He remembered her, the way her hands smelled of lavender, the way she had looked after him when the world felt too big. It was all flooding back now. This was the day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and in just a few hours, the very mansion he was looking at would be a funeral pyre, burning until there was nothing left but ash.
Suddenly, a white-hot flash of pain lanced through his thoughts. The golden garden began to bleed into gray. His vision went dark, and the silence of the memory was replaced by a roar of sound. They are people now: he sees glimpses and flashes of them. There are names floating around somewhere in his mind, but he can't catch them; they're like sand slipping through his fingers. Thousands of voices began to echo through the hollows of his mind, each one a jagged shard of a life he had tried to survive. Something in his stomach stabs and stabs, it tears him apart as he slams his broken fingers onto the floor.
"Welcome to Banks, Timothy."
"I'm Cathleen! Your sister!"
"I would do anything for my family. However dangerous, however vile."
"You. Are. A. Servant!"
"We're friends... right?"
"No! Please! Tim, help them! They're still inside!"
"I love you. Always have, hah."
"Sham! NO!"
"Take care of your sister."
"I appoint you second-in-command."
"I am... so very sorry for your loss."
"Oh Sham... no. Please... don't leave me. I can't do this without you-!"
As Timothy Banks slowly lost consciousness, the tears on his face felt like acid. He was drowning in the sound of his own history, his screams and cries echoing through the empty building. He didn't want to wake up. He begged the dark to let him go, let him join his lover in the quiet afterlife, free from the weight of this cruel world.
The sound of footsteps approached. A hand reached down into the dark, fingers hooking under his chin and hauling it high enough to see.
Through the blur of his failing sight, Timothy saw a broad, terrible grin.
"I would do anything, Timothy," the voice whispered, chillingly familiar. "However dangerous, however vile."