The Way [Part II]

Perhaps drowning in the sewage of Zenith would have been a better fate. The dim cavern came into focus slowly, and Cyrus saw men staring him down. His hands gripped the sand beneath him. Where am I? A man's voice rang in Cyrus' ears. Startled the wayfarer looked up at its source. Silhouetted against the distant entrance to this cave stood a formidable human, rifle aimed to kill.

Cyrus' hackles stood on end as he rose from the sand. He felt a potion of fear and anger brewing in the pit of his stomach. Yet he was not powerless; Cyrus Drake was no man's prisoner. A gasp escaped his lips, and his eyes shone with a cool luminance in the shadowy cavern. Warmth spread through his body, like a dozen bullets riddled in his flesh. Like lying in the pool of blood seeping into the sand.

All his fear, all his desperation for life coiled around his heart like a python. Cyrus ripped the snake from him, bending the poisonous serpent toward the leader. The fear slithered around the man, strangling him just as it had Cyrus. Allowing the conduit to close, the light thrown from his eyes was snuffed.

After implanting the fear Cyrus felt into his interrogator, he spoke. "Abraxas sent me, I come from Roshoq as a sympathizer. I am a wayfarer, I don't know why he hasn't... "

A pronounced throbbing in his temples was beginning to concern Cyrus. Somebody other than the leader was speaking, just behind Drake's shoulder. Glancing behind him, Cyrus saw nothing but the indistinct figures of the silent men. Drake turned around and tried to focus on the man pointing a gun at him, but the strange voice kept babbling just out of sight. Cyrus' head throbbed.

"They know where the... They found the catalyst, we're in danger."

As the serpent of fear sprung towards the leader, the man affected paused in silence, lowering his weapon with a trembling hand until it dropped into the soft sand. Fingers crawled into his hair as he moaned, stumbling back with his head in his hands. 

"What the hell is wrong with his eyes?!" called out one as another ran to the aid of the older man in distress.   As the effect ran dry the man reclaimed his weapon and stood back up.  "He's a mentalist, give him some space."  In reaction, the figures around took a synchronized step back, caution rising.  It was difficult to see the faces of those around him, but the fear for his life seemed to dissipate slightly.

When he spoke and let them know that he was no enemy, silence filled the cave as the older man pondered Cyrus's words.  Finally they spoke. almost all at once.

"That reckless Abraxas he's gone and revealed this location.  We need to get out of here.  Destroy the catalyst, we will have to find Abraxas another way."  Though his features were hidden, Cyrus could just feel his concern waxing. "And just for the record there are no 'Roshoqan sympathizers', that's just a term people use around here to get into the good graces of those holding guns."


One of the figures revealed a catalyst identical to the one Abraxas had used, placing it on a large boulder in the cave and crushing it under the weight of a heavy rock.  The tevaret was reduced to dust and shards in a few seconds.

"We have to get out of here, they may already know this location and we can never use it again."  The leader turned to Cyrus then, firm but less threatening than their initial encounter. "You'd best come with us if you don't want to be eaten by the desert.  We must go now."  He walked away then with the others in tow, giving Cyrus a choice to stay or follow the herd.

As the people emerged into the light, Cyrus could see them clearly now.  The man must have been well into his sixties as wrinkles donned the corners of his eyes.  What may have come as a shock to Cyrus was the fact that the other seven were children, with one looking closer to the age of sixteen.  They wore their weapons with a confidence that was uncharacteristic of their age group, and their filth streaked faces revealed a wear and tear to their lifestyle that begged questioning.  Who were these strange people?

They moved quickly out of the cave to a handful of armoured vehicles that looked like they may fall apart at any moment.  They left Cyrus behind to choose his fate.

Cyrus eyed the child soldiers with curiosity, an anomaly to his eyes. To his knowledge youth should be spent enjoying friends, family, and recreational psychedelics. It saddened him to see these children torn away from happiness, to fight for something that rightfully belonged to them.

His reverie popped when the elder's gruff voice bid him pick a fate: the car or the desert. Naturally the self-preservationist in Cyrus commanded him to follow into the vehicle. However he did not remain silent, despite the anxiety that still tensed his body. These people, after all, had guns. "So where are we, precisely? Who are you people?"

Taking a seat in the armored car, Cyrus felt a new wave of fear wash over him. If he wasn't before, certainly Cyrus Drake was now in foreign territory.

Tread lightly, as if my life depended on it.

Eight sets of eyes peered into Cyrus, looking over every piece of his clothing, skin and hair with no attempt to conceal their speculations.  

"He smells like tin cans and wet bread" one child wrinkled his nose as he leaned forward to take a whiff off of his jacket.

"All of Lower Zenith smells like that idiot!" another jabbed the boy in the ribs and evidently, they appeared to be twins with  sandy blonde hair and wide green eyes.  They both laughed and then suddenly retracted into a shared look of seriousness, though the others didn't seem disturbed by the change in their mood.  

The back of the truck was shaded by canvas tarps, only thin horizontal spaces revealed the dustbowl of a landscape that threatened to cook them alive.  A fan attached to the back of the cockpit blew a breeze through the space and visible clouds of dust whisked across their faces.  Three girls across from Cyrus sat close together toying with a small box of unrecognizable mechanical parts.

The older man drove, somewhat isolated from the rest.  Cyrus was surrounded by small strangers.  The oldest boy sat next to the girls, staring at Cyrus through round dark-tinted goggles.  A faint scowl pressed lines into his face but if Cyrus met his gaze, the boy would just scoff and turn his eyes away.

Another boy, definitely the youngest of the bunch stood next to Cyrus and reached out to poke him in the shoulder.  "How come you made grandpa scared of you?".  The oldest boy yanked on the child's arm and pulled him into his arms protectively.  "He's got powers, so best keep your hands to yourself".

"You mean like mama?"

Before the teenager could answer, the truck slowed quickly and then stopped.  They all flew to the peepholes in the canvas and looked out onto a plateau.

There in the distance, was the last remnants of a building and four figures on motorcycles.  The old man took out a scope and after several minutes in silence, he turned the truck and headed towards the group.



The oldest boy breathed out in relief, "It's Jack."

A mountain of wreckage formed a backdrop to the eerie scene before them.  As they drew closer, they made out the shape of two bodies swinging in the wind from the top of the structure.   The four men were discussing something inaudible against the rumble of the truck and as they approached, the men turned and nodded in their direction.

"Stay in the truck."  The older boy growled to the youngsters and Cyrus.

He threw open the tarp and jumped out, meeting the older man and walking to join the others.   They conversed intensely, making gestures and shaking their heads and hands in what looked like an argument.  The sun was well on its way towards the earth, setting its heat upon the land with unrelenting force.  The only sound amongst them was the fan, ticking and whizzing back and forth.  Until another sound broke the familiar.  Another vehicle.

