ＭＵＲＬé ＢＵＲＮＳ: 17
Chapter seventeen
Chapter seventeen
Ｂreathe . . .
His neck drooped down, limp, and eyes remained open. The air around him was suffocatingly humid and the stale taste of salty sweat loomed on his dry tongue. Ears pinned back, the familiar metallic scraping of the vehicle’s shaky frame whenever there was a harsh bump in the road sent his stomach in a twist of a thousand knots. It felt like yesterday, when he had been on his very first mission; the hardened feeling of steel caressing through eager fingers that knew no other life.
Breathe . . .
Wrists choked by the metal cuffs digging into his skin, Murlé tried to focus on that uncomfortable yet bearable pain. Around his neck, like a noose, a metal band—or almost collar-like object—clasped tightly against his flesh, with just enough calculated looseness to have room to bring in strangled air.
A hard bump rocked the vehicle as Murlé’s arm was hit against the wall and he bit back the dull ache. Head bobbing upwards as there was another bump, he glimpsed a flash of black, grimy boots and a rifle.
Breathe.
Raising his head involuntarily, he turned slowly to the right. Inkina lay on the bench next to him, curled into a fetal position with her back facing him. Arms hugging her torso, the raggedy dull purple hair that no longer resembled the bun she customarily kept it in shielded her features from view. Inkina hadn’t moved since the blue viscet across from them had lifted the girl to her feet from the barn and practically dragged her, hand and foot, teeth and claw, into where they were now. After that, like a flower past its prime, she shriveled, and the last drop of hope in both of their minds with it. Gaze deepening on the girl, his jaw tightened. A flower with hidden thorns.
He flinched, swallowing hard as Inkina’s deformed-creature-of-a-tail stirred. Before now, he had never really been able to get a good look at it—or he had chosen never to. It was nothing but a tail extremely pale purple in color, but much thicker than a normal tail with a vague impression of eyes made entirely of fluff and an impossibly wide—almost cartoonishly so mouth. Gargling lowly, “It’s” mouth gaped open to reveal wet, dark purple fluff as the interior of It’s mouth that lacked teeth and anything else that made up a regular mouth. Scratch cartoonish, replace with incredibly horrifying.
What the hell happened to make this thing?
Peering at the pair of viscets across from him before he could feel anymore sick, their reddish brown uniforms left an uneasy lump in his throat. One was an ashen gray, posture erect and ears perked. Sweat beaded his creased brow, hands resting comfortably on the rifle placed between his legs. He was a few years older than him, probably mid-to-late-twenties. Attention turning to the other viscet, he wanted to wince at what he saw. His boyish face, glowing with an almost startling youth, was tainted by the sharp, black tattoos every FFA soldier customarily wore. They were different for everyone, depending on rank and specific skills. In other words, it was the easiest way for a commanding officer to know the basics about you just from a glance, and that’s all they ever needed or wanted. Tattoos, especially those on the face, were like the FFA’s brand, binding their soldiers forever to them. His cerulean blue fur was partially caked with mud on one side of his face and uniform, which was in sharp contrast to the pristine clothing of his conrad. The viscet’s eyes aimlessly scanned the room, and almost without realizing it their two gazes connected.
The blue blinked, eyes flashing round and startled.
Murlé’s mouth went drier than it already was and swallowed with effort.
He tilted his head in shy curiosity, and Murlé stiffened slightly, unable to keep himself from seeing the metal shine on the viscet’s hip out of the corner of his eye.
Light flowed in and pierced his eyes like tiny daggers as the doors to the truck opened in a blur. He grimaced, jerking his cuffed hands over his face.
The grip of two pairs of rough hands wrenched him forward before he could so much as blink and was thrust out of the vehicle in the burning sunlight. Stumbling to his knees on the searing hot pavement, he gasped for breath while attempting to clear his vision in the blinding afternoon sun.
“On your feet, Burns,” a rigid voice ordered as a shadow was cast over him.
Knowing he dare not idle on the ground a second longer, orders rang clear as day in his ears from when he was young. His commanding officer, who’s face seemed always curled in a half scowl of disapproval, pointing a shrewd finger at an eight year old boy—him, and uttering the words, “Never ask twice,”
From the truck Inkina followed warily, lead again and almost held completely up by the cerulean blue. Her colorless gaze aimed downwards carelessly passed over him like just another area of the tarmac road.
A dark blur tore over his eyes before he let out a half gasp, half yelp of alarm. Immediately raising to his feet, he shot his hands up to cover his muzzle. Murlé grimaced as he massaged his nose daintily, quivering a little at the throbbing sting from the blow the gray had served him courtesy of the handle of his gun.
