AUGUST 08 2021
Spectres haunted forbidden places, and the footprints of Devyat and Emmie were drawn throughout the work of Continuity Corporations. From the outside looking in, it would almost be assumed that they were business partners of a sort: those who bore ownership and investment in the company, could offer it something new, and sorely yearned for it to see success. Perhaps there was some truth in that assumption: perhaps they could offer things that no-one else could, and perhaps too they wanted the company to do well. That optimism was rooted in something inhuman, though, something that ran amok and without backlash, that could never be stopped. A runaway train, barreling down through an endless city, with conductors and drivers who did not care how many people they hit.
Eamon, or Ecstasy, or A-69 – whatever mask he wore had long since slipped from his scowling face – sat squashed between crated, packed in a box of wood and metal and sealed within. He had hidden. And now he was moving, jostling and rumbling from side to side as the vehicle churned down its path. A bulky van, white and grey in colour, with dull snowy camouflage patterns split across and between its heavy wheels. A transport van, loaded into something of metal, calmer and colder: a plane. The temperature dropped. The sound grew to a hum, mechanical and screaming. The air grew thin and cooled sharply, mist forming before his breath. Eamon smiled.
The haunting spectres did not know he was here, not yet, but when they did he was certain they would latch on to him, cruel minds lusting for torment. They would not be able to break him.
Adelaide had been the first to make this connection, first an assumption of certainty but now a confirmation of near-fact: Aeries, her Aeries, was within Burya's Site-1. The foul nest of Devyat and Emmie, their swamp of torment and medicine, of lust and violence. He would be deep within it, Adelaide was certain, imprisoned just as she was beneath Mt. Asgard. In that veiled conversation she had overheard between Scalar and Elohim, transmitted through Valium's hidden Bowline receiver, she had heard mention of another 'failed robot', one hidden within the clutch of Burya. Far away from her, from away from here. She was certain, and Eamon was too.
He had his own agenda for infiltrating the site. He, as did all within Site Aorta, loathed the two Burya officials with a steady flame of passion. The origin of that hatred, though, was different for him. His sister in flesh, Floss, the pale and gothic teacher at Site-Aorta with horns for eyes, had been kidnapped shortly after her formation by the man. His torture was unique and cruel. He hurt her, and tore out her eyes. Burned her skin to muscle and watched as her biology weaved it back together. Floss was not human, and neither was Eamon: they were beings born of the protein that fell when the sky rained blood. Unlike Catnap, her human origin polluted with it, Eamon and Floss were born of the protein. Formed of the protein. Clotted masses congealed from the grazed offal of the blood rains, human and shambling. Not siblings in blood, but in flesh. Twins in formation.
It was evident that Devyat, now, knew of the protein. Catnap had been his experiment to see how it would effect a child. Now she, at the immature age of seven, scarcely able to speak or read, bore strength greater than a fully grown man, with flesh that knitted wounds together. Devyat learned of the protein from Floss. Perhaps he thought here a mere stowaway, or some poor fugitive who had fallen by consequence into his grasp. Yet when he tore off her skin, her body recovered: healed over it in thicker sheets, texture alike metal, black and grey and biomechanical like a painting of Giger. He watched as, when he tore out her eyes, new ocular organs grew in their stead. Inhuman, adapted. Unable to be broken. Horns, with photoreceptors dotted all across their rigid surface.
That torment was the origin of Eamon's anger. He had not been hurt in the way that Floss had, yet even so his heart ached for some kind of vengeance. He would wait. The opportunity would present itself. The climate had changed as the craft took flight, soaring over what he assumed was Europe, a shadow over mountains and forests and tundra. There was time to rest before the theatrics of the days ahead would start: he did not feel tired, wanting to spend the time getting ready. He stripped the eyepatch from his face, blinking the raw eye underneath several times as it focused and healed. He didn't have anything on him: not a phone, nor a bag, only his clothing and mask. He had left everything else aboard the plane. That would make his leave seem spontaneous: he had been hired as a stowaway and, for the time, he would leave as one.
Eamon closed his eyes to rest, the cold hum of the plane rocking him in his cradle of wood and metal. He would wait for the time to pass, and felt a warm feeling spread through his gut. Excitement.