From over the hill came a covered dune buggy, with a mounted gun atop the roof.  Rapid fire spit into the sand around the men and they scattered like flies, taking cover anywhere they could.

Jack and his men returned fire, climbed onto their bikes and sped off, leading the assault away from the others.

The old man sprinted back to the truck, screaming and clambering.  A shot penetrated the young lad in the thigh and he fell to the ground in pain.  Grandpa grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him towards the back of the truck as the other children scrambled to pull him in.  They began speeding off away from the fight, a speckle of shots bit the air behind them and faded as they continued to drive.

The wounded boy cried and grabbed at his leg, sobbing and cursing about 'desert rats', then they were all silent as they drove towards the sun.

The sounds of gun shot, the cracking of the air. Cyrus pulled up the canvas to furtively watch the encounter. Five men talking, presumably allies? Truth be told the wanderer knew not who to call friend or foe anymore, the faces blended together like so many days. Cyrus Drake was nothing more than a piece of flotsam caught in their schemes, at most a tool and at worst an inconvenience. But not for much longer, father help me.

A bullet whizzed by his ear, startling the daydreamer from his reverie. That is, if I don't die first. He saw the four strangers take off on motorcycles, returning fire on the dune buggy as their wheels churned a plume of dust. Their comrade was sprinting to the truck, escaping the hell storm while he could.

Shafts of light appeared above Cyrus' head as bullets poked holes in the canvas. The boy was climbing up when he let out a yelp of pain. Seconds later he pulled himself over the back and collapsed into the covered bed, clutching his leg. His yellowed teeth clenched as he gripped at the bleeding wound.


Almost instinctively, Cyrus opened a conduit. Energy trickled into his body like spring's snow melt, slow at first but gaining momentum. His eyes flared like the twin suns of Analuna. He began weaving thoughts of joy, but instead found himself clutching at his head. A thousand discordant voices reverberated in Cyrus' skull, each demanding something else of him. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and Cyrus Drake's eyes flickered back to normal as he released his conduit. Time for a break I guess.

"Who were those men in the buggy?" Cyrus still rubbed his temples and gritted his teeth from his minor overloading, "for that matter, who was that you were speaking with? And more importantly," Cyrus insisted, "where can we find you a doctor?"

All the children in the back of the truck sat quietly, no one looking at each other.  Their light-hearted attitudes set like the sun as they crossed the scorched earth.  Sand dunes ebbed and flowed, rocking them gently in a false sense of security.  The air was warm and stiff in the canvas cabin and the only noise between them was the laboured breathing of the boy in pain, clutching his leg in a pool of blood.   He leaned back against the wall and his head nodded to the side, exhausted from the ordeal.  The second oldest boy sat close to him and replaced his hand on the wound to apply pressure as they bobbed along.

Any questions Cyrus had were answered only by the looks of repressed terror on their faces.  Not one of them cried or trembled, making the numb silence they held on their lips even more eerie.  These children weren't normal, that much was clear.

Eventually the truck slowed and then made a zig-zagged pattern until they were shaded in darkness.  Sounds of the truck door opening woke them all from their heated trance and the canvas was yanked open.  A voice called out in desperation and grandpa looked back at a woman who came running to the shelter they were in.  Her eyes darted back and forth, performing a head count swiftly before running to the wounded boy who was being helped out of the cabin.  She exchanged whispered words with grandpa and then as she slipped the boy's arm around her shoulders to support him, she flashed Cyrus a look that was unwelcoming to say the least.  Don't even think about messing with these kids.  He didn't need mentalism to understand her facial expression.

The sun dragged darkness like a blanket over the sky, casting a warm orange glow on what Cyrus could see was a large vessel.  It was shipwrecked in a sand dune and outfitted with scaffolding to better accommodate the numerous bodies circulating its decks.  A small derelict house built from scrap metal and wood was cleverly embedded into a large gaping hole on the side of the ship.  The two adults led the oldest boy up some steps and disappeared into the house with haste.



Several of the other adults around the ship threw Cyrus suspicious looks, he was being watched from every angle it seemed.  A tug on his coat brought his attention to two feet below him - it was the small boy that had poked him earlier.

"Will Owen be ok?" the look of worry on the child's face made him appear far more human than the other children were on their way back from the shoot out.  

Before Cyrus could even answer him,  a tall man approached him with a camel by his side and a large sniper rifle across his back.  He looked Cyrus over from under his beige hooded poncho and then turned to unbuckle the satchel hanging from the camel's side.  He pulled out a leather bladder that sloshed about, filled with a precious liquid known as water.  

Pulling the cork from its mouth he handed it to Cyrus, "Its water. Please drink. We only have so many supplies for medical emergencies".  His voice was softened by a smirk, but he could be heard clearly despite the clanging and crashing ambiance of the others.

"Where do you hail from stranger?  Are you friendly enough to share your name?"

Not a sound came from Cyrus as they walked through the jury rigged camp.  The looming derelict ship sat on the sand like a beached whale, the desert folk burrowing into it like hungry maggots.  What could make somebody choose to live here?  Perhaps not all are as fortunate as I...  Though perhaps fortunate was a matter of perspective.

Cyrus stood and watched as the children carried their comrade into the house, left alone with his thoughts; and them, of course.  Dark men were moving in his periphery, stalking the desert like hell hounds.  His reverie was broken by a little child, Cyrus could not recall which one.  Neither could he recall what he'd been asked.  "I...  I..  Uh..."  He rubbed his temples and breathed deeply, blocking out the hallucinatory babble.  I'm not...  Uh..."

Yet he was saved by a man, presumably a soldier or sentry, who materialized out of seemingly nowhere.  At first Cyrus was unsure if he was real or not, apprehension in his eyes.  Yet when the stranger proffered a flask, he took it gladly.  Cyrus' visions never interacted with him, this man was real.  The cool water was a welcome guest, but did not stay long for the flask was already mostly depleted.

The stranger asked a few questions, but Cyrus did not immediately answer.  He handed the canteen back and slowly sorted out his thoughts.  The voices weren't gone, they convoluted his thoughts with whispers and questions that seemed just as important as the stranger's.  Yet Cyrus was not completely disturbed at the moment, and answered proficiently if hesitantly.  "Where I'm from...  Uh well, that's difficult.  For now I am from Zenith.  And for now I am Cyrus Drake."

A smile crossed the stranger's face as Cyrus spoke. They continued to walk and the man pulled his camel 's reins until they reached a single stall with a bed of canvas tarps and an array of desert plants that lined the back of the stall. The camel waddled inside and grunted as it knelt down into the fluffy bed. The man turned to Cyrus and gestured for them to move on.