“Better,” the gray said, placing his handgun back into its holster. Glancing down, his fingers began dripping crimson. Jabbing Murlé’s back with his rifle, he lurched forward and grabbed at his throat for the collar as his breathing became rapid and partially stifled by the device.
Now that his vision had cleared, he could see where he was. Exactly where he was. Solo un Sueño, the largest and most powerful FFA city, home to the majority of the “higher ups” and assuming leader—as well as where he grew up for the majority of his life. It seemed . . . different from what he remembered. There was the same mostly gray scale buildings and apartments, without a stain of dirt on the outside, but holding something very different on the inside. The same citizens, with clothes and expressions almost the same color as the world around them. Their eyes were trained to stay low to the ground, for fear of any unwanted conflict. They simply wanted peace, to be left alone to their assigned work and go home at the end of the day with their meals provided for them by the FFA. The air of forlorned helplessness and fear that he once thought of as the perfect government-citizen relationship was definitely strong today. The “Free for All”—free jobs, free food, free imprisonment. In a way, he wanted to laugh.
His eyes narrowed on one of the viscets going about their day with their head glued down.
The collars.
Everyone was wearing the same collar as he was—every citizen, that is. The silver bands had a single green light that blinked on and off every few seconds. It was around one inch wide all the way around, and scarcely thicker than a few papers slapped together. This was something new.
Feeling sick to his stomach, Murlé’s grasp on the sleek metal around his throat weakened as his steps faltered onto the sidewalk.
Looking up, the white building in front of him was lined with soldiers. The large and boxy shape held few windows and was surrounded by a thick, barred metal fence and lined with wire perpendicular to the bars. The many soldiers held their weapons stiffly on their disciplined figures as they stared at Murlé. He recognized more of them than he cared to admit. Enojado may have ordered them not to kill him, but he wondered how likely he could make it until a little “accident” occurred.
Murlé’s pace slowed as the cerulean in front waited for the gate to the fence to open.
“Lieutenant Coronel Murlé Burns,” the male’s voice was drawn out and laced with cynical surprise. “Or should I say, former,”
He kept walking, eyes staying level ahead.
“How’s life ‘n the big city been treating ya, pal?”
He knew that voice. Just one of many comrades he once worked with—or maybe a little more than that—but that wasn’t the case anymore. Sergeant Or’es Hille.
His eyes never left the walkway as he passed through the gate and closer to the building entrance.
“I guess we’re all just not good enough for you anymore—that it?” there was a slight twitch—a slight delay in his some of his words that hinted at more than just the overly dramatic anger consuming his tone, “I guess after abandoning your duty as’a soldier an’ the cause, and leaving the rest of us filthy scamps behind for the comforts a Goddamned Prince can afford you—” Murlé tried to ignore the fact that his voice was nearing when Hille stopped, saying his next words more calm and with conviction, “I wouldn’t hesitate to betray the only life and viscets I ever knew neither,”
He winced.
Breath hissing through his teeth, he continued, “Gimme one good minute, Ramirez, just one,” the blood lust emanating from his words was so strong he could’ve sworn if he turned to look at him it would be dripping from his tongue.
“Cool it, Sergeant—and that’s Coronel to you,” the gray, Ramirez, growled back from behind as he stopped the both of them by jerking Murlé’s shirt back. Muttering curses under his breath aimed at the pair, Hille finally relented.
The door closed in, feet dragging as they approached.
“Where are you taking me?” Murlé asked. The door swung open and he jumped, swallowing hard. His legs went wooden and no matter how hard he tried, his body stood still. His breath caught, bracing for the barrel of the Coronel’s gun to jab him forward. There was a pause.
“Why does it matter?” he questioned with a short sigh. Murlé paused, unsure of his response, and couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t just pushed him forward like he had before.
There came a yell from behind and he whirled, just in time to see Hille lunge for him. Feet sliding out from under him, next thing Murlé knew the thud of their bodies slamming to the concrete echoed in his ears.
His heart dropped, spotting a blade gripped in Hille’s hands.
Adrenaline beat through his veins and shot to the tips of his fingers as Murlé seized Hille’s wrist in the knick of time with his still cuffed hands. The gleam of the blade shone sinisterly as it pressed ever further downwards, hovering above his vulnerable flesh.
Rallying cries chanted from above, eager for the taste of bloodshed.
Gaze never leaving the slender piece of deadly steel, he twisted himself without warning and the two fell to their sides.
“I’ve been waiting six months for this!” Hille grunted breathlessly. Murlé’s hands began to shake as the knife was held above his head.
His grip slipped and the knife swung low, slicing into his chin mere millimeters from his throat before clinking onto the collar.
