“Maybe we should tell Master that gossip is important to the cohesiveness of the group?”
“You think he’s going to listen to us?”
“No,” they say in unison, and that’s it.
“Well if you ever decide to find a different employer, I’ve got a couple of ins that might give you better options for workplace satisfaction. Can’t guarantee better pay, but sometimes we sacrifice a few bucks for better mental and emotional health. Less stress is better than more, in my opinion, but also in the opinion of the experts who tell us that we live longer if we only have a moderate amount of healthy stress.”
“What the fuck is healthy stress?”
“Oh, you know, like the pressure that society puts on you for your health. Like, take a shower because hygiene is importantand we don't want to smell your BO, and the stress of making sure you eat healthy foods in moderate amounts. The stress of growing up and adding to the space around you instead of destroying it, right? There are healthy stressors, but too much is bad for you. Workplace stress can be productive in small amounts, but too much of it and you’re going to find yourself in a spiral that could lead to heart attacks, strokes, and suicidality. You gotta moderate all that for your health.”
“You remember Finty?” Hen asks solemnly.
The other one grunts sadly.
“Finty succumbed to stress?” I ask gently, because no one deserves to have their losses referred to callously.
“Yeah. Poor girl walked into the magma spires and never came back.” Hen explains. “It was after Master screamed at her and had her flogged for losing his favorite shoes.”
“Fuck, man. I’m sorry to hear that. No one deserves to be screamed at by their employer, much less flogged.”
“It was just the last thing in a long line of things,” the other one sighs. “You need to shut up now. If anyone catches us talking, they’ll kill us.”
I don’t want that for them, so I close my mouth.
Soon a gate creaks and low voices murmur around us. More walking—stairs get involved, and I know that because the bumpy ride on Hen’s shoulder gets bumpier.
Eventually, I’m set on my feet again.
“Strip him and throw him in the dungeon. Cell number seven.”
“Listen, you don't have to take my clothes. I’m not going to try to escape. I’m pretty sure that the rescue squad is coming, and there’s no need for them to find me naked.” Darcy isn’t going to let this go on for long, and I wouldn’t even be surprised if the baby flink is the entirety of my rescue squad—theydefinitely don’t deserve the trauma of finding me in my birthday suit.
This time the punch comes to the stomach, but I’m fairly certain it’s not from my escorts, who both release protesting grunts. “Prisoners will stay silent until it’s time to scream.” The voice who punched me hisses that with a little too much evil glee.
I gag inside the potato sack, but since I’ve already emptied my stomach, nothing comes of it.
I don’t want to get hit again, so I don’t say another word or resist when they rip my clothes off. They don’t even have the decency to preserve them, they just tear them off.
“What’s that?” Hen asks, confused. Poking at my prosthetic.
“That’s my artificial limb. Please don’t take it off or I won’t be able to walk.” I can hop and I’m pretty good at it, but only for short distances.
“Remove it!” the evil voice insists.
This is going to be an expensive—
Blinding pain rips a scream out of me as the prosthetic is ripped off of the end of my stump.
That’s it for Elijah—I’m out.
16
Ow, ow, ow. The pain is not fun. Holy shit, what the fuck? What the actual fuck? They ripped—oh fuck me, they better not have broken the implant thosemotherfuckers!
I open my eyes, peering around the dimly lit prison cell I’ve been shoved into. It’s stone, underground, lit by a magma pool in the corner. Ok, the cell is round and there are no corners, but I’m designating that the corner. It’s a tiny little magma pool, bubbling as it releases toxic chemicals into the air. Fuck me. It smells like sulfur.
“I’m going to suffocate and die.”