"You may call me Dawson, and this is Bella." As if in response the camel shook its head back and forth.

"We are cautious people and many have had their trust shattered. It is difficult to know who is friend or foe in a place like this. I'm sure you can understand when they look at you the way they do. Much like you. You're smart not to give much information about yourself to strangers, especially when you're in a place where you don't know a single soul." As he spoke he glanced up at some of the individuals walking around the ship. They scowled and turned their faces.

Looking at the ship Cyrus could see a collection of black panels and windmills dotting its upper decks. The windmills turned softly in the dying breeze and the last of the reddening sun reflected off of the panels.

"We harvest wind and sunlight to power and cool our homes, it is the only way to survive out here. Water is also scarce and we are still innovating ways to collect every drop."

"Pardon my skepticism Cyrus, but you do not look like you're from Zenith. I won't ask any other questions though, we are all entitled to our secrets." His face broke from its softness momentarily and then he let out a sigh and smile.

"Well now, you must be hungry. Please join us, I doubt you wish to eat cactus like Bella."

They walked through a barrier of canvas sheets into the ship's interior where a large dining table made from a faded fast food sign balanced along two metal barrels. Large wood wire spools served as seats, and several other discarded materials made it a cozy home.

The children ran in circles until they were corralled by the adults to sit down at the table. Dawson was pulled along by two small children and he patted the seat next to him as he looked to Cyrus. Plates were passed around and a modest feast of steaming meat and what looked like a grey-brown mush was circulated amongst everyone.

Cyrus idly stroked Bella's matted coat as his acquaintance stalled the surly camel.  Bella immediately chomped into a cactus, her rough tongue not minding the spiny flesh.  Leaving the camel to masticate, Cyrus joined Dawson outside the stall.

"I wouldn't attribute it to caution so much as a lack of anything to know, friend Dawson.  Though I'd say you're not far off the mark."  He fell silent as Dawson continued the tour of their makeshift home, which had a certain charm to it; at least for desert folk.  Yet suspicion dwelled in Cyrus' mind, as he was certain the questions were far from over.

Dawson led them to dinner in a gutted cruiser they called a home.  "This one is of Roshoqan make, they don't have them in Analuna.  There are too many guns."  Though he was confident this rig was just a shell, the thought that a mere cruiser could vaporize this entire colony unsettled Cyrus.  And this one is an old model I'd guess.

Cyrus took his seat on a spool, helping himself to a portion of the strange food.  With every bite the vagabond reminded himself that on some level this was sustenance, else the desert folk would be long buried.  Though his hosts had meager resources of his own, they shared graciously.  Cyrus' only hope was that this wasn't the beginning of recruitment.  Pity the souls that live here.

Silence was customary while eating in Eiren, and though Cyrus never exactly climbed the social ladder he still found himself conforming to old customs.  Even now, after all of everything.  However he spoke upon finally clearing his meat and mash, "Excuse me but, what planet are we on?"

The family didn't respond right away to Cyrus as they dug into their meal with fervour. A warm wind fluttered the canvas sheets that hung over the entrance doorway, creating the illusion that someone was about to walk through them. None of Cryus's hosts seemed alarmed by the sudden sound.

The woman Cyrus met earlier at the stables glared at him across the table, though it took some time for Cyrus to notice. She absently fed her youngest child and never took her eyes off him. A stranger in her home? Now he had truly met the family guard dog.

Finally she answered him as she picked something from between her teeth with her tongue. "You're on Roshoq, in the Arid Lands. That's all you need to know. Now where are you from? You don't dress or act like anyone from around here."

Cyrus was mildly unnerved by the matron, but kept his peace as she took his empty plate away. When she answered him, the small flickering light of hope Cyrus held in his heart died. He hadn't the faintest idea where the Arid Lands were.

This planet intends to be my grave.

It took Cyrus a moment to realize he hadn't answered the woman, "Well that's a complicated question. I came from Pataevum, but before that I came from some other planet here, then there was Pataevum again, but before all that I lived in Analuna, mostly."

He stretched as he stood, reveling in the sensation of food in his stomach. Cyrus never turned down a free meal. Or rather, a supposedly free meal.

Which reminded him, "Thank you for the food, by the way. As a matter of slight import though, what exactly are we all doing here other than... existing?"

The woman blinked twice at Cyrus incredulously and then snapped back a response.  "Your crude manner isn't appreciated here stranger.  I know why we're here," she gestured to her humble abode and family, "but you?  You piggy backed on my brother's waygate and now he's off floating in the midst of space somewhere.  You have a lot of nerve speaking in such a tone after you compromised his return by following him.  I oughta-"

A hand came to rest on her shoulder, the same hand of the older grandfather who Cyrus first encountered in the cave.  His touch pulled her out of her irate state and she averted her eyes from Cyrus, instead focusing on one of her children who had nuzzled himself against her as he held a small stuffed toy to his chest.  She stroked his hair and laid a kiss on the top of his head, her hands shook in the movement.

"My name is Tyson, and Artemi here is my daughter.  Abraxas, who you met in the city is my son.  We aren't as familiar with wayfaring as he is, so we all fear that your presence though the gate might have sent him to another location.. Or worse."  Artemi shot a look up at him and then bellowed "I can't believe you just freely offer up information to him, you have no idea who he is he could be dangerous.  He could be a Militari spy for all we know!  You've put this entire family in danger!"  Before he could explain, she hauled her child up into her arms and stormed through a canvas flap at the back of the room, disappearing from view.  Two small children followed in her wake.  

Tyson's eyes darkened, but he spoke gently.  "We don't blame you for what you've done, any channeler in the city is at risk of capture and torture by the Militari.  The war on channeling has only escalated.  That is why we fled out here.   You're on Roshoq, beyond the city dome.  Since you're not from here there is a lot you don't know about this place, and the people who live here are suspicious by nature - as you can tell"  He gestured in the direction of Artemi's desparture.

Tyson made a movement to sit down, hesitated, and then lowered himself onto the stool across the table from Cyrus.  His hands smoothed along the table top and he moved a cup and plate away to rest his forearms down as he took a deep breath.

"I don't know whether you planned to stay in Zenith but it isn't safe for you there.  Abraxas barely got out with his life, and the rest think he is likely dead.  But I know my son and I know deep down he's still alive.  I have to believe he is out there.  He has something.  Something very valuable that has turned him into a running target.  You can imagine how important it is that we find him."  

Tyson's face hardened suddenly, his features turning sharp and his tongue deliberate.  "You interfered in our business here stranger, and as payment for that you are going to help us bring Abraxas home.  The first thing you're going to do now is tell me everything you know about wayfaring, then we're going to find a wayfarer here that we know - but convincing him to help is going to take some effort.  Your skills are going to come in handy with that. Think you can handle that?"