It appeared in slow motion. The sun beating down, the dust filling the dry air, the drumming of rifles pounding the ground all around him, and watching as Hille retracted his weapon, lifting it high into the sky as its unforgiving blade then began to swing downwards with all its might. Flashes of faces filled his mind. Arathorn. Sunora. Belleza . . . Enojado.
He took a sharp breath, wrenching his head away just as the knife came splitting through the air full force next to his cheek. The amount of power slamming into the hard surface loosened Hille’s grip and Murlé spent no time before gripping onto his hand and bashing the hand clasping the knife into the concrete with all his might. The pavement smeared with blood as Hille started screeching violently in pain as he fought to writhe free of his grasp.
Hands slipping as the cuffs cut deeper into his skin, he felt a give in Hille’s fingers. With one final heave of his hands and a slam to the ground with a crack, the knife slipped from his grasp and immediately into Murlé’s. Leaping up from Hille as he clasped his battered hand, Murlé froze.
Mouths dropped around him with eyes wide in shock. Ramirez ripped from the group of viscets that had been holding him back as they stared in disbelief.
Palm closed around the knife handle so hard it hurt, he watched as the soldiers’ bearings returned and they shot up their weapons. Throwing the knife behind him and raising his hands, Murlé continued to reclaim his breath.
“Do any of you self indulgent idiots realize what Enojado would have done to us if Hille had actually managed to kill Burns?!” Ramirez exploded as he looked from one viscet to another.
An indescribable pain shot through his neck and ricocheted into the rest of his body at that moment, seemingly penetrating the very nerves themselves as he fell to the ground with a strangled yell.
“Hille! I swear to God if you don’t quit it I’ll have you locked up so long—” came Ramirez in a violent growl that melded into the sudden eruption of voices.
“Enojado will have your head now!”
“He beat ya, now let it go and gimme that!”
Rolling onto his chest, his teeth ground painfully against the wildfire of burning pain consuming him. Eyelids drooping wearily and head feeling light, he let out a slow, shuddering breath as the pain ceased and voices faded.
* * *
Murlé flinched as his eyes flickered open groggily. Touching his hand daintily to his sore neck that felt held up by a twig instead of a spine, he groaned as his hand slid across his back. Hille really did a number on it. He could’ve sworn he had only been out for a moment, because he felt the same as when as he had before sleeping—in both the mental and physical sense—garbage. But hey, at least that paralyzing agony was gone. He had to look on the bright side, after all. Wherever he was, it was dark and cool. It was his new home, he guessed—his cell, and that was all he needed to know, since he doubted the decor would warm him up to the place.
Feeling the cool metal locked against his neck as he slid a cuffed hand across it, a streak of unease rattled the ends of his fur. The pain—what was it from? It originated by the neck, like a shock . . .
Shifting on the ground, he paused, squinting his eyes and glancing down. A cotton blanket was wrapped around him.
Muscles stiffening in sync with the shiver that shot down his spine, Murlé forced himself to look up. He forgot to breathe as he scanned the bare, gray room. One small, high window revealed the twinkling stars in the pitch black night. The only other source of light came from behind.
He wheeled, gaze landing on an illuminated figure sitting square on the bed.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Murlé blurted, trying to keep how unsettled he was from edging into his voice, and came to an unsteady and somewhat defensive stand. There came no reply.
She stared up at him from the bed in disarray, her face only partially seen by the faint lamp light and eyes fixed on him. Blue eyes shaded with uncertainty studied him quietly, her dark shape moving so little he could’ve mistaken her for a doll with glass eyes.
“Aren’t you going to say something? Maybe thank me, for saving your life, perhaps?” Murlé questioned and narrowed his gaze in a frown.
The muscles in her face tensed, close to unnoticeable in the weak light. Turning away from him, Inkina pulled up the wrinkled bed sheet from the foot of the bed and proceeded to plop down to presumably sleep.
Taken aback, Murlé’s mouth shot open and ready to press her, only for what he planned to say falling to the floor in a jumble of indifferent fatigue. With an irritated grunt, he bent down and clasped the blanket by his feet before shuffling over to the farthest away corner and collapsing onto the cold floor. Leaning his weight against the wall and making sure to always keep the bed on the opposite side of the room in the corner of his vision, his tight shoulders relaxed just a little.
Head resting on the stone wall, he found himself staring out the high window across from him. Even here, it gave him some comfort—which, in all honesty, he really needed right now.
