| [Nov. 14th, 2011|02:52 am] |
In retrospect, it was not the smartest idea he’d ever had.
It wasn’t even an idea now. The orderly had flung Katsuko onto the floor of her cell, distracted enough by her cut-off cry and naked, suture-crossed body to step close to Asuma’s cell for one shining moment; Asuma had driven both arms through the bars and just grabbed.
The snap of bone under his hands was the best thing he’d heard in two days.
Things happened fast after that. He lost his grip on the orderly when the man wrenched himself away. The second orderly flashed through a blur of hand-seals and slammed both palms against the bars, lighting up the entire row of cells with scorching, burning lightning. A half-dozen screams ripped from ragged throats. Asuma was thrown against the back wall of his cell, hitting the stone hard and the floor harder.
Some kind of alarm must have been tripped, because four more men came crashing through the doors. The injured orderly was grabbed and yanked to one side, his jaw roughly examined by a red-headed man with thin scabbing cuts criss-crossing his arms and hands; one of the orderlies Asuma had injured on the observation deck.
“Grab him,” snapped the red-head, glaring at Asuma, and Asuma reflected that this was probably going to hurt.
He fought to make it back on his feet as the cell door clanged open. A short, thick billy-club cracked him across the cheek, knocking him back to one knee; agony shredded through his already aching head. He surged up, trying to slam at least one of them in the gut. He got at least one blow in before he was smashed down again and kicked hard in the ribs.
“You again,” grunted a man’s voice. “You’re going to regret that.”
Asuma bared his teeth, panting blood where the inside of his cheek had split open on the edges of his molars. “I regret not breaking your neck.”
Katsuko wasn’t moving. She’d stopped making that thin, high, hurting sound. Distantly, he could hear Ichiba crying her name.
Hands grabbed his arms, dragging him out of the cell. He was thrown down in front of the man with red hair, who kicked him onto his back and pressed a booted foot on his throat. More feet stamped down on his hands, pinning him spreadeagled. The red-head leaned his weight on Asuma’s throat.
“Kaminari said to keep you alive,” he said conversationally, “but that’s a very loose concept around here. Your girlfriend is alive; I suggest you keep your mouth shut and enjoy that while it lasts.”
Fear curled coldly down Asuma’s spine, but it was buried under the avalanche of blind fury. He kicked out, desperate to at least break one enemy kneecap, and choked out the best approximation of a threat he could.
The red-head sighed and leaned harder. “Yotan, Kazu, explain how things work around here. I don’t think our guest is listening to me.”
An ugly laugh rippled around the little circle of men. |
|