The questions was really a demand, but behind his aggressive face was a stream of desperation that flowed through and enveloped the whole room, the entire ship wreck, even the whole planet.  As Tyson spoke, from behind him appeared three men wielding assault rifles.  Their entrance was calm, but there was an uneasiness there.  They didn't seem the type to think twice before acting.

Cyrus pursed his lips, contemplating where this series of events might end up. One entirely possible outcome involved his body in a ditch somewhere, which unsettled him. Vistas of garden planets and beautiful women appealed significantly more to Cyrus than the blood and scorched earth of Roshoq. Despite that he owed this family for spitting their son out at the wrong catalyst.

Tyson and his family seemed to be some sort of dissidents against whatever mysterious entity ruled Roshoq. He understood why, any government who hunts channelers needs to be replaced. Despite his sympathies, Cyrus felt a strong compulsion to remain detached from the circumstances. Getting mixed up with this sort would likely involve the very death he imagined earlier.

"Gladly! Easily in fact! I can get your son back, but then I must be on my way. Your son can't travel back to us because you folk smashed his catalyst, a regrettable yet understandable decision." Cyrus began to place various miscellany around the table. "Your son has created a network of catalysts through which he can travel, and while normally he'd come out where we are, here," Cyrus pointed to a salt shaker, "he instead comes out at the rock, or pepper, or bottle cap. So the good news is, if we know where his catalysts are we can narrow down his location by a lot. I could…"


Cyrus trailed off as he cleared away his faux catalysts. Most of the time the answers Cyrus got from his forays into Eidos were so convoluted or vague that he left with even more questions. But Tyson's intense stare only bored deeper and deeper into Cyrus as the silence stretched on. "Alright, I suppose it is one of those times then. Does Abraxas have any workshop or personal space where he works his magic?"

Tyson eyed the condiment shakers and then Cyrus's words became a distant fuzzy mess.  The other catalysts..  A feeling of dread moved through Tyson and he stepped away from the table, pacing as Cyrus spoke.  When he stopped speaking, Tyson resumed his seat and focused on Cyrus, searching for more from the foreign fellow.

"A workshop. Yes.  But not here."  Tyson spoke slowly, deep in thought as he pulled the curtain of the entrance to the house sideways and glanced out to the red landscape.   "Dark is upon us, we will sleep and venture out early in the morning to beat the sun."

With light feet, Tyson padded his way into another room before emerging with a blanket.  He handed it roughly to Cyrus, almost throwing it into his arms.  His gaze was piercing through half shut lids, dark circles sagging the skin of his face into a look of heavy weighted forlorn.  

"There's a cot in that room," he whisked his hand towards an open doorway to the left that led into a tiny shed like spaced lined with water collection supplies and old smelly boots.  As Cyrus rose, Tyson grabbed him by the arm, urging him to look in his face which held still inches from his.  From this angle the grey green of his eyes resembled cold stone, but from them was an icy fire that threatened to lick the skin off of Cyrus' bones.  "You try anything Cyrus and, well, there are far worse fates out here than heat stroke."  His eyes fell then, as if setting the foreigner straight had taken the last of his strength for the day.  "Enjoy your time here in paradise".

Tyson left the room with a wobble in his step, and just as soon as he had left, Cyrus heard one of the canvas curtains flap open softly.  There in the door way was Artemi, with her face uncharacteristically soft compared to their earlier interaction.   Her eyes were dark as night and her eyebrows slanted in sultry arches that gave her serpentine features.  Her hair was tussled but she remained poised despite her appearance.  All she did was stare him right in the eye, the feeling familiar to that of her father.  Aggression was hereditary it seemed, but her previous edged guard had been lowered - likely the result of laying with the innocence of her children.

Cyrus was about to duck into the room when he saw it in her eyes.  The stirring luminance  that he knew so well jumped out at him from her.  The dark of her eyes eclipsed against a light that burned beneath it, and just as quickly as she had revealed a part of herself, she backed up into the darkness and faded with a drop of the canvas.




Daybreak squirmed through a crack in the metal sheet wall where Cyrus slept.  It touched his face like a tiny hand and he turned his cheek to meet it's blissful warmth.  But then the warmth moved against him and he jerked his eyes open to meet the gaze of two large eyes and a hand on his face.  The youngest boy didn’t seemed jarred by Cyrus and instead continued to creep himself into his personal space.  

"Eli!"  came a shout from the main room followed by the eldest brother Owen hobbling on his wounded leg who came searching for the young lad.  When he saw how close his brother was the Cyrus he calmly took the boy by the hand and urged him behind his legs.  Owen eyed Cyrus and then mumbled something about breakfast before nudging them both out the door.

Breakfast was more lively than the night before, mostly due to the fact that Owen had a meal with his family once again.  It was evident in the way his siblings kissed and hugged him as he tried to sit down to his food.  Much in contrast to the day before, the children weren't gun wielding animals but frolicking bunnies in the security of their home.   Artemi attempted to scold them, to which they ignored this morning - probably showing off for their stranger.  She stopped trying eventually so that she could eat, but still gave Cyrus the dirtiest of looks.

Dawson and Tyson walked in then, carrying canvas packs and weapons.  Artemi broke from her calmer disposition at the sight of them, "get those things out of my house this instant!  They don't belong here!"  She grumpily gathered up the dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen with her two girls and Eli.  

Both of the men ignored her angry quips but beckoned Cyrus to follow them outside.  They didn't get two steps outside before Owen burst out into the dawn air and rushed to his grandfather's side.  "You're taking me with you right?  I know you're going to Archon City."  Tyson stopped and pivoted on his heel, making his grandson step backwards tentatively.  "You shut your mouth boy, and no you're still healing up from that wound.  We'll be back in a few days."  Owen gritted his teeth and yammered on about being of age and all that, to which he lost the fight immediately when Tyson pulled him into a hug to kiss his forehead and then shoved him away towards the house.


"Get in the truck".  Tyson spat without looking at Cyrus, he shook his head in thought and then climbed into the driver's seat.   Dawson hopped into the back with Cyrus and they set off into the cool desert air.

Cyrus felt perturbed by Artemi's secret. Drake always had the impression that channeling could be hereditary, but he'd never actually found a family with multiple channelers. Question paraded around his head, keeping him awake long past midnight. Did Artemi's family know she shared Abraxas' gift? Why would she reveal that to Cyrus, when every indication pointed to her distrusting him? Cyrus had traveled enough to know when a bad situation was seething just beneath the surface. The tension hanging in the air, anxiety in the spoken word, it was the same wherever one went.

