trap

when i come to, the pain is back.

I know by that alone that they’ve taken the sword and the ring as far as they can get them away from me. Or maybe just stuck them in a lead box, i wouldn’t know. My mind feels dull, sluggish. It takes full seconds to blink away the haze and take in my surroundings. Plain grey brick box of a room, mostly featureless. Obvious camera in the corner, blinking away. Probably several more hidden. I keep reaching for the power that should be there, like a missing tooth, or a next step that isn’t there. despite myself, i feel my heart rate picking up.

My mid flashes back the days I was first here. It… really doesn’t look anything like the interrogation room they put me in last time. Last time they still didn’t understand wielders well enough to recognize the potential escape routes. This time, it’s all white concrete and locking doors, techs with passwords and five-minute checkups.

Lots of waiting around wondering what they’re going to do with you.

Knowing they’re doing it on purpose, to hurt me, doesn’t really change anything.

At least my form is stable, for now. That would be a whole other kind of awful.

I don’t know how long they make me wait, but it’s long enough for the situation to start to sink in. They captured me, dragged me back to the place i swore i would never see again if it killed me. I can feel the swell of pain and despair threaten to undo me. My mind flashes back to the ghostly net of threads, shimmering into existence in the last moments of my freedom. I still can’t quite believe the Vault managed to get another wielder to do it for them. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

there. I can hold onto that for a minute.

Before I can sink deeper into the simmering mess, before I can begin to rebuild, the door pops open with a sound like a cheap plastic bag, inflated and then punctured. My mind automatically goes for the sword, reaching for the clarity I could use to assess the situation, but I come up empty, with a hollow feeling in my gut. I miss what she says first, stepping into the room.

She uses the edge of the table to make the papers she’s carrying line up, a louder sound than you might expect from the motion, and sits down in across from me.

“…authorized us to retain custody of you while your case is processed. Understand?”

I blink, and shake my head, trying to force my head to refocus on my surroundings. End up staring the woman dead in the eyes.

“I want a lawyer.” The words come out at almost a drawl, I have to focus hard to make my tongue move the way I want it to. I’m not even sure how many lawyers would actually work with one of us, but there’s a chance.

She shakes her head, almost managing to look apologetic.

“No can do. Haven’t had a public defender around since the state passed the Public Artifact Safety Act. You lost your right to attorney the second you picked up one of those weapons.”

She pauses, evidently expecting me to respond. I clench my fists under the table. Older ways of thinking are still not quite online, I’ve gotten too used to the sword filling in those gaps, using that mental space for other things. I know enough that I don’t want to say a damn thing, though. I remember how to keep my mouth shut.

“So what happens now, is that you spend a couple nights in here while we process you, account for any of the physical changes those artifacts had on you. And then we drop you back in a cell while we set up the trial. On account of the damages you’ve done already, I’m pretty confident we can get the judge not to set bail. Of course, that’s assuming we can’t get anything useful out of you. Your call.”

She’s got her best “I’m the reasonable one here” face on. I feel my nails draw blood from my palms. Count four slow breaths, in and out, then consider in silence for about three more seconds. Then I spit in her face.

The holding cell floor feels like a frozen lake in early spring. Gouges in the concrete span the entire area, skaters with grudges and long claws. I don’t blame them. I feel just about as bad as they did, probably.

Of all the artifact wielders, I don’t think I ever heard of one on the outside with such extreme physical changes. But they’re not so uncommon in here. Keeps the Vault presentable, keeps their face fresh. Keeps the public not thinking too hard about the folks locked up in here, shivering in white, windowless, concrete rooms.

The dull ache of the missing artifacts is making me restless, too, and pissed. If I had either of mine I could be out of here without a second thought. There’s no prison built that can contain us. Without them, I’m just…

What even am I without the sword and the ring? Even without its power close at hand, the sword’s still entirely changed the way I think. Some of that feels… bad, now that I’ve been separated from it. Like my brain got used to relying on it, and now it’s trying to compensate for the damage of having it gone. I feel… stupid, and sluggish. Like- literally slow in time, sleep deprivation but multiplied by like a million.

I’ve spend the time since they stuck me in here trying to get my brain back into something like working order, with… some success. Headache is still debilitating, I can still barely figure out how to use English, but my decision making is still there, my general strategies are still there.

And the ring… Of all the forms I could have picked to get captured in (not that I’d ever pick that, but like for the exercise) this one is going to be one of the weirder ones.

I head the guards outside the cells, moving around. Not really sure how long I’ve been in here, honestly. There’s a faint clang of metal on metal as they haul something around in the cell next to mine.

I wonder if they know that I’ll still be able to fly? Probably, they tend to think about that sort of thing. I wonder if they’ll try to weigh me down or something. Or if they’ll try to clip my feathers.

I shiver, briefly, and tuck my wings closer around my body. They’re… decently insulating, my core could be a lot colder than it is. But they’re still a lot of surface area to lose heat from. I don’t really know how long that balance is going to run in my favor.

how the hell do i get out of here?

i could just manufacture a confused moment and slip away, run to find my things. just be too quick to stop.

My head sputters and flares with headache as I try to imagine whether or not they’ll be expecting it, estimating how cocky they are.

It’s not much of a plan, but it’s better than nothing. I get caught trying to imagine ways to escape cuffs, or stop them cuffing me altogether. If i can get to the artifacts, this is all over. They won’t be keeping them off-site, like they should if they wanted to have any chance of keeping me here. It would go against their business model.

I’m halfway stuck trying to reason about the layout of the building when the red light above the door comes on, and the speaker embedded in the wall crackles to life.

“Get back. Step away from the door.”

I don’t move from where I’m sitting, glaring at the camera. Where would I even move, farther away?

“Get back. Step away from the door.”

Just repeated, the same flat tone. I scoot the inch or so left between me and the wall, still locking ’eyes’ with the camera.

“Lie down on your face, hands behind you head.”

This time, I don’t move at all, start trying to put together something to say in response.

“Lie down on your face, hands behind your head.”

I’m about to open my mouth to respond when the wall folds inward behind me, concrete turning to liquid rope, circling around my waist, my armpits, my neck. I find myself having to struggle to breathe, and ordinarily I would have expected it to send me into a panic. Instead, I feel the cold hatred for this place give a little shudder, growing to fill my entire experience. Everything comes into focus. Or as much focus as I can expect without the sword.

I open my mouth to tell whoever to eat shit, go to hell, something, anything. Instead the liquid concrete gags me, and the door opens.