Arathorn and Sunora were probably out in La Gula at this very moment, searching for him with close to a battalion of soldiers. Murlé’s lips pursed thoughtfully. Enojado was probably with them, too. He didn’t even know what Enojado wanted—not really. Did he yearn for power? To be King? He already had somehow coaxed the entirety of the FFA to be on his side and work as his underlings in just six months. Or had it been longer than that? And how did Sunora fit into that? What about Inkina? It was all so unclear, and far too much brain power for him in this state. Before he could ponder on it a second more, his head dropped down to his chest. Suddenly feeling unbelievably exhausted, Murlé’s will to do anything but sit there in a heap of loathing self pity was next to nothing as he gave into the sweet, sweet release of slumber once again.
* * *
If there was one, single word to describe how he felt right now, it was sheer, eye gougingly inconceivable boredom of the first degree. Make that nine words.
It was light outside again, maybe the early afternoon, and the only exciting thing that happened to him all day was when the food flap opened and two plastic wrapped sandwiches dropped in. The bread was stale, and the cheese was a tad more moldy than he would have liked, but he made do. Inkina hadn’t even flinched when he chucked her share at her from across the room.
Pacing back and forth around the room for the countless time with one hand resting below his chin, he looked to the door as he passed it. Bending down curiously, he examined the small “slot” that had allowed someone to drop food—if he could even call it that—in. Poking the flap, it appeared to only go inwards and not outwards, so he didn’t have a way to open it and peer out to get a better view of where he was. Digging his fingers into a small space below the flap in an attempt to raise it up, it moved slightly before falling back into place as his grip slipped. He bit his tongue, eagerly doing the same thing as before with more certainty. With a pleased smirk sneaking across his lips, the tab lifted and stayed lifted. Squinting amidst the bright light emanating from the hall, all he could see was a wall and partially the floor. A spark kindled within him at that moment, although there was seemingly nothing he could do with this new discovery, there was still something. His ears twitched.
Brown cloth flashed over the square hole and he sucked in a breath, leaping from the door.
With a soul crushing whine, the door opened and three viscets appeared. Gaze lit with a cool, decisive look in his eye, Ramirez casually walked in.
“What a delightful surprise,” Murlé breathed with a forced half chuckle as he backed further away. The two others hung back, and the gray closed the door behind him—alone. Pausing for a moment and licking his lips, he crossed his arms and glanced back at the door while keeping one eye on him at all times.
“I don’t appreciate unruly prisoners messing around with things he knows he shouldn’t, Mr. Burns,”
He swallowed.
“But . . . I’m sure you already knew that,” he smiled. “Yet you did it anyway,” almost stumbling, the gray took a few slow steps towards him.
“It won’t happen again—” Murlé stuttered, “I was just . . . getting a little hungry, and wanted to get someone’s attention—” Heart hammering against his ribs, his back hit the wall.
“And I’m going to make sure of that. Congratulations, you did get someone’s attention.”
With one swift motion of his fist, a flood of colorful streaks blinded Murlé and sent him cowering to his knees. Panting hard as he glanced up, hugging his chest, a flash of gray blurred his vision once more as he braced for the second hit and still came crashing to the floor. Coughing incessantly, he barely moved.
“Maybe that will teach you to bite your tongue once in awhile,” Ramirez remarked, “And if not—then at least you will be aware of the consequences, and I will have no remorse,”
Spitting blood onto the floor as Ramirez strode back to the door without so much as a second glance, he mustered a reply as he rose slightly up from the ground.
“It must be nice,” Murlé muttered through trembling teeth, and waited for him to turn back and look at him before continuing, “Not having remorse,”
Raising his chin up and straightening, he made no other sign of reaction before opening the door and was gone.
For awhile, he laid there, hugging his stomach with one arm and tapping the metal around his throat musingly with the other. If there was one thing he would forever remember from his time in the FFA that they taught him, it was that they knew where it would hurt the most, and were told to fully exploit that fact. With a groan, he managed to raise himself up into a sitting position. He must have made the change too soon, because his head felt just about as light as his will to live and he had to steady himself on the wall.
Choking, he cringed in his skin at the taste of a warm, irony liquid dripping down the back of his throat and began coughing again more than the last. Sinking back to the ground, with every expansion of his throat he clawed his fingers deeper into his palms.
A sudden loud thud by his head sent him staggering to his feet with eyes widened alertly, ignoring the sharp ache in his stomach and head.
Staring down at the bottle that glistened on the dull, dirty surface of the ground and raising an eyebrow suspiciously, he glanced at Inkina with her legs crossed, now sitting on the bed with both arms propped on her knees.