Though his eyes remain closed, Cyrus could feel the world slipping away. He reached out for Artemi's thoughts, thinking perhaps she might be up close by. He found no waking souls that night, drifting to sleep amid a waterfall of foreign memories.

Come morning Cyrus was still exhausted, but the world was too hot and full of sticky child fingers for him to sleep now. Nor did he want to be asleep when Artemi was not. Rolling out of his cot, Cyrus rubbed his eyes and quietly joined the rest of the family for breakfast.

Never before had Cyrus had such a family, and he wasn't entirely sure what to think of this small warren. He'd never known his father, though his mother had been a saint for most of his youth. Still most of Cyrus' childhood was spent alone. He remained silent through breakfast.


Though the sun sat low in the east, the surface of Roshoq was scorching already. Cyrus watched Tyson and Owen load up the truck with supplies, considering the fact that he brought nothing to this endeavor. Tyson barked something, they were leaving. A heavy sigh escaped Cyrus as he yanked open the truck door and got inside.

The Arid Lands were one vast paradox.  Roshoq had been reduced to a dusty skeleton with just a single city that teemed with life.  Outside of Zenith, the earth was cracked, with cannons that yawned open to the sky between regions of collausal dunes the size of sky scrapers.  Without water this place shriveled and died every day.

The sand's only companion was the wind.  It swept the dunes grain by grain across the landscape, like a slow earthy  ocean on its way to nowhere.  Mountains climbed and collapsed steadily with the wind tides, which offered only temporary guidance to travelers.  Without guidance of the sun and moon, nomads could never depend on the sands to find their way.  Sometimes the sun would get blocked out by whipping sandstorms - but then again losing one's way was the least of a person's problems.

"We camp here for the night."  

Was the only conversation Cyrus had all day.  They parked the truck in the wide open on a flat expanse of desert.  It felt so exposed and yet there was not even an insect for miles, only the howl of lonely sand.

Dawson didn't speak much either, perhaps to Cyrus's surprise since the man had been so welcoming upon the foreigner's arrival.  No, instead he was vigilant, with his rifle rested between his palms pointing to the stars.  Many times he turned the gun and looked through it's scope into the night, though he didn't seem overly tense as he guarded their spot.

A fire was lit in front of the truck's back entrance.  The canvas flaps were rolled up and three sleeping mats unrolled onto the dirt floor.  Water was precious, only shared sparingly to survive.  The two men Cyrus traveled with were markedly different beyond the rusty walls of their home, for they spoke barely in syllables.  

The silence at night was haunting.  Most deserts on other planets might have a healthy ecosystem filled with nocturnal creatures that roamed noisily amongst the dunes.  This place was empty, it had no life, no soul.  And it sucked everything out of a man dare he stay there too long.  The moon offered some company when it shone down, but on new moon nights there was no escaping the pictch dark solitude.  Without other souls to keep one grounded, it would be easy to wither in such a place.

After two nights in the void, they approached a small enclave tucked within the folds of a circle of decrepit rock formations.  From afar the circle seemed like anything else one might find out there, but as they drew closer, even just the feel of human life radiated from place.  A small camp site lay hidden with a perpetual cooking fire set up in the middle.  Light coloured canvas tents splattered the site in an arrangement that allowed all of the tent entrances to face one another.  It felt more like a home than anything the three had seen in days.

A handful of vehicles sought refuge in the shade of large rocks to keep their engines cool, and similarly a group of humans spent their time chasing the shade around the camp.

When Tyse edged the truck closer to three hundred feet away, he stopped suddenly so that Dawson could climb to the top and deliver a sequence of arms swings and hand movements.  They waited several minutes, and then repeated the arm gestures again.  This time, a flickering of light shot out in their direction and almost immediately, Tys rolled the truck slowly into the camp.

One of the tent flaps burst open and two men strode out to head towards the truck.  They were both large and stocky, armed to the teeth with rifles on their backs, handguns hanging from their sides, and each with a shotgun bouncing in their hands.  One of them even carried an intimidatingly large machete strapped to one of his thighs.  Their faces were fairly relaxed but none the less they scanned the horizon beyond the three men whilst escorting them to the same tent they emerged from.

Inside the place was decorated minimalistically, with a large table in the middle surrounded by folding canvas chairs and tables to the sides covered in small computer terminals and maps.

The two guards stepped out and stood outside, while two other burly men remained like statues inside the tent with everyone else.  One man with black hair and a leather jacket hunched over a map, holding it in place with his hands and mumbling under his breath.  He turned his attention away when the three of them approached the large table and he greeted them with a wry , weary smile.

"Jack" Tyse breathed the name out with sigh, embracing the man in a warm long hug.  Jack acknowledged Dawson with a firm handshake, and then set his piercing gaze on Cyrus who noticed that Jack's eyes were a hypnotic shade of light green.

"Tyse doesn't often bring friends to these parts, so something tells me you are either close to the family or indebted to them."  Tyse gave a momentarily scowl before interrupting Jack's engagement with Cyrus.

"We don't have time Jack, Abraxis was lost in the way.  I need you to take us to Rix."

Jack dropped the grin from his face to frown into his hand.  He didn't look up right away and fidgeted before he spoke.

"You know I'm not on good terms with him.  What you're asking of me will put my clan in danger.  You know how hard I've worked to stay in the shadows."

Dawson spoke up this time, "there are no shadows left to hide in Jack" to which the man looked up at him but grit his teeth and regarded Tyse instead.

"I can take you to the outposts, that's as far as I will go."

"That's not good enough, I need you to help me see Him.  He's the only one who can help." Tyse's voice growled.

"I can't risk that right now, you know I'm dealling with Rats here.  They pillaged two nearby camps and I have to get moving out of here before they come for us."

"You can't run forever like this Jack, those ghosts are going to catch up with you."

"Don't you think I know that?!"  Jack snapped at the older man and then ran his fingers through his hair, tossling it to the side.  He paused for a long time, rolling a small knife in his palm.

"I can't help you Tyse, you'll have to find another way in."  He pursed his lips after he spoke, bracing himself for an expected outburst.

"You selfish little shit." Tyse spat at him and paced the room.  [b]"He's the only skilled wayfarer that can help us.  He cares about Abraxis."

Jack interrupted him and spat back, "yea but I don't!  Have you forgotten what happened?  Did you forget how your son betrayed us?"

Tyse stepped back, as if he were hit with a bullet.  His face contorted in frustration and there was nothing he could say to defend the man.

"There's more involved in this than you know, it's complicated."

"Oh it's always complicated Tyse, life is one big clusterfuck!"

Their tension rose in the air of the tent, and the gloved hands of the guards squeezing their weapons broke the silence.  Their eyes darted between the individuals, but they stayed fairly calm.  At least, until they both heard something that made them snap their heads toward the back of the tent.

