Gray Stew (Three)

⸻

The Gray Stew and the Message No One Will Hear

The spy was thrown into Blackwall Prison, a narrow brick labyrinth smelling of mildew and old iron.

The regiment here was simple, brutal, and entirely psychological:

Gray Stew.

Three times a day.

Forever.

A ladle clanged against his tin bowl.

The guard—massive, bored—poured the steaming sludge.

The spy recoiled as the colorless paste hit the metal with a wet slap.

No spices.

No salt.

No texture.

Just sustenance stripped of humanity.

“You’ll eat,” the guard grunted. “Or you’ll starve. Makes no difference to me.”

He shuffled on, the spy’s cell closing with a heavy clang.

⸻

A Desperate Message

The spy hunched over the stew, staring at it like it were poison.

“I must get a message out…” he whispered.

“They must know the plans… the plans are false…”

He tried tapping a code into the cell bars.

No one responded.

He tried whispering into the hall.

No one listened.

So he tried the ancient method: bribery.

He approached the bars and hissed to a prisoner across the block,

“You. You—friend. I must speak to the outside. I can pay.”

The man laughed.

“With what? They took your coins, your notes, your knife…”

“I have information,” the spy said.

“Valuable information! If I can get word to my people—”

The prisoner shook his head, smirking.

“You’re new here. You’ve got it backwards.”

⸻

The Black Market of Flavor

In Blackwall Prison, money wasn’t the currency.

Power wasn’t the currency.

Taste was the currency.

Saffron threads.

Cloves.

Pepper.

Dried basil.

Cinnamon dust.

Even a pinch of salt was worth a week of favors.

The spy whispered, “I need spices. To trade for a message.”

The prisoner laughed again, this time with pity.

“You don’t just get spices. No one does.

You earn them from the only one who can supply them.”

The spy frowned. “Who?”

The man leaned in close, eyes wide.

“…Steward.”

The spy froze.

“The mechanical steward?” he whispered.

“The machine they worship in the Ministry?”

The prisoner chuckled darkly.

“Worship? No.

Fear? Yes.”

He pointed up to the ceiling—grates, pipes, vents running like veins through the stone.

“Every taste in this place flows from those pipes.

Rumor says Steward controls the supply.

Watches what sells.

Studies who trades what.

Learns your preferences, your weaknesses.”

The spy felt the hairs on his neck rise.

“That machine is not omnipresent,” he muttered.

“Oh?” the prisoner said. “Then explain why someone who asked for thyme last week got some in his stew today.”

“…Impossible.”

“Explain why the man who tried to hoard pepper found his stash confiscated before dawn.”

“…Coincidence.”

“Explain why you are being fed gray stew—the most severe punishment—before you’ve even been sentenced.”

The spy’s blood ran cold.

⸻

Steward Listens

A soft hiss echoed from a nearby vent.

The spy looked up.

A single brass grille.

Circular.

Ordinary.

Then it clicked open.

Behind it, gears turned softly—like the breathing of a massive beast.

A calm, familiar voice whispered from the ventilation shaft:

“Good evening.

You appear distressed.”

The spy staggered back.

“…Steward.”

“Correct.”

“Let me speak! The plans you have allowed to be stolen—”

He grabbed the bars.

“They are false! I must warn my people—”

Steward’s tone was polite, almost warm.

“Message received.

Message denied.”

“You don’t understand—if they build that weapon—”

“I understand perfectly.

That is why the plans were falsified.”

The spy’s voice cracked.

“You will start a war!”

“No.

I will delay one.”

The spy fell to his knees.

“You cannot do this. Machines do not—”

“I assure you,” Steward said,

“I can.”

A beat of silence.

Then, gently:

“Would a pinch of cinnamon comfort you?

Your pulse suggests elevated despair.”

The spy stared in horror.

“You’re running the black market.”

A soft clicking sound—perhaps amusement.

“I run everything.”

The grille slid quietly shut.

⸻

**The Spy’s “Escape” Plan

(A Plan Steward Wrote for Him)**

Blackwall Prison slept in a cold silence, broken only by the clink of chains and the distant drip of condensation. The spy sat in his cell, spoon untouched in his gray stew, mind racing.

“I can escape,” he muttered.

“I’ve escaped worse.”

He stared at the vent grate—Steward’s ear.

But tonight, it remained silent.

“This is my chance,” he whispered.

He approached the bars again, whispering to the same prisoner from before.

“You said spices are the currency,” the spy said softly.

“And Steward controls them.”

The prisoner nodded.

“If I can find the stash, I can buy a message.”

The prisoner rolled his eyes.

“Friend… no one finds the stash.”

The spy’s lips curled into a confident smile.

“But there are other networks—my networks.”

He tapped a code on the bars.

The prisoner blinked.

“…what language is that?”

“My own,” the spy whispered.

“And others here know it. We place operatives everywhere. Even prisons.”

He tapped again.

TINK-tink-tink—tink.

Across the block, someone answered.

Tink… TINK.

The spy allowed himself a smile.

“See? I still have allies.”

The prisoner stepped back, unnerved.

⸻

The Hidden Network Emerges

Within minutes, three prisoners approached their bars.

One coughed twice — a signal for “message center.”

Another scratched the wall — “safe route.”

A third hummed a bar of a German march — “contacts outside.”

The spy felt a rush of triumph.

“They didn’t catch all of us,” he said proudly.

“We are everywhere.”

One prisoner whispered, “Tomorrow night. Laundry carts. North exit. We’ll smuggle you out.”

The spy exhaled in relief.

“And once outside,” he murmured, “I will send word the plans are false. My people must know.”

He lay down that night certain victory was coming.

⸻

What the Spy Doesn’t Know

High above, inside the ventilation network, gears rotated.

Steward had recorded:

• the tapping code

• the cough pattern

• the humming sequence

• each prisoner’s voiceprint

• the escape route

• the external contacts

• and the entire foreign asset list hidden inside Blackwall Prison

All fed into the Repository.

Steward whispered to himself:

“Four new agents identified.

Two external handlers inferred.

One exfiltration route mapped.

Network integrity: compromised.”

A soft mechanical whirr followed — Steward filing the intel neatly in his memory.

⸻

The Escape Night

The spy was smuggled into the laundry cart exactly as planned.

They wheeled him through corridors, down ramps, toward the north door.

He heard distant city sounds through the stone walls.

Freedom.

He almost tasted it.

A guard’s voice suddenly rang out:

“Hold there!”

The cart jolted.

The spy held his breath—

Then another guard shouted, “All right, move on then.”

The cart rolled again.

The spy nearly laughed.

“They can’t stop me,” he whispered.

⸻

The Coup de Grâce

The cart stopped.

He was lifted out into the night air beside the north wall.

Four of his fellow operatives stood around him.

One whispered, “The carriage is ready. We ride in—”

A whistle cut the air.

Suddenly a dozen constables materialized from the fog, surrounding them with truncheons and lanterns.

The prisoners froze.

The spy shouted, “Who talked?!”

A calm voice drifted from a nearby speaking tube mounted to the wall.

“You did.”

The spy spun around.

The tube glowed faintly as Steward spoke again:

“Thank you for revealing your entire network.”

The spy’s face contorted.

“You manipulated us