His thoughts drifted as he thought for those cold hours, dream-like as his mind veered in a strange space between unconsciousness and coherence. They danced, in that mental climate. He thought of Floss and Catnap, Arkady distant in those images: Catnap was trying to read, trying to do maths, trying to draw as a seven year old should. She was struggling, and it was frustrating her, but the presence and words of Floss calmed her down. Arkady was visible in the distance, watching. Not malicious, just awkward. Not unable to interact with the child, merely unknowing how to. He sighed, and looked to the ground beneath them. It was arctic, cold.
He thought of Wilfryd and Valium, and wondered what it was they were talking about: he thought of the two walking throughout the convention grounds, Wilfryd rambling on and on about the history of the company and those who helped found it. He thought of Valium, Grant, and the last time they had seen one another: it was right after Elohim's speech, and the rampant child had pushed him aside. Valium had helped him stand up, and they spoke in hushed tones as Elohim prowled the convention space. Before they went their separate ways – Eamon to the van and Valium to Wilfryd – they had hugged. Valium had held him tight, as tight as his thin arms could. There was anxiety in the poor man, such that it seemed he would throw up at any moment. He couldn't bear the thought of Eamon being put in danger, it seemed. He had made a promise to Valium, then, that he would return safely. Eamon had no intent to break that vow.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere, again, and now Eamon saw himself in his mind, masked in the shark like grin of his anonymous visage. That thought lingered longer than any of the others had: it remained until the craft shuddered to the ground, until the van churned down an icy road with cold air, and until the vehicle stopped in a cold room filled with the noise of metal and machine.
Footsteps walked up into the van, unloading the crates one by one. Eamon opened his eyes, the crate he was within picked up by a small litany of men and women. They placed it on the ground: there was a sound of cracking as, crowbar-in-hand, they opened the wooden lid of the box. Light poured in; Eamon's smile grew again.
The facility itself was dark, a brutalist labyrinth of chambers and warehouses illuminated by overhead lights of an artificial shade. Eamon was manacled and lead through those chambers, the car park like warehouse that the van had nestled itself within connected to a series of wide, large, square-shaped storage rooms. Those spaces were incredibly large: boxes lined every wall and were stacked atop shelves, fastened down with straps as they teetered and as great moving machines, forklift like and hanging from gantries above, loomed between and around them. There was an echo of industry in those chambers, broadcast by the mechanised cries of the wheels on the gantry and the motors that pushed them to and fro. The air was cold and bitter, the warehouse large in a manner that sucked heat from the chamber. Overhead lights shone white on the concrete floor and support pillars, a glint that emphasised the coldness of the space, the echo its industrial breath.
Guards were positioned throughout the warehouse, standing atop catwalks and operating the pallets that hung form the gantries. Eamon looked up to them. They wore the puffy jackets, the flak vests, that all Burya grunts seemed to adorn themselves in: none wore helmets. Their faces were pale and stern, men and women, and glared down to the pink haired prisoner. Eamon counted many of them, strung up across the warehouse as they marched to the side wall, the concrete barrier that divided the warehouse from the corridors beyond, metal boxes of elevators lining those walls at either side of the chamber. They were, like the warehouse, similarly large and flat, surrounded by a thin fence that fell flat into the floor when the elevator was not in use. They were loading elevators, some stocked high with crates and small vehicles. The small parade, Eamon in their centre, funneled into one of those metal platforms.
Eamon looked around to the group which surrounded him. There were a handful of guards, six, all wearing white flak vests. They were not armed, though their arms seemed knotted with muscle: even beneath the woolen coverings they wore, that much was certain. Eamon wriggled his hands in the metal manacles and looked behind him, stifling the urge to grin.
Devyat was standing behind him, staring and smiling broadly. It was a fake, plastic smile, off putting in a manner that seemed deliberate. He was a tall man, clad in a long green jacket, with one eye covered in a silver eyepatch and his colour split, brown-and-blonde hair combed back. For how old he must be, Eamon confessed that he did not look it. He looked no older than forty: the man clearly kept himself in good shape, strong and supple, face not overtly aged but with character nonetheless, with a silhouette that held itself strongly in stance. There was time behind him, Eamon was certain of it. The man stood silently and stared at Eamon, his expression overt in its attempt at intimidation. Perhaps Eamon would have been intimidated, were he someone else. That mask of ghoulish strength, however, came off as fake: forced.
"I know who you are." Devyat said, his one eye glowering down to Eamon. Eamon turned his head inquisitively. "Really? I don't think we've met, before."