“Don’t tell me you’ve had this this whole time,” he grumbled with an irritated sigh that triggered the coughs once more. Bending down and grabbing the clear plastic water bottle, his face clouded in a scrutinous frown as he twisted the cap free and sniffed. “This isn’t poisonous—is it?” he questioned with eyes slit ever so slightly. Her expression, if he could even call it that, didn’t change. Rolling his eyes, he raised the bottle up to his lips and let the refreshing liquid coat his dry mouth and slide down his throat in a few indulging gulps. Shaking the bottle for the last few drops, he stared down at the empty bottle half-heartedly.
“I don’t . . . understand you,” Inkina said in scarcely more than a murmur with her gaze aimed at the wall behind him. For a moment he thought he had imagined her speaking, and didn’t know if he should respond. Head cocked to the side, she added in the same closely inaudible voice, “Then again, how could I when I don’t even understand myself,” Inkina’s vacant blue eyes reminded him of the bottom of the ocean. Although it was crystal clear, unlike the ocean’s surface it was cold and dark, and seemed neverendingly hollow.
“Oh, so now the little darling sunshine decides to talk,” Murlé growled, crossing his arms. “Do enlighten me on my shortcomings,”
Inkina dropped her eyes passively. “Please, don’t call me that,” she murmured.
“Am I making you uncomfortable? Aw, I’m sorry, pet. I must have mistaken you for the viscet who ruined my life,” he retorted in a light and airy tone undercut with a bitter edge. “I hope you’re happy, because your family is screwed if they’re still alive, along with this whole damn island!” he found himself exclaiming with his arms flailing about as he looked about the room. He knew he must have looked like a moron, but at this point, he didn’t care.
Drawing her legs close to her chest, she whispered, “Stop it,”
Murlé advanced towards her, “You want me to stop? I didn’t realize the viscet planning to murder my friend and help take down a whole Kingdom was so fragile—” tilting his head as he looked down at her from only a few feet away now, he continued, “My mistake,”
Inkina glanced up at him for a split second, her eyes that once held nothing were glistening with a pinkish hue—and there was hurt there. Hurt that he knew—on a face more familiar than he cared to admit. But before he could blink, she turned away while hugging her knees.
“Fine, have it your way,” he said with an uninterested wave of his hand and turned away.
His ears perked as there came a subtle metallic squeak to his left. He ignored it, figuring it must be just another “food” delivery. With a pop, the door ground open and closed a second later.
Turning to face the culprit, an eyebrow raised when he saw the young cerulean that had been in the truck with them.
“It’s you,” Murlé began with an expression of bewilderment. He felt relieved, but at the same time didn’t know why he even should be.
“Far corner, now,” the cerulean motioned with his head and he complied.
“What are you doing here, Bablou?” Inkina questioned sharply without looking at him. Bablou bit his lip, shifting his feet.
“There’s something big going down, Ink,” he responded quietly as if someone outside of this room was going to hear. Turning to face him, she purposefully raised her voice in an attempt to annoy him as Murlé watched, speechless.
“I don’t care,”
“Well, you should,” Bablou countered and crossed his arms somewhat awkwardly, “Because it may give us our only chance to bust out of here—together,”
“What?” both Murlé and Inkina gasped in unison.
“You stay out of this,” Bablou shot Murlé a testy glare and placed one hand on the hip by his holster.
So much for being relieved to see him.
“Well, well?” Inkina urged excitedly, stretching her neck and shoulders closer to hang on to his every word.
“Enojado is preparing to move a massive amount of troops out of all of the cities and do some sort of big attack to finally end the war and I just happen to be one of the ones who gets to stay behind and look after things, so once everyone’s split, we have a shot at escape!” Bablou paused, taking a deep breath after scarcely breathing for that entire stretch of eagerly frantic speech. Inkina said nothing and placed a hand on the bed, mouth open with shock as her other hand moved to touch her cheek.
“Is that really true?” she whispered.
“Y—yeah,” was all Bablou said, his enthusiasm fading from his face as he tilted his head.
“He’s going to do it. He’s really going to do it and I know he’s going to succeed,” Inkina closed her eyes tightly, “And I was one of the fools who helped him do it,”
“But we can get out of here. We can run far, far away where he’ll never find us!” Bablou promised hopefully, but she shook her head before he had even finished.
“It doesn’t matter where we go—not even if he finds us. What he’s planning is bigger than that. It’ll affect this entire island, and eventually, the world.”
--
Gosh, it's been too long since I posted a chapter, and it definitely ain't for lack of trying X"D I found this chapter one of the hardest to write, and probably cut the most stuff out and edited and edited it some more until I was somewhat satisfied. Also, I didn't realize how long it was until I checked the word count .. so at least I have a littttle excuse for it taking so darn long! Anyways, enjoy. c:
