DAIMON

  Time stretches and warps. There are no minutes, hours, or days. Only...this.

  Gray walls. Metal bars. Metal door. Gray walls. Metal bars. Metal door.

  Swaying. Twisting. The tinkle and creak of the chains from which I dangle.

  There's a strange sound, cutting in and out of my cone of perceptual awareness. Laughter, I think. Sometimes I think it's my voice, my laughter, but I can't be sure. Occasionally I hear some kid--the one called Miles--yelling, tell me to quit it, give it a rest. Then the laughter stops, though I can't be sure if it's my doing or that of some disembodied specter, a ghost haunting these echoey walls.

  Sometimes, I hear the cellblock door open, as someone drops by to feed Miles. Humans require sustenance, after all. So do Biodroids, but I doubt my captors will be kind enough to bring me what I need.

  Gavin's plan worked, it seems. I know because I recognize the voice of our new jailer, the one called Renzo.

  This should encourage me. But at this point, I don't know what to think. I can remember making some kind of Hail Mary, planting the seeds for my supposed chance at an escape, but the details are murky, to the point where I have to wonder if it even happened at all, if maybe I'm just trying to trick myself into some vague sense of hope.

  There's no hope, here. No escape. Except perhaps in my eventual system failure. In death--if you can even call it that, for a being like me. I'm not alive, not in the traditional sense. I certainly doubt I have a soul. I am simply...here.

  Someone snaps their fingers. Here, in this cell. And I know it's not me, because I don't have any motor control.

  Which means I'm imagining things. Again.

  No reason to bother with it. No reason to even open my eyes. The darkness suits me just fine.

  Another snap of the fingers. Closer this time. Louder. Loud enough to make me wince. The sound is acute and resonant, and it makes my ears ring.

  "Come on, now," says a voice. A voice I know all too well. "Look alive. Little brother."

  Okay. Fine. I'll bite.

  I open my eyes.

  It's Silas. Standing between me and the cell door. Not the new, puny, whiny, goody-two-shoes Silas, but the old Silas, in all his glory. The one they used to call Revenant.

  Daddy's dearest. The Golden Child.

  The one who was everything I could never be. And who had all things that were perpetually out of my reach.

  That Silas.

  That banter I had with Silas earlier, about the fact that I was an 'edgelord'. I was lying, really. He's the edgelord, with his black surcoat-esque attire, and grim, snarky expression, and that big-ass sword on his back, with the onyx crossguard poking up behind his shoulder.

  He whistles appreciatively, examining my condition. "What happen to you?"

  I don't much enjoy talking to apparitions. It's a waste of time and energy. And call me vain, but it makes me look...you know. Crazy. Which I'm not.

  Revenant crouches down, squinting as he looks over me, like he's looking at the under-carriage of a broken down vehicle.

  "Someone did a number on you, didn't they? I mean, look at you. Let me guess, you're low on energy, too? Otherwise you'd be able to mend yourself, at least somewhat."

  He stands. "Wow. They've really got you in a bind. I'm surprised. Usually you're so hard to pin down. Like an annoying little fly. Here one second, gone the next. Buzzing around."

  Okay. That's entirely unfair. You have to be strategic when you're dealing with someone like him, no matter who you are. You can't rush in blind. If he gets his hands on you, you're done. Nimble feet are a must.

  But I don't say so. I just stare past him, toward the cell door.

  I take it back, it's actually nice to have some stimulation for once. Even if it does involve someone about whom my feelings are...more than a little complicated.

  "Hello?" He says, cocking his head as he looks down at me. "You in there?"

  Oh, I'm in here. I just don't care to give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. I look him in the eyes. The look says, What are you going to do about it?

  Or at least, that's the intent.

  He smirks, raises an eyebrow. "Really? You're gonna pretend to be all defiant on me? Rings a bit hollow, don't you think? I mean, look at you. You've completely given up."

  "No I haven't."