Devyat hummed.
"You're Elohim's new pet, aren't you? An anonymous folk, I saw you at the convention. Pink hair, thin. You're not quite as... masculine as I thought you would be." Devyat's voice fit his face perfectly. It was a hushed voice, quiet, almost a whisper in timbre yet with a presence that seemed to fill any space he found himself within: there was a husky, aged quality to it – a rattling that could compared to the rasp of a chain smoker – that gave volume yet only bolstered its quiet nature. His tone was deep, and every rasping breath cut into the air.
"Do you know where you are?" Devyat asked. Eamon shrugged.
"I've not a fucking clue." He said, rattling his chains. "But I assume I'm not meant to be here."
Devyat narrowed his eye down to the man. He was struggling to read Eamon, struggling to parse his intent or emotions.
"Not quite." Devyat said. He walked forwards, towards Eamon: he was slightly taller than the pink-haired man, and though his feet were clad in heavy boots, moved with stark silence. "How did you get here? How did you know what transport to get into? How did you get in the van?".
Eamon looked up to Devyat.
"I hide." He played the part: his voice was hushed and quiet, meek and mouse like. "It's how I move."
"A stowaway?" Devyat's voice was equally hushed, filling the space though it did. Eamon nodded. The man turned his head to look at him, glowering. Leering. "No, you are Elohim's pet." He whispered, "His new assistant. Wearing the sash to mark your significance."
"He was abusive." Eamon said, his eyes locked to Devyat's. The man grinned as he continued: "there was always more, always something more. Nothing was ever good enough."
"And you came here, to leave it behind?"
"Obviously I did not intend to get caught." Eamon spoke, the elevator humming as they descended into the bowels of the concrete bunker. It was cold, there, bitterly cold: as frigid as Mt. Asgard, proliferated by a chill not created through the iciness of the space – though indeed the colossal building sat in a tundra climate – but due to the sheer scale and emptiness of the rooms that lay within it. The elevator descended, mechanisms screaming in rusted cries as the platform sank into its cradle: ahead stood a long corridor, longer than Eamon could have imagined, a vestibule that connected a great many square chambers. Some of those chambers were enclosed ecosystems of their own right, large warehouses where the guards or workers rested. He could see as much, as they passed by the grime-stained windows that sat in the concrete walls between them. There were beds upon beds, stacked high in the square grey space like a barracks or prison. The concrete obfuscated all noise, but he saw them whisper as they moved by. Excitement was stirred with his arrival. The corridor itself was a large half-pipe, with pipes and mechanisms trailing across the surface and large black lettering, chipped and faded, scrawled on the walls. They were in numerous languages, English and Russian and Polish, signifying the numerical name of the tunnel and the different wings it attached to. There were a great many tunnels, it seemed. This one was the fifty-second. It adjoined barracks, the wide tunnel descending in a steep slope, white shining overhead, into dingier and colder environments. There were crawling fungi on the walls now, shifting black moulds that grew in patterns as the light above dimmed and the tunnel narrowed. They were entering places darker still, places seldom visited or seen.
The tunnels transitioned, a metal fire escape door swinging open as the leading guard pushed her hand against the bar: now, they stood on a catwalk. The space was impossibly big, a great chunk gouged from the land: boxy again, yet with asymmetry as rocks and rubble jutted uncut from the walls. There was a tunnel, beneath them: a platform like a train station with a loading ramp and elevator going elsewhere. An opening in the railway, which vanished to the left and right. Eamon heard distant rackets as the vestiges of trains echoed in the distance: far away, their thunderous noise reduced to the faintest of whispers. The tunnel was passing eastward, the trains far, far away.
