evanna

THE BLOOD TRICKLES down from the body onto the dais in a faint, scarlet line, and I watch it, as the pistol clatters to the ground, and an amassment of grey bodies scatters all around me, liberating me from the suffocation of a crowd. It's an unsettling burst of colour against an unsaturated world: bright, shocking, enamouring.

The first syllable of her last word hangs in the air from a fine thread, one which is cut at the first scream. It's all bullshit, all of it. There's so much that goes on, and on, and on, and such things grate on the ears. The sound of the scream ripples over the square, shaking everyone, shaking everything, but I stand there firmly, the gun at my feet. I don't look back as they take me, I don't make eye contact with Julian or Bernard. And I go willingly: of course I do.

▿

The holding cells we pass are empty, their former occupants probably long dead, terminated without a problem. I suppose it's been a long time since they last had a case where the solution is a bit more complicated than capital punishment. I'm flanked on both sides by three armed guards, heavy titanium cuffs weighing my wrists down. I know not to test my chances at the moment. I can wait. The Red Hand can wait. Without a word, I'm relieved of my cuffs and led into one of the cells in an empty corridor. I sit down on the floor and close my eyes, listening to the sound of heavy boots and rustling fabric as they walk away, leaving behind two of their men to guard their complicated guest.

Yes, guest. Of course, and they're being marvellous hosts. I don't intend to stay here, I don't intend to let someone rescue me. I've made a decision, and now I'm paying the price. The problem with justice is that it's never clean-cut. It's a game of chess, and one party always plays the other, and it goes back and forth, all the time.

My only complaint is that prison is dull, boring. The lock on the door is made of the same titanium alloy that my cuffs were made off, laced with technology, complicated technology, too complicated for me to figure it out without having a proper look at it. For now, I'm stuck, but the gravity of my actions have bought me invaluable time. So, I have time to figure things out. Three days will not do much harm to anyone.

They say people go mad in prison, but I'm not sure that will have much of an effect on me.

My thoughts invariably wander back to the laboratory, to the photograph I burned. I remember, of course. With time, the memory returns, still fragmented, but I know the man and woman who raised me, so long ago, but that's all over, now, and I've taken a step further than anyone ever intended for me to. It's no matter, now. What's done is done, and you'd do best to forget it, Evanna.

After what feels like hours of boredom, I attempt at making small talk with the guards, who are unresponsive as though lobotomised.

"Would you mind telling me the time?"

"Is there any chance I'll be getting something to eat soon?"

"A glass of water would be nice, please and thank you."

Conclusion: the guards are useless, robotic, programmed to do one thing only, brainwashed into obedience to any higher power.

The silence is elevated as time passes by the sound of my nails clanging against the metal bars as I keep myself occupied. The food in prison is disappointingly meagre, bland and tasteless, but the Red Hand's rations are not much better. I think of Julian often, and remarkably, I sometimes feel... well. Bad, one could say, for betraying their trust. Every time I think such ridiculous things, I dismiss them with an assessment of my loyalty.

I am nobody's dog. I don't serve anyone, I am not friends with anyone, I am not loyal to anyone or anything. A common enemy does not make me a member of the Red Hand.

▿

The sounds of footsteps are rare, but they allow me to keep track of time. My guards change shifts every evening and every morning. It helps me formulate a plan for escape, and it takes me six days to figure out a weakness in my stoic guards. It's the weakness of a possible distraction, and though the bars of my cell are tough, they are bars, and there are gaps between them. You'd think that the prison cells would be less primitive than those at the Red Hand, but there's not much of a difference.

However, I need to plan, now, figure something out: by now, I know I'm running out of time, and I know that I may only have one shot at escape, and I need to plan everything meticulously, and leave no gaps for error. I must predict, and I must respond.

Then, on the seventh day, it's not two pairs of footsteps that approach my cell, but one pair only.

"I would like a moment with the criminal." A voice I recognise, but not one that wavers as it usually does. "I will send for you once I'm finished."

I grin. "You took your time. Seven days. Wouldn't have hurt to come a bit earlier. Come on, now get me out of here."

Vance Jakerrlos' expression holds no humour of any sort. It's devoid of any sort of positive emotion: instead, his expression is severe, underlined with worry. He gazes at me through the bars where I stand before him, arms folded across my chest. The bright blue keypad that locks the barred door of my cell makes his eyes look bluer, more sorrowful, almost. He doesn't look cowardly, this time. He doesn't look confused, or conflicted, or terrified, but his stance tells him every words that comes from his mouth is being told with absolute surety.

"You belong where you stand," he says.

"I belong outside. There are things to do."

"Yes. Things to do, people to kill. Not for me. For me, there are more important things to do, more terrible things to clean up. Do you know how difficult it is to get dried blood off the stone that podium is made of?"

"That's not your point, surely," I scoff, but my grin has vanished. He doesn't understand, of course he doesn't understand. "Help me get out."

"You have no idea what you've done." He turns his back to me, and in desperation, I wrap my hands around the bars and exert my strongest grip upon them in fury, and, for some reason, betrayal.

The guards return and I slink back down to the floor of my jail cell, mulling things around. He's faking it, I tell myself.

But my serious lack of judgement will have cost Tetrahmon more than I could have possibly anticipated.

A/N | Thank you so much to mercurous for helping me get over my writer's block!! ilysm Ash <3

Also, thank you to all of you who are sticking with Shiver! Don't forget to let me know your thoughts on the chapter, and if you liked it, please click that little star button <3 Thank you all so much!