I could've sworn I was out cold for no longer than a few minutes, but I realized rather quickly that I was wrong. Instead of being in the garden where I had confronted Mayfield, I noticed instead that I was seated in a metal chair. A simple table sat before me, and I noted that my hands were strapped down to the chair's arm rests. I tried to get a sense of my surroundings, but I couldn't. The only light in the room was a lamp that was pointed in my direction, which effectively blacked out everything else.

"Ah, so you finally decided to wake up," Mayfield mused, sitting down in a chair opposite mine and adjusting the lamp to where I could see him, "You understand why you're here, yes?"

I realized my helmet had been removed, but I wasn't as surprised as I thought I'd be. I was also dressed in the black and dark gray jumpsuit of an inmate, which made me more than a little agitated. "I tried to kill you, so you brought me to this prison. Not very surprising if you ask me."

"Oh, you've done so much more than that," Haydn purred, rising from his seat, "You've killed countless UTF soldiers, you've threatened key UTF officials, and you failed to bring in an important target."

"Gavin Mendel deserved to die," I rumbled, "I don't regret blowing his brains out."

"So he wronged you?"

I didn't offer him an answer; my silence was enough.

Mayfield clapped his hands together and approached where I sat. "Well, I'm sure you've caught onto the little plot at hand, haven't you?"

"I've been used by the UTF to take out people they didn't like," I said, feeling a growl well up from deep within me, "I take it you were the client all along?"

"My, aren't you a smart cookie!" Mayfield chortled, laughing to himself as he passed behind me, "Yes, I was your client. I was hoping you'd remain oblivious to our little arrangement, but alas, you figured it out all the same."

I rolled my eyes. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No, of course not," he replied, returning to his seat.

"What do you want from me then?"

"The names of your compatriots."

"I work alone."

"Yes, that's the general consensus. However, I find it interesting how you've managed to have information on all of your targets: their whereabouts, where they're commonly located, their habits, and anything else that could prove useful. If I didn't know any better, I would think you have someone else helping you out."

I shrugged, "Sorry, but I don't know what to tell you."

Mayfield beckoned for someone behind me to come nearer, and he continued talking all the while: "It is said you have a pain tolerance unlike anyone else in this system. Let's put that to the test, shall we?"

The sleeves of my jumpsuit were rolled up, and several pads were applied onto my arms and chest. It didn't take long for me to realize I was now hooked up to a convulsive shock machine.

"Turn it up to seven." Mayfield ordered the unknown individual.

And so they tortured me: the military general constantly prodded me to disclose the names of my friends, but I kept quiet. In all honesty, this barely fazed me.

Three hours into his torture session, Mayfield growled in frustration. "Oh, to hell with this. Turn it to max settings!"

I felt my back arch involuntarily as my body was assaulted by white-hot electricity. However, I did not scream. I bit the inside of my cheek and focused on the pain–on the iron taste of my blood.

Finally, the Military General gave the order to shut down the machine. "Most people are left in a crying heap after I'm done with them," he growled, leaning across the table to butt heads with me, "And yet here you are."

"Hah...Jokes...On you." I managed to get out, cold sweat obscuring my vision. "I've been through...Worse. A little...Shock barely even tickled."

Haydn slammed his fist down onto the table and backed away from me. "Take our friend back his cell."

The bindings on my wrists were loosened, and I was hoisted out of my chair. I was then carried past Mayfield, who left me with these parting words: "You might have kept quiet today, but mark my words: you'll sing like a bird soon enough."

"Like...Hell I will," I growled, "Prepare to be disappointed."

I was led out of the interrogation room and entered a large hallway. From what I could tell, it was completely white. Hmm...Sensory deprivation...Interesting...

We walked toward a set of steel double doors, which automatically opened when we got closer. Before me was a seemingly-endless prison block. Peering down the railing we walked beside, I saw nothing but cell blocks extending down further and further below us. Thankfully, we didn't walk along the gangway for long: a few moments later, we stopped before a concrete cell with a steel door set into it. One of the guards waved a key card across a scanner, and the door slid open with a faint hiss. After that, I was tossed into the cell.

Thankfully, I managed to stay on my feet. However, I realized quickly that I wasn't alone.

"Hmm...Interesting," A gangly man with red hair mused, "You're new here in the Seventh circle. What's your name?"

I looked the man straight in the eye and said, "Mortifer."

His eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Holy shit...Um, I mean you no disrespect."

"None taken," I replied, stalking over to the vacant sleeping mat and sitting down. "What's your name, kid?"

"Lance. What are you in for?"

"Attempting to assassinate the Military General. You?"

He sighed, "A group of buddies and I tried to lay siege to a UTF freight ship. It didn't end well."

"So you're a revolutionary then?"

Lance shrugged, "Call us whatever you want, but we were trying to fight back against the UTF's injustice. However, that only ended up giving me and my friends a death sentence."

I scowled, "Damn...I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'd rather fight for the right cause and die rather than sitting idly by and doing nothing."

I nodded to myself, "That's admirable."

He huffed out a chuckle, "Yeah...Honestly, thank you for listening. Given the...infamy of your name, I didn't think you'd care about me."

"That's not who I am–Not anymore, at least," I murmured, staring up at the concrete ceiling of our cell, "There any cameras in here?"

"Not that I was able to find, no. However, I wouldn't take any chances," Lance grumbled, "These assholes love spying on us."

Without warning, our door opened. A fully armored guard stepped in and shouted, "Lunch time! Up and at em', maggots!"

With a huff, I rose to my feet and walked toward the cell door. Pushing past the guard, I followed the flow of inmates until we reached somewhere reminiscent of a mess area. White metal tables were arranged in neat lines through the middle of the room. At the front of a mess area, a traditional cafeteria line was set up with haggard inmates receiving what appeared to be cold biscuits and something resembling bacon from scowling lunch ladies.

Well...Shit. I would kill to have some of Boreas' brahmin casserole right now..

With a dejected sigh, I approached the lunch line and waited to get my food. I heard someone shuffle behind me, so I turned around to spot Lance attempting to keep his spot in line. The poor guy may have been my height, but he was dwarfed by the other inmates.

"Hey!" Lance barked. "Don't shove me out of the way, you prick!"

A towering mountain of scarred muscle flesh with callous eyes loosed a malicious laugh. "Oh? What are you gonna do, shrimp–?"

The bastard cut off with a shriek of pain when I grabbed his arm and twisted it inwards. The sound of snapping bones could be heard, and the mass-murderer wannabe was left sobbing on the floor.

"Get in front of me, Lance." I ordered him.

Needing no other prompting, the crimson-headed freedom fighter scurried to stand in front of me. Ten minutes later, we sat at a table in the back of the room. Once we had settled down, I swallowed my pride and started to eat the miserable excuse for food.

"Damn, man," Lance mused, scrunching his face up in disgust. "How can you eat that?"

"Ignore the flavor and think of the best thing you've eaten in the past," I murmured, feeling my adam's apple bob heavily as the food went down my throat, "Part of me wonders if these bastards are trying to poison us."

"Yeah, you would think so," he murmured, his green eyes glittering with barely-contained pain as he started eating.

"Hey! Prick!" someone shouted at our table. Deciding to ignore them, I continued eating until my tray was picked up and tossed to the side.

"What do you think you were doin', eh? Hurtin' my friend Maurice like that?" the cumstain of an inmate sneered. A quick glance confirmed my worst fears: my aggressor was balding, had a ratlike appearance, and was little more than skin and bones.

"I suggest you walk away," I murmured, not paying any attention to the bastard before me.

When he grabbed my shoulder, I sent an elbow into his groin and rounded on him to deliver an uppercut to his chin. With a spray of crimson blood, the fucker was taken out of commission.

"Holy shit..." Lance murmured, "You really do live up to the title 'Bringer of death,' huh?"

My chest rumbled with dark laughter. "My intention is to disorient, not kill. However, these jerkoffs are far too brittle."

I spotted guards off in the distance trading credits. So...They gamble on who will win lunchtime brawls instead of breaking them up? How utterly deplorable...

Lunchtime continued for another thirty minutes before everyone was herded back into their colorless cells. The sensory deprivation was a bit of a problem, but at least I had someone to talk to. Lance provided me with the banter Boreas used to employ to keep me calm, and I was more than a little thankful that I had been placed in a cell with a good man.

When it came time to fall asleep, I laid on my ragged mat with a faint smile on my face. Maybe I can survive this...

However, when morning came and the guards shouted at us to wake up, I noticed Lance was missing. It was with a slowly breaking heart that I realized my new friend's death sentence decided to catch up with him.