He knew where he was. Burya Site-1. Where Adelaide knew her Aeries was being held. A concrete bunker, a warehouse situated atop chasms of depth and depravity, where Devyat and Emmie and the colleagues of their tastes relished in old suffering. He wanted to grin, even in the cold and the darkness, yet stifled it with a flickering expression. Devyat loomed behind him, tall and gaunt. The catwalk continued: at its end sat a metal door, antiquated and hefty, like that used in a bunker or bank vault. Another person stood beside it, dressed in the white flak vest of Burya, the puffy jacket that seemed to proliferate and plague the last few months of his life. As they approached, this guard took notice of Devyat, and the door opened before them. Eamon peered over the banister one last time as he passed through the vault door: a mechanical roaring had screamed out in the depths of the cavern, heavy and loud and undeniably recognisable. A train approached. It swept from the unseen tunnel, through the cavern, and out into the other side almost too quick to be seen. The lights mounted upon the stone wall, harsh and fluorescent white, captured its form in stark reflections and harsh highlights: the whole train was metal, wider at the bottom and narrower at the top, like a razor, with a sleek engine. It was comprised of individual carriages, each with a balcony-like rim around them, thin and bannistered and similar to the catwalk he stood atop. Some of the banisters held standing forms. Human, perhaps? They flickered by too quick to be identified. Yet the carts were different, each one self contained. A freight train. As one of the guards pushed him into the concrete tunnel of the vault, he caught another sight: another type of carriage, different from the razor train's cargo carriages. It was connected to the train, a gantry on wheels, with metal shapes dangling from the upper support. There were two rows of them, each facing outwards, connected to the train through a series of tubes or pipes or wires – something cylindrical. They were human, or at least human adjacent from what he could tell, too long and gangly and undeniably robotic. He paused, looked at the robotic horrors, and was pushed into the vault. Memory flashed back. Above Adelaide's chamber in the depths of Mt. Asgard sat a storage room. One old and half-forgotten by anyone other than him, Valium, Scalar and a few others. Old robots, decommissioned, sealed in tubes of amniotic balm. Abandoned by Scalar, now given new parents in Devyat and Emmie.
The vault door slammed shut behind him.
*
Emmie flicked her pale-white hair behind her ear, sitting in a lush, green armchair of soft leather. Her office was cold, as cold as the rest of the Site, and smelled of varnished wood. Bookshelves lined the walls and her desk, ornately carved, was of a fine and vintage construction. She trailed her pale, thin fingers over its patterning as she waited. Before her, situated atop the desk, sat a small and self-contained computer. Almost like a laptop, yet with a screen of transparent plastic-glass resin. It stood on a stand, and the icons atop it glowed from an unseen projector inside the transparent material. A face shimmered atop the screen. When she focused her eye atop it, she saw the man: when she let her vision linger, she could see the doorway on the other side of the room. It was a remarkable piece of technology, really, yet she felt a scorn in her chest for using it. It was of Continuity Corporations invention, nothing created by her or her company. Scalar stared to her, his face unmoving, dark and unimpressed. There was silence between them.
"Before you say anything," Scalar said in his smooth voice, "Let me just express a certain confusion in the manner in which you and your partner operate things."
"How we operate things is none of your concern."
Again, a moment of silence. Scalar let out a breathless sigh.
"Alright." He said, "Sophie Reynalds."
"What of her?"
"Why her?"
"We had the connections to find her. Unwitting scouts can provide good information."
"What?" Scalar said, a genuine confusion in his voice. "Jesus christ, that 'unwitting scout' is my best tracker! And she wasn't providing information to you – you stole her file and stalked her friends! You almost had her killed two weeks ago! And you nabbed her friend? Why?"
"We are upholding our side of the deal." Emmie's voice was cold, spoke slowly, as if she too were confused. Confused at what? Confused at the issue Scalar seemingly held in her decisions? "I understand that!" Scalar snapped, "But... why her?"
"It was Devyat's decision to identify a suitable candidate." Scalar sighed.
"Carl Vice."
"That was tantamount in exploring the posibilities of the next ELO-17 upgrade. It proved that our cybernetic-free design is possible, and gave us the green light to kickstart the Trinity."
"Did you keep him alive?"
"Devyat deemed it necessary."
"Jesus christ," he repeated, "He was a fucking brain, Emmie. Nothing else – a brain in a jar, and you've kept him there?"
"We cannot rule out the opportunity for further testing."
"And what of Venice Portland."
"Such a test was necessary to determining the limits of our processes."
"You locked him in a room. In the bunker, and left him there."
"Necessary."
Scalar looked to Emmie, and brushed his hands down his face. These were the so-called 'LBR' tests, only a few examples of a wrap sheet too long and too miserable. They kickstarted the new project: the Farm that he, Emmie, Devyat and Cerebellum commanded, yet the depth and depravity of their experimentation polluted all advancements and discoveries. They had sealed away Aeries, 'their half of the deal', discovered the terrifying extent of ELO-17's capabilities, and discovered the manner in which they would develop the next upgrade. Then they had contacted Cerebellum and his sponsors, and had began production. There was no such need for this senseless violence. No such need; it made Scalar sick thinking about it. The violence of the Farm, of this new project, was necessary. It was a necessity, a sour aftertaste in the continuation of progress, of a new world that Scalar new was possible. Yet the senseless violence, the senseless experimentation, continued.
