Too bad for us.
They pull us out of the caravans and chain us to a wall. There are a few dozen prisoners. That’s half the number that was on the yacht. We have Scylla to thank for that. I would feel bad, except I’m not the one who took a boat to the bay of San Francisco, knowing very well that a god could be lurking in the water. It was only a matter of time before she rose to the surface.
This corner of the room is covered in metal, with an incline and drains at the bottom. I quickly understand why. They force us to undress, and they hose us down with cold water. My brain struggles for a moment to understand why they built that inside the entrance of a bunker. Then I remember that back in the days, their greatest fear was a nuclear war. They needed a room to clean equipment, vehicles, and humans alike. And now they use it to clean freshly arrived slaves. Marvelous.
But I have to admit, a cold shower feels nice after days spent tied in a stifling caravan, with dried blood on my face and clothes. Although, the hosing down is painful on my bruises. I angle my body to protect my wounded leg.
They let us dry in the open, without a care that we’re all as naked as worms. I glance at Jude. He’s beautiful, in a skin-and-bones kind of way. Long-limbed and graceful. They shaved his head again this morning, leaving less than an inch of ginger hair that could pass for blonde. The water drips down from his jawline to his tanned shoulders. He’s not my type of man, romantically, but I can see the appeal. And so do a few mercenaries. They ogle us like fresh meat on a market stall. It’s a good thing they have been asked to keep thequality goodsin decent condition for the sale. Their leader already regretted that they beat us bloody a week ago.
We wait in line for what feels like hours as men and women come and go through locked doors that, I’m assuming, lead to the underground city.
Even if the gate wasn’t closed, escaping now would be a bad idea. The climate is colder in the mountains. It would be a death wish with no clothes on.
I’m not one to balk at nudity, but it starts to bother me as they move us to the stage. And then we wait some more. For someone in particular, I realize. The leader of Bunkertown. The man who rules over this little nightmare.
And when he finally arrives, it takes all my self-control not to react. I would recognize him in any crowd.
Oliver has grown into a man in the ten years since I escaped him. He’s taller and more imposing than before. And he was already terrifying at seventeen. His raven hair is slicked back, and his face is clean-shaven. He’s expressionless as his ice-blue eyes survey the prisoners.
Could it be that this entire shitshow is about me? Has Oliver been looking for me all this time? No… That would be insane…
I lower my head and will myself to disappear behind Jude, who’s standing straight and proud. As expected, my friend attracts attention, and Oliver walks straight to him.
Just my luck.
“What happened to his face?” asks Oliver, gesturing at Jude’s bruises.
“They tried to escape,” answers one of the mercenaries after a long silence.
“I told you to keep them intact. I’ll pay less for the broken ones.” He grabs Jude’s chin and takes a closer look. “And this one isn’t blonde. He’s a ginger. But it’s okay. He looks healthy. I’ll take him.”
Then he turns to me. He sighs when he sees the bruises. One of my eyes is still swollen, and most of my right cheek is yellow and blue. I can see the moment when he dismisses me as just another beaten-up prisoner to be sent to work. But then his eyes lower, and he looks at my scars. More precisely, at the fern-like patterns along my ribs. Most have faded with time, but those went deeper than the others, and they’re still visible.Lichtenberg figures,he used to call them. They appear on the surface of an insulating material—or skin—as an electric discharge courses through it. They’re the scars that people hit by lightning get. Or, in my case, when they displease a mutant with electric abilities.
He gave me those scars when I was fourteen years old. I went out hunting with another member of our small group, and we didn’t realize how late it was. When we finally came back to camp, Oliver was fuming. He never liked that I wasn’t readily on hand when he wanted to spend time with me. I needed to be available at all times, like his favorite toy. Back then, he didn’t have much control over his powers. He touched me, and I felt the burn spread through my ribs and chest. I screamed, and he backed off. He spent the rest of the night caring for me and being sorry, while explaining why it was my fault that it happened.
It wasn’t the first time he hurt me, or the last.
And now those scars are betraying me. I see recognition in his blue eyes, and he whispers, “Helios…”
His face goes through a rainbow of expressions. From surprise to happiness, anger, and relief.
He barks the order to untie me and get me some clothes. They all obey without hesitation, and I find myself wrapped in a soft blanket.
And as I’m led out of the room, I spare one last glance at Jude, who looks incredulous.
Oliver says, “Finally, I’ve got you.” And his hand tightens around my arm.
Oh, shit.Maybe I really am the blonde man they have all been looking for.
Oliver leads me with a hand on my neck through long corridors illuminated by artificial light and through too many reinforced doors to count. I understand with dread that we’re going deeper into the mountain. Deeper into Bunkertown. At some point, we even walk by a tunnel freshly carved into the stone. Men and women are toiling all around us, building their common dream of an underground city. Or being forced to build it as slaves.
This place is already bigger than I expected, and I’m only passing through. There are underground markets, bathing houses, food stalls, residential areas…
They all bow as we walk by. Oliver hasn’t changed. He just found himself a bigger court and more subjects to rule over.
We start climbing, taking stairs after stairs that lead to a quieter part of the massive bunker. Only a handful of armed men and women guard the doors. We reach two sliding panels, and Oliver pushes me inside a large room. There is a four-poster bed in the middle, a marble tub, a shower in a corner, and fancy furniture. When they built this place, they kept the walls made of natural gray stone, making it impossible to forget that we’re underground.
“What is this place?” I ask.
