- Joined
- Nov 11, 2010
- Messages
- 2,516
- Reaction score
- 39
Drip-drop...
Drip-drop...
Drip-drop...
The blood and sweat dripped from the man's brow, smacking against the cold metal floor of the ersatz cell that the man had been locked in for...how long now? A month...no, longer. Six months? A dozen? It was impossible to know for certain.
Drip-drop...
Drip-drop...
Drip-drop...
The prisoner continued his push-ups, desperately clinging to the physical exercise to keep from losing his mind to this dank captivity. The heavy industrial equipment which made up the walls and ceiling of his cage also dripped with condensation, so the captive thankfully had a near-constant rhythm with which he could keep pace during his exercise.
He was bloody and bruised, sporting a days-old laceration along his hairline that would need stitches (not to mention copious amounts of bacta) if it were to ever heal completely. Not that stitches, or basic medical supplies at all, were all that easy to come by.
He was, after all, a prisoner. He hadn't been kept in this cage for the entirety of his stay, of course. Oh no, it was during his infrequent travels out of his cell that he tended to earn new "beauty marks" like the one currently dripping blood down his sunken, malnourished face.
The scraping hiss of an old, poorly-maintained hatchway opening further down the hall alerted the captive to the rapidly approaching presence of one of his jailers. Early on during his stay, the man had been livid that he'd been forced to rely on his physical senses to know when others were approaching. After all, he was a man used to wielding the power of a god. The neural inhibitor affixed to his temples prevented his accessing the Force, though, and so he had adapted - as he always did.
Sliding quickly into the farthest, darkest corner of his cell, the man made every effort to appear docile to the being that was approaching. Others seeing him in this predicament would likely scoff at how quickly he had "given in," but those others were fools. There is a time for bravado, and there is a time for realism - and the captive knew that, were he to ever escape this Hutt-forsaken hell-hole, he would need all of his energy. Which meant that he would play the calm, cooperative prisoner whenever he could...all the while seething internally with impotent rage.
A small opening in his cell door retracted and a tray covered in barely-edible slop was tossed in. The voice of one of the friendlier guards came following after.
"Eat up, Zey. I managed to grab a bit extra for ya."
The man in the cage reached forward slowly, grabbing the tray of food and bringing it to his corner where he slowly and methodically began eating.
"Thank you..."
The prisoner whispered hoarsely, his voice having been screamed raw from the previous day's "session" with the man in charge of this place. The captive continued eating for a few moments after the feeding slot was closed and the noise of the guard faded down the hallway.
"...but I've already told you. My name isn't Zey..."
The captive gritted his teeth, the metal food tray gripped tightly between white-knuckled fists. Then, with a fury that would have been alarming given how sedentary he'd been just a moment before, the man snapped the tray in two and flung the pieces at the far wall. He screamed, knowing full well that no one could hear him.
"My name is Royston Spektor, and I'm going to kill you all!!"
Drip-drop...
Drip-drop...
The blood and sweat dripped from the man's brow, smacking against the cold metal floor of the ersatz cell that the man had been locked in for...how long now? A month...no, longer. Six months? A dozen? It was impossible to know for certain.
Drip-drop...
Drip-drop...
Drip-drop...
The prisoner continued his push-ups, desperately clinging to the physical exercise to keep from losing his mind to this dank captivity. The heavy industrial equipment which made up the walls and ceiling of his cage also dripped with condensation, so the captive thankfully had a near-constant rhythm with which he could keep pace during his exercise.
He was bloody and bruised, sporting a days-old laceration along his hairline that would need stitches (not to mention copious amounts of bacta) if it were to ever heal completely. Not that stitches, or basic medical supplies at all, were all that easy to come by.
He was, after all, a prisoner. He hadn't been kept in this cage for the entirety of his stay, of course. Oh no, it was during his infrequent travels out of his cell that he tended to earn new "beauty marks" like the one currently dripping blood down his sunken, malnourished face.
The scraping hiss of an old, poorly-maintained hatchway opening further down the hall alerted the captive to the rapidly approaching presence of one of his jailers. Early on during his stay, the man had been livid that he'd been forced to rely on his physical senses to know when others were approaching. After all, he was a man used to wielding the power of a god. The neural inhibitor affixed to his temples prevented his accessing the Force, though, and so he had adapted - as he always did.
Sliding quickly into the farthest, darkest corner of his cell, the man made every effort to appear docile to the being that was approaching. Others seeing him in this predicament would likely scoff at how quickly he had "given in," but those others were fools. There is a time for bravado, and there is a time for realism - and the captive knew that, were he to ever escape this Hutt-forsaken hell-hole, he would need all of his energy. Which meant that he would play the calm, cooperative prisoner whenever he could...all the while seething internally with impotent rage.
A small opening in his cell door retracted and a tray covered in barely-edible slop was tossed in. The voice of one of the friendlier guards came following after.
"Eat up, Zey. I managed to grab a bit extra for ya."
The man in the cage reached forward slowly, grabbing the tray of food and bringing it to his corner where he slowly and methodically began eating.
"Thank you..."
The prisoner whispered hoarsely, his voice having been screamed raw from the previous day's "session" with the man in charge of this place. The captive continued eating for a few moments after the feeding slot was closed and the noise of the guard faded down the hallway.
"...but I've already told you. My name isn't Zey..."
The captive gritted his teeth, the metal food tray gripped tightly between white-knuckled fists. Then, with a fury that would have been alarming given how sedentary he'd been just a moment before, the man snapped the tray in two and flung the pieces at the far wall. He screamed, knowing full well that no one could hear him.
"My name is Royston Spektor, and I'm going to kill you all!!"