"Cerebellum mentioned an... 'incident' at your Alaska processing site some months ago. He didn't go into specifics. Can you explain that, please."
Emmie looked to him for a moment.
"The facility is no longer operational."
"How come?"
"Contamination. Blood Rain. You can thank Cerebellum for that."
"And... why was it that Cerebellum had to go there? He could have taken a helicopter there, if Blood Rain fell then he used Genesis. And that meant you needed him there, now, travel time be damned."
"An LBR escaped. A young girl influenced by the Blood Rain Protein. She killed several guards and escaped to a nearby abandoned town we were keeping tabs on. She wrecked some destruction there, and fled into the tundra. She's probably dead, now." There was a hint of sadness in her voice, peculiar to hear from her and utterly unfamiliar to Scalar. "We needed Cerebellum for damage control."
"Is it under control?" Scalar asked.
"It is. We are rebuilding and refunneling biological cargo into the site. A number of other subjects escaped in the commotion."
"Alright. Well, keep it as a processing facility. Aside from the main site, it's our only one that remains."
"Because your prospect blew up our other?"
She sneered.
"Because you were not taking adequate security measures."
Emmie's face flickered into a joyless smile. She turned her head to a side.
"Scalar," she said, "did you call me just to scorn my work? I feel there are more important matters to discuss."
Scalar nodded.
"There are." He said, "But yes, I did call to scorn you. One more question, and I will leave."
"Go on."
"Fiona Pullip. What was her role in your plan?"
"Devyat and his colleagues need entertainment, Scalar."
"And now," he continued, "Devyat has kidnapped Eamon Grayson as a replacement."
"Eamon Grayson kidnapped himself. He was a stowaway in one of our cargo lorries. He is ours, now."
"No. You must bring him back, Elohim is-"
"Elohim is senseless! Call Eamon repayment for your theft of Fiona."
"Well then I will have to send people to get him, Emmie. For fuck's sake, he can't just vanish. There has to be some effort of recovery, or questions will be raised. I'm on thin enough ice with Elohim and, try as I might, he could still annihilate everything we've worked for. Expect a Veritas team to be sent to Site-1 shortly."
"Is this another plan to get them killed? Like your previous escapade, when you found Fiona?"
Scalar sneered to her, and his face vanished from the screen.
*
Snow fell outside of Mt. Asgard. Scalar watched it through his window, mechanical hand tapping away. He ran his fingers through his pale-blonde hair: he wondered whether or not the stress of his position would turn him bald, soon. Cerebellum swivelled in the office chair uneasily.
"I'm going to kill her." Scalar said.
"What?"
"Emmie. Devyat, too." He turned to face the masked man, his featureless face looking to Scalar. Cerebellum's head was turned to a side, greasy hair falling down his shoulders, hunched up to his ears. "Is that acceptable?" Scalar asked, "would your sponsors accept that?"
"JRL would be unhappy. Those two are – were – his friends. I think some nostalgia lingers."
Scalar shook his head.
"JRL is dead to the world. Elohim be damned, I don't care if those two are his last contact on this godforsaken planet. They've done nothing but cause pain to me and others, and they need to go." He clutched the back of his own chair, desk separating him and Cerebellum, and squeezed the pleather of its back.
"Ok," he continued, "So JRL is unhappy. What of your sponsors?"
Cerebellum shrugged. Scalar hummed.
"I could... I could send Epsilon. Rayleigh performed admirably in the previous expedition, accident as it was. Her, Eve, Ace and Roe... Eve and Roe in the helicopter..."
Cerebellum shook his head.
"No," he said. His voice was a grumble. "Burya Site-1 is linked to the processing plant in Alaska. Underground train network. Organic refuse and human cargo are transported between the two locations."
"I doubt they'd be exposed to it."
"It's too close, Scalar. Too uncomfortable. If they saw any of it... well, I'm sure they would be able to piece the link together. Their origin, the nature of the project."
"You could wipe their memories."
Cerebellum shifted uncomfortably. He said nothing, yet a lack of confidence was evident: the failure of A-65's procedures seemed to be weighing on him. Scalar sighed.
"A-65, Hannah Stanford and Verity Jonathan. They can make a team."
"Verity Jonathan has been training Fiona Pullip – er, A-19. Will you be sending her, too?"
Scalar looked to the man and furrowed his brow, lip curled in a vague remembrance of disgust.
"Cerebellum," he said, "if Epsilon could not be sent – if Site-1 is 'too close' to the origin of their trauma – then Fiona should not be sent either. God forbid she catches sight of Devyat."
"Her anger could become a tool. A very sharp tool."
*
AUGUST 09 2021
Eamon sat in a concrete room, walls, floor and ceiling blank in a maddening homogeneity of brutalist grey. His hands were clamped, a cuff around both wrists and a third around his neck, all connected through rattling chains. The air was cold, fluorescent lights above blinding white and ever-present, day and night. In one corner sat a porcelain toilet, a roll of thin paper beside it. Against the opposite wall sat a shelf with a rubber mattress atop it, a thin blanket and a pillow to cover his eyes with as he slept. They had stripped him bare and and provided him with a grey jumpsuit, a tiny act of dehumanisation that nevertheless filled him with a sort of giddy, childlike excitement. It should have been a horrifying thing, but in his work there was a sort of research that commenced: a learning of the horrors performed by Emmie and Devyat in their experimentation, seemingly senseless in its violence. He was an LBR, now! LBR-11, by his count! How exciting, what an honour! Of course, it wouldn't last forever. A woman had opened the hatch to his cell a few hours after he had been dumped into it, sliding a plastic tray with slimy prison-food atop it. He ate the rancid gunk, trusting in his robust biology to eliminate any poisons or pathogens that lingered. He sat and waited. Devyat would come in soon enough. Or Emmie. At least to gloat, and that's all he needed. Just a single opening, and that would be it. Then, he would be out to find Aeries. And he had a solid idea where he was could be found. In the worst case scenario, Eamon pondered, They'll just leave me here. Just like Venice Portland. Then, I suppose, Scalar will send someone to find me. Mission failure, perhaps? Or maybe not... I could scout out the depths of this vault, try to find where they might be keeping Aeries...
The metal door of the cell crackled as it opened, mechanical hinges whirring in their abuse. Eamon got to his feet, and watched as the door swung open, to the white-haired woman and tall, gaunt man behind her. Looks like I'll go with my first plan. Eamon thought, as the two figures stepped into the room.
Emmie, Eamon thought, was pretty in a very unsettling manner. The nature of the discomfort she elicited in him was different from that of the norm, not of botched plastic surgery, uncleanliness or of a reflection of some deep-seated violence or yearning to do harm. She looked normal, ever so normal and ever so beautiful, but there was something hiding behind that mask of human flesh. There was no empathy behind her, yet it wasn't such that she as incapable of feeling the emotion: she had chosen not to, and that path she was sent down reflected itself in her expression. She looked young. Younger than he would have thought, for someone as old as she, working in the 70s with JRL and now festering in the depravity of her company. She flicked some wispy white hair out from her eye and leaned on her cane, looking to the pink-haired man
"I just got a call." She said, "From a fellow at your company. An Administrator – Scalar. I'm unsure if you know him. He asked us to return you, and we declined. Do you know why?" There was snark in her voice. Eamon gave a vague gesture. She leaned in to him, Devyat still lingering in the doorway. "Because," she continued, "Your fellows stole something from us. You are our repayment."
Emmie's eye darted down Eamon, then focused back in upon his face. His expression was unchanging: an expression flickered on her momentarily, then faded.
"You're a perfect fit for the role. Normally we'd have to implant you with cybernetics, some of our own development. Or we'd have your memory scrubbed. That seems unnecessary, now." Eamon turned his head: the chains clattered, echoing in the cold emptiness. "We'll send you to Alaska," she said, "There's a small facility there. Think of it as a packaging plant. There are a few buildings there; it'll be your home, surrounded by forest. We'll have you run through it, and you'll be chased. Hunted. An entertainment, of sorts, but not allowed to die." Eamon remained still, and that stillness seemed to make Emmie uneasy. Devyat stood staring, as if any reaction would satisfy his lust, but Emmie shifted on her cane as Eamon looked to her.
"Alright." Eamon said, an almost content tone in his voice. He pulled his arms outward, and snapped the steel handcuffs that restrained them.
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