  Shit.

  He smiles briefly, a smidge triumphant. Then his expression gets more serious. "This isn't like you, Daimon. Not even a little."

  "Mind your own business," I say. "This isn't about you."

  A flash of annoyance crosses his features. "Everything you do is about me. From your light-grey getup, to your alternate energy source, to all your Inspector Gadget, dime-store auxiliary Protocols. Everything you do is to compensate for the fact you're not me. You're the anti-me."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I writhe. Lash out. But all I manage to accomplish is a swaying motion as I hang from the chains.

  Rev steps toward me. Infuriatingly close. He nudges my shoulder lazily with two fingers, causing me to swing side to side more purposefully, like the pendulum in a grandfather clock.

  "All I can think," he says, his head rotating slightly, his gaze tracking the motion of my tethered body, "Is that you're finally done. Done fighting. Done comparing yourself. You've finally realized the futility of it all. Good for you."

  "Does this look like giving up, to you?" I snarl. "I didn't choose this. There's nothing I can do."

  "That's right. That's what you should tell yourself. It's done. It's over. It'll be easier, that way. No need to fight. You can just sit there and slowly let yourself fall away."

  "Of course," I say. "You're right. There must be some obvious solution I haven't thought of. Tell me, wise master. Show me the way."

  "It's not about solutions," Rev says, with a look bordering on disgust. "It's about you. It's about...this." He gestures vaguely with a wave. "What you're doing, here. This pity party. Your body might be trapped. And you might not have any choice in that right now. But it was your choice to surrender the one thing you had left--your mind. Although, who's to say you didn't lose that a long time ago, right?"

  "Hilarious," I say. "And that's rich coming from you, after what you did."

  He shakes his head, clucking his tongue. "Sacrifice is not surrender. One requires courage. The other is what happens when all courage is gone."

  Unbelievable. Even here, at the end, I still have to listen to his disapproving critiques. And he isn't even actually here.

  "Fine," I say. "It's exactly like you said. I don't care, anymore. I've given up, like the limp-wristed coward you always said I was. There. Are you happy? Will that suffice?"

  Rev grabs the handle of his black sword, pulling it away from the magnetic sheath on his back. A long, wide, yellow blade of plasma crackles into being, emitting outward from the slim black rod connected to the cross guard. He swipes in a downward arc, aiming for my shoulder.

  Reflex takes over. I swing my body sideways, like a kid on a swing set, to avoid the blade. Just a bit too late.

  There's a crunch as the tip of the blade catches the concrete wall behind me, embedding into it. Which won't stop it, of course. It'll keep moving, like a razor through a taut sheet of paper. Through the wall, and through me.

  Only, it doesn't. It comes to a rest just above my left shoulder, forcing me to tilt my head so my neck won't come into contact with it as I sway back and forth. The energetic crackle of the blade is overwhelmingly loud in my left ear, like a hundred bees are swarming in and around the canal of my ear.

  "There it is," Rev says, satisfied. "There it is."

  And by it, he can only mean one thing.

  The will to live.

  Somewhere, in another dimension of reality--just down the hall of the cellblock--a door opens.

  I am alone. Revenant is gone, and so is the yellow-bladed sword that was stuck in the wall behind me.

  None of it was ever here to begin with. Not in any literal sense. But a tangible mark has been left, nonetheless.

  Footsteps, in the hall.

  I wait to hear the sound of Miles' cell door opening, and for the usual back and forth; Miles demanding to know what happened out there, and Renzo telling him to shut up, and to not move a muscle while he deposits the food in the cell, and replaces the shit bucket.

  Instead, there's a brief pause at the far end of the hall, near Miles' cell. And then the footsteps start up again, moving down the cellblock. Toward me.

  The latch to my cell clicks, and the door swings wide. Gavin stands there, studying me, a strangely apprehensive look on his face, like he's trying to convince himself of something. Overall, he looks alright. Doesn't appear to have sustained any injuries. But he seems...harried. I won't say he looks weak, but perhaps a bit...hollowed-out? He's oddly pale under the cellblock lights, and he has dark circles under his eyes.

