| [Nov. 14th, 2011|03:05 am] |
Asuma breathed out hopeless rage against the iron bars, and closed his eyes. The cell block clanged with empty silence; the only sound was Katsuko’s raspy, breathless crying, somehow worse than the dying-dog keening she’d done before.
They’d cut Ichiba open, rip him apart, stitch him back together. Kill him by inches, and the last thing Asuma and Katsuko had done was ignore him.
He’d lost track of time between the stretches of unconsciousness and the light never changing, but it felt like days had passed since they’d first dragged him down here. The dry-mouthed, aching-headed, hollow-stomached feeling backed that up. Did people never get fed here?
No, people just died here.
Children died here.
What had happened to that unzipped woman?
You can see your sister dance for autumn again, ‘cos I ain’t leaving you behind, either.
Are you sure? You promise?
I promise.
He’d lied, and if he screamed about it they’d come back and a cut a hand off everyone still breathing. Fuck you until you cry. More likely they’d drag Katsuko out and rape her in front of him, unless their tastes really ran towards tall, hairy teenagers with broken noses.
Had they already touched her?
Or Ichiba?
He turned away from the outer door, shoving his right, re-located arm painfully through the bars of his cell bars, reaching for Katsuko. These bars were wider than the grating; he could get his arm through almost to the shoulder. He couldn’t see Katsuko -- the wall was in the way -- but he could feel her shaking, sharp-carved shoulder pressed against the bars of her cell. Feel the splash as hot tears hit his hand. She’d already lost one friend today.
“Sweetheart,” he tried, but it came out raw. He stretched and managed to get his arm partway around her, hugging her against metal and stone. “He’ll come back. You did.”
For a long moment, she said nothing at all, just leaned against his arm and shook, frightening-warm. Then she choked her tears down, locking them back into whatever place she kept them to stay sane. Her voice was shredded whisper. “I’m tired.”
His eyes burned.
“I know,” he said, and wished he could just hug her. Wrap her up against his chest and take her home. Six months. “Don’t give up on me, beautiful.”
A raspy chuckle barely stirred the air. Her fingers wrapped around his hand and squeezed tight. “Never.”
Brave, fierce warrior-woman. He caught his breath, something like love and fear and rage making a wordless tangle in his broken chest, and held her tighter.
Which was when the door slammed open and orderlies poured in.
There were no gurneys this time, just a flood of six men running down the cell block. One of them checked at Asuma’s cell and smashed his billy-club across the bars, catching Asuma on his re-set shoulder.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” he snapped, while Asuma staggered back, retching on pain. “This is all your fault.”
“Obuyon!” shouted one of the orderlies. “There’s no time, move your ass!”
The man snarled and vanished. Down the hallway a bright, crackling whoosh of chakra blazed into smoke and heat and the sound of Shiga screaming.
Fire.
They were setting the cells on fire. |
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