Seconds later, a high pitched alarm caught the wind and the two guards outside burst in as they loaded their guns.  

"Rats from the east, closing in quick."  One of them gritted before the four guards ran outside.

"You old fool!  They must have followed you here!" Jack roared at them as he yanked open the doors on a grey metal cabinet, pulling out guns and ammo.  

"Come with me"  he ushered them out of the tent to a grouping of crates that served as a barricade.  They crouched behind it and fumbled with their ammo packs.  Jack shoved a hand gun against Cyrus's chest, "I hope you know how to use one of these."

Tyse raised his voice with wide eyes, "Jack you just armed a complete stranger, what are you thinking?!  I don't trust him."

Jack rolled his eyes upwards, "well he might just save your life today old coot."

A series of shots pelted their cover.  Dawson returned fire in explosive bursts that shook his companions, his high powered rifle sending round after round towards the enemy.

For a moment Cyrus glazed over, staring at the cold, heavy piece in his grip. It's sleek L frame glowed with an inner fire, that of death. The spectre stalked every battle field, and Cyrus made it a habit of avoiding his grim figure. No, Cyrus Drake did not like weapons at all.

The acrid stench of electrochemical cartridges stung his nostrils, a bitter scent like burning rubber and pepper. Hot, black shells ejected with the occasional patter against his jacket, though they were drowned out by the screaming of their payload.

Somebody shouted at him. Jack? No maybe Dawson he thought. Their voices were lost in the hailstorm of metal. But it seemed to snap Cyrus out of his reverie, bringing him back to the small plot of scorched desert.

He flicked the safety and squirmed around behind the crates, peering over the lip. Jeeps circled around the encampment like vultures, throwing billowing clouds of dust into the air. Cyrus counted five jeeps, each with three to four Rats piled in.

Cyrus carefully aimed his weapon, firing off several rounds. They seemed to miss wildly, as no immediate cries of pain interrupted the Rats' hooting and hollering.

Another spray of bullets from his handgun. One popped a tire, but the Jeep's solid core wheels continued spinning. Cyrus didn't want to hurt anybody, but also realized that neither his comrades or the Rats were giving him a choice. He fired off another volley of rounds.

A hiss and a metallic chamber popped open, venting a puff of pungent fumes. Cyrus understood it to be a byproduct of firing the cartridges, as well as a hideous odor and sign to reload. His fingers fumbled over the bullets as he reloaded.

When Cyrus peeked over the edge of the crates again, he spied a black sphere against the dusty sky. It sailed over the crates, but Cyrus did not register the cry of "grenade!" He saw only his comrades scramble away, diving for the nearest cover. Cyrus threw himself behind a pile of sheet metal, but suddenly found himself exposed.

As chance would have it, the nearest Jeep had just circled out of sight. Cyrus, having no inkling as to where Tyse, Dawson, or Jack were, belly crawled to the nearest jeep. Two strangers ducked behind it, though they ignored Cyrus and continued the firefight.

He glanced around the circular enclave, scanning for someone he knew. Amidst the storm of bullets and dust, he had difficult seeing far. Wait. Almost directly across from his spot, Cyrus saw Jack viciously spraying bullets into a jeep.


A hand shook Cyrus' shoulder. "Hey, man, you alright?!" He was brought back by his new allies by the Jeep. With a heavy sigh, Cyrus rejoined the firefight.

"MOVE!"

Jack's voice broke the illusion that they might have been safe behind the crates when a poprock grenade  hit the sand near their crouched bodies.  Dawson and Tyse skittered out of hiding to the right while Jack grabbed Cyrus by the scruff of his coat and threw him to the left into a full run.  They sprinted almost twenty feet and with a cracking bang the exposive turned sand to molten projectiles that turned and splintered the wooden crates.  

Gasping through dust and smoke, Jack shouted over gunfire screams into Cyrus's ear as he patted him down looking for injuries.  Cyrus wavered up onto his knees with his ears ringing numb, only to be shoved back into the sand by Jack who flopped onto his belly to let loose a brigade of bullets on the enemy.  They were exposed hot in the sand and with Jack's urging voice, they crawled their way to a jeep that stood peacefully by as the storm brewed on.

"KEEP MOVING!" No matter how fast Cyrus crawled the sand shifted beneath him like water as his hands searched relentless for a surface to grasp.  The sun melted them into the earth.  Suffocating them.  Burying them.  It was almost too easy to just give up and lay face first in the dune, hoping that a passing wind might blanket them from the fray.

The jeep doors were flung open on both sides and the two men dove in, staying crouched in the seats as Jack yanked on the ignition switch.  The jeep roared and a cloud of dust that coated the interior of the vehicle billowed in their faces.  Jack forced the jeep forward and drove the pedal down into the floor so that it raced towards the firefight.  He pulled out his rifle and let the barrel rest on the door frame so that as he reeled by a group of Rats, he unleashed a spray of metal in their direction.

"What the.."  Jack barked and pulled his rifle back into the jeep.  "Those bullets didn't even reach them!"  And as he peered into the side mirror he spotted a line of flashing blue lights in the sand between the Rats and the rest of the fight.  The circle of tents went up in flame one at a time, sparkling in the sun and giving off waves of heat that danced in the atosphere.

The jeep turned sharp to the right and stopped just short of Tyse and Dawson who were cornered between a defenseless cluster of crates and a lethal expanse of desert.   There was no where left to hide.                                                            
Burn or be bulleted.  

Jack's attempt to save his little village failed miserably, but he wasn't a sentimental man.  Still, he pursed his lips tight as he gazed upon the fallen bodies of his comrades.  The bulletproof jeep tinkled with the sound of a shower of fire from behind and it took a full minute for Dawson and Tyse to inch their way to the jeep from ten feet away.  

They shoved themselves into the back and Tyse screamed out in a shrill voice "GO!" Before they could even shut the door.  Jack took off like a cheetah towards the crowd of large boulders, his foot aching from the pressure it held - he thought he might punch it right out of the floorboard if he pushed any harder.

They drove far enough to almost get out of reach, when Jack looked back and noticed that they weren't being followed.  "I don't get it, why aren't they-"

"JACK STOP!" Tyse grabbed Jack's shoulder to get his attention and pointed just ahead of the vehicle.  He slammed on the break and the four of them bounced forward as a sand cloud settled back down.  There in front of them stood three small thin figures.

"Are those kids?"  Their faces were hung low and they wore dark roomy rags that clung to their arms and hips.  Their feet were bare as far at the four could tell and they fidgeted.

Jack hit the wheel with his hand "we have to keep going, I don't know who they are."

"We can't just leave them there Jack, have you no heart?!"  Tyse spoke these words but his anxious tone betrayed him.