  Welcome to the dark side, Gavin. I'd like to tell you it gets easier, but I'm not sure it does.

  He's wearing his usual camo fatigues, and he has a backpack slung over one shoulder.

  He unslings the backpack and sets it gently on the floor. "You've looked better."

  "I was about to say the same thing," I say.

  He gives me a disapproving glare. "How about I do the talking, okay? You listen, like a good little machine, and maybe I don't make your existence a living, perpetual hell."

  I'm already there. But it can always get worse. I can't help but imagine some scenario where he finds a way to keep me alive, mounted on a wall somewhere, conscious but paralyzed, indefinitely. I wouldn't put it past this guy. He's got some kind of god complex, as so many humans do.

  He watches me, waiting for a response. But my lips are sealed. Silas might think I'm crazy, but he's never accused me of being a masochist.

  Satisfied with my acquiescence, Gavin crouches and zips open the backpack. He pulls out something familiar to me. A long, thick vial filled with an oozing green fluid, and clear bubbles that bob and slide along the edges of the glass as Gavin holds the object up.

  I'm overwhelmed by an impulse to lunge toward Gavin, snatching the vial away. But of course, I'm immobilized by my injuries, as well as the chains that hold me.

  "Apparently," Gavin says, "Shiloh and Cade were able to extract a bunch of these from your downed ship. According to Cade's notes he left in storage, this is some kind of battery. And I think I know what for."

  He holds it out toward me and wiggles it, like a bone to a dog.

  He smirks, noting my reaction. "That's what I thought."

  He slips the battery back into the pack. He zips the pack shut, and stands, slinging the pack back over his shoulder.

  "Good," he says. "You're still listening. Which means you understand your position. If you survive this, it's because I say so. You hear? You exist because you have a purpose to serve. For me. And you should be grateful for that."

  I swallow, feeling cords of tension pulling tight throughout my mangled body. Willing it to be the case.

  All I need is a little bit of juice from one of those vials, I'll be well on my way to recovery. I'll be functional, at the very least.

  I need those batteries. More importantly, I need him to know I need them.

  The fact that he's found them is a good thing for me. It's a fucking triumph, on my part. But I can't let that on. I have to be desperate. Pathetic. Whipped. Gavin has to feel like he's one step ahead, like he's the one in control. That's the whole point of this, isn't it? Otherwise, why show me the vials? Why hold that over my head? He already has me where he wants me, and we both know it. No, this is about power, to him. More specifically, about feeling powerful. And I don't think it's just a matter of punishing me for what I did. It's because things are unraveling for him, I think. He is the Cloister's Prometheus. He summoned fire. And now everything's burning.

  Reminds me of a certain someone.

  Gavin moves closer, gritting his teeth as he pulls a big wrench out of a holster on his belt. He raises it overhead, making me wince and turn away. But he brings it down on a segment of my chains. The chains run through two separate metal loops--one overhead, and another on my right, where the links are attached by a padlock. And that's the spot where Gavin is directing his ire with the wrench: that padlock.

  He hits it once. Twice. Three times.

  On the third hit, the padlock comes apart, and the chains jangle, running out through each loop.

  I fall, hitting concrete legs first, then falling onto my shoulder and the side of my face. My skull smacks loud against the hard floor. My ears ring, and sparks flash bright in my vision for a second or two. As the lights ebb, I saw Gavin's face as he bends down to look at me.

  "This is what you deserve, Ruster," Gavin says. "It's God's judgment, not mine."

  Maybe he's actually managed to convince himself of that.

  He stands, moving away. And I feel the chains tug and pull, dragging me. The floor is smooth against my face, and cold. I am on my way. A funeral procession.

  Or perhaps, if I'm lucky, a path to victory.