"I have a heart Tyse, I just also have a brain and they don't appear to need our help."  Jack dropped his hand to put the jeep into gear but Tyse knocked his hand away.

"And what about the time I found YOU in the sand all alone?  You weren't crying for help, you were so shell shocked you could barely move.  What if I hadn't pulled you out of the blood and bullets?  You wouldn't even be here.  Try to have some compassion."

Jack turned his head to respond but lost his voice when he saw the encampment.  The canvas tents burned in the breeze like red flags, licking towards the sun.  But no rats pursued, they didn't climb over dead bodies in search of their running prey, there was not a sound from the distance.

"Something doesn't feel right.." Jack returned his gaze forward to the three children.  They hadn't budged from their spot when an eerie ringing filled their ears.

"What the hell is that!!?" Dawson moaned through the rising pitch, clutching at his ears.  

They struggled to stay conscious and when Cyrus looked to the others they were curling in on themselves screaming in pain.  He was slowly doing the same when he looked out over the windsheild of the jeep and noticed one of the children's faces peel up to reveal two pale glowing eyes.  His own widened briefly before the four men collapsed into silent darkness.




A dripping awoke Tyse, who rolled his neck to the side and forced open his eyes through a painful headache.  It was difficult to see in the blackness, the last his eyes remembered he was squinting into the blinding sand.  The area around them was damp and cool, a stark difference from the desert.  It didn't feel like home anymore.  A soft humming painted the atmosphere, and the constantly dripping echoed from where ever it originated.

As his eyes adjusted Tyse saw Dawson in front of him, neck craned uncomfortably and wrists strung up in chains.  He nudged the man's boot with no response, and then saw Cyrus and Jack close by in the same condition.

Tyse himself had his back jammed up against a round metal pole and his wrists bound together with thick zap straps.  He struggled but his arms were so sore and stiff, as if he had been bound for hours, even days.

"Jack.." Tyse whispered into the dark, letting his eyes adjust around his companion's features.  Jack's silhouette squirmed as he came to, taking in a gasp of air and coughing.  His voice was hoarse.

"Where are we?" He yanked on his bindings and shifted against the metallic floor, trying to stand.  He stopped dead in his movements when he looked down at his ankle and noticed a device strapped around his boot.  A tiny red light blinked quietly, barely noticeable in the hazy dark.

He breathed out a sigh, "oh no.."

"Oh yes"  came a voice from somewhere in the room.  A man stepped forward from the shadows and stood between Tyse and Dawson to face Jack directly.

"Hello Jack, how nice of you to visit"  the man's smile shone through the dark, though the rest of his face was not visible to them.

Jack didn't respond then, only swallowed the saliva that collected at the back of his throat.

The persistent, dull ache chewed at the back of Cyrus' head.  He tried to explore his scalp for a source of the splitting headache, but discovered his hands were strung up by chains and not his own volition.  

Cyrus jolted into awareness as he came to realize his current situation, heart thumping wildly in his chest.  His eyes widened with fear and his headache was forgotten as he began to take stock.

His three comrades were all assembled, as well as a man who appeared to be their captor.  Cyrus noted the apprehension painted on Jack's face, who seemed to recognize the mysterious figure despite his concealment.

They were speaking, but louder thoughts raced through Cyrus' mind.  As much as he detested battle, imprisonment was worse.  What fate could be more dire than to be trapped and buried in a hostile system?  Cyrus understood how little more than a whisper ever escaped a black site.

Panic welled up inside, abandoning cowardice and roaring up.  Cyrus let his head go limp and closed his eyes as energy surged from his gut.  His breathing deepened and his eyes glowed with inner fire.  Yet as he prepared to launch a mental frenzy, his brain snagged on a memory.

Three children, three mentalists.  Cyrus immediately severed his connection to Eidos, and felt his energy leak away like spring melt.  It was strange to see so many channelers in concentration.  Perhaps a cabal of some sort?  Yet Cyrus understood fully only one fact: these people would not be fooled like this.  He also understood that even a small anomaly could tip his hand, and the last thing he wanted was for any of these people to know more about Cyrus Drake.

Not a drop of moisture could be felt in the room and instead a mist of dust hung like old clothes in the dark. A series of chains swayed from the ceiling with the lonely air of abandoned corpses, but somehow they seemed to breathe. A light from beyond the dusty veil shone upon the chains, and shadows of the chain links lay superimposed across the prisoners' faces. Jack shifted against his restraints enough to relieve the pressure of his sleeping buttocks, to which a cloud of dust billowed around him and assaulted his lungs. The man shrouded in dust spoke with a deep tone, mumbling something unintelligble to Jack that only the two men seemed to understand, but his voice suddenly became drowned out by a rumbling from above.

He stopped speaking long enough to let the sound pass, meanwhile a shower of small rocks and sand covered them like the ashy fall out from an angry volcano. The man stood silent, not saying a word after the wave that resembled a gentle earthquake faded. He was statue like in his patience, and although they couldn't see his face because of the stream of light that cascaded on them from behind his broad back, his eyes still pierced the void.

Jack lulled his head to the side and rolled his eyes up through slitted eyelids at the man. "When was the last time you Dusted in here mate?" His joke was jovial but his tone dripped in venom.

The man ignored his stab and clicked his tongue before responding in an irritated tone. "You made a mistake leaving us Jack, you know such personal things, things that could cause us a lot of.." he paused to crack his neck before continuing with a cool sigh, "problems."

"Oh I couldn't possibly take credit for that, you Rats are famous for making enemies. I'm not sure anything I do know would even compare to the damage you cause your own reputation." Jack dropped the cunning from his voice long enough for everyone to hear a soft pain that bled through the mask. "What happened to you? This isn't how we started, we didn't treat people like you're doing now! You know what I stand for damnit!" Jack shook his body violently against his restraints and he sent out a splatter of saliva into the dust cloud.

There was tensioned silence between them for a time, and then the man grit his teeth. "Let's try something else. Bring him out!" A door in the back of the room opened with an creaking echo, giving away just how large the space was. For the time the door opened, a blanket of light shot rays of sun through the dark, shocking their eyes into a squint.

Two forms stomped forward in a quick pace, with a third lanky body being dragged by the arms between them. When the door closed behind them they disappeared momentarily before emerging through the cloud into view. When they got close enough they deposited the body onto the floor in a heap and it didn't take much light for the men to recognize who the person was.

Tys let out a furious roar followed by a frothing series of expletives, pulling on his restraints so hard he might have ripped them from the wall if he was younger. Jack screamed in unison with the old man, and Dawson was so tightened and withdrawn it felt as if he might explode catastrophically any second. When Cyrus looked upon the face of the body it was at first diffiult to see who it was because both eyes were swollen, his lips bloody, and his nose clearly broken. But beneath the mutilation of his face Cyrus steadily saw that the body in front of them was that of the young teenager Owen.

"You Fucking Monster! I will fucking kill you when I get out of here!!!!" Tys was an absolute mess, tears streaking down his dusty cheeks, voice wobbling with terror. He shook so hard his chains sung like chirping birds. He sobbed as he lost energy and he settled back against the wall blubbering more words of pure seething hatred "You f-f-fucking m-monster... he's just a boy... just a goddamn kid."

Jack looked ill with the corners of his mouth pointed down into the creases of his face. His own voice wavered with an exhaustion that depleted the others just the same. "What do you want Linden..." Jack was close to submission, the sight of the boy he loved so much robbing him of his spirit.

"This little shit followed you here, on one of those quiet speeders. I thought he might feel real lonely so I sent a team out to get the rest of the family, you know, to keep him company while he visits us."

"NO!!!!" Tys and Jack exploded, more loud and angry than ever. Their dry throats became slick with tears and one could literally hear the cracking of their hearts in their chests.

"What do you WANT" Jack pleaded this time, and Linden's shoulders arched to match his wicked grin.

"You know what I want Jack, the only thing I've wanted since you left!" His voice rose punch by punch to an irate height.

"Just don't hurt them anymore, they aren't involved, you don't have to do that to bring me back in your crew. All of this is so unecessary Linden.." Jack groaned quietly through his words. He fought back wrenching heart ache when he looked up at the man that towered above him. "Anything Linden, just stop hurting them." He swayed as if drunk, and then dropped his head in defeat.

Linden chewed his lip and the tiny suckling sounds echoed through the room. Clapping his hands together once he rubbed them quickly in delight. "Take him to the hall" He gestured to the men behind him who stepped over Owen's unconcious body and unbound Jack's thick leather and chain bindings. As his hands fell free he was yanked into a standing position but as they pulled at him he yanked away from them. "I'm not a fucking infant, don't touch me!" He threw an unexpected fit in contrast to the solemn temperament he displayed earlier and in the midst of his outrage, Cyrus felt something small shoot into his lap.

"I've always liked your fiest Jack, all the more to break you with." Linden beared his teeth and hissed playfully through the dark.

The last the other men saw of Jack was his down trodden face as he was led away and swallowed by the shadows.

The hair on Cyrus' arms stood on end as the other man, Linden, bled the fight from Jack.  There was an old wound between the two, a festering history that became apparent by the current circumstance.  Linden leveraged Jack expertly, in a way a stranger simply doesn't.  Now Cyrus was  caught in the bad blood, though he felt only pity as he watched Jack's slumped form shuffle out of view.  It had only taken a few words to break him.  But sometimes a few words is all it takes.

Cyrus had clenched the small token between his thighs, daring not release it while his captors remained.  Though Jack had disappeared from view, Cyrus could hear more men talking beyond the curtain of chains and they had yet to turn off the lamps.

Closing his eyes, Cyrus felt a rush of lightheadedness.  A low thrumming rose up in his chest as he manipulated Eidos, slowly tugging and shaping the ether with every deep inhalation.  Numbness crept inward from his extremities, as Cyrus wove his thoughts into patterns of vacancy.   Despite the circumstances, he could not help but share a surreptitious smile with himself as he thrust his influence upon the nearest guard.

The luminance behind Cyrus' eyes faded as severed his conduit, opening his eyes slightly to peer at the man through the swaying chains.  He was speaking to another, "Oh, hey Joe.  I think I forgot to…  Uhh…"  The man shifted uncomfortably.

"What the hell are you on about, I'm not a fucking diary don't talk to me about it."  His companion, Joe, spat back.

"Whoa man what's with the hostility, we ride together now brother.  Did we refuel our uh…  Oh did we fill up the jeep?  You know after the…"

Cyrus could hear the other guard stand up, "Dude I ain't your brother.  I'll go refuel the rig if it gets you to shut the hell up."  Joe stormed off,  yelling back, "And don't leave the flood lamp on dumbass, do you think electricity fucking falls out of the sky?  What the fuck is your problem city boy?"  The door slammed.

The forgetful guard lingered, mumbling to himself.  "I don’t know why he's such a…  Such a…"

Cyrus bit his lip in anticipation, and finally the lamp shut off.  The room was cloaked in darkness, and soon the guard's ramblings faded and only the clinking of chains remained.  The others began to whisper in their newfound privacy.


He unclenched his thighs and let the small object clatter to the ground before him. A razor blade. Suddenly praising Jack, Cyrus immediately stretched to get the razor blade in hand. He let out a grunt as the leather bindings burned his wrists, but managed to get the blade. Furiously sawing at his restraints, Cyrus freed himself and quietly rolled over to his comrades.

"Let's get them and get the hell out of here." Cyrus began to saw.

Dawson, the first to be freed by Cyrus, rolled off his stiff backside to rest on his toes and fingertips. The dust that rose around his form kissed its way up his clothes to his watchful face as it peered through the darkened space. Tyson, as old as he was, moved quickly to the shaking body of his young grandson. As he turned him over against his body, the body moaned - to which Tyson shushed him while stroking the boy's damp head.

With assistance from Cyrus, the two hooked the boy's arms across their shoulders and hoisted him into the air. Thankfully he was thin and light and was hardly a burden to their sore bodies. Silently the three communicated with head nods and gestures as they squirmed around the hanging chains so as not to alarm the guards outside. They could all hear the two bantering, one of them clearly sounding confused. Dawson searched the room for another exit, feeling the metallic walls with the pads of his fingertips in hopes of finding a crack to slip through. No such luck. Though he did find a metal rod which he wielded as a weapon, ready to strike in the imminent battle with the guards beyond the door.

Dawson was a skilled fighter, but he might be overpowered easily if there were more than two or three guards. He had no chance if they had rifles and the likelihood of that was high. Tyson and he seemed to come to this conclusion together silently for they simultaneously looked at Cyrus. Dawson wiggled the metal rod in his hands and then gestured for Cyrus to look about the room. Quiet as a snake, Cyrus fumbled through the dark, finding small mounds of sand, chains, two boxes filled with canvas bags, a metal pipe, some old boxes of ammo, and a rusted machete. Cyrus pulled the machete and a canvas bag as carefully as he could without making noise, but as he lifted the box of ammo, the decrepit container split open and rained bullets down on the hollow lead pipe. It echoed loud in the room and Cyrus shot up alarmed by the racket.

Tyson pulled Owen's limp body with him into the shadows along the wall besides the door, and Dawson similarly flattened himself against the wall on the other side as the two guards threw the door open and stepped in led by their rifles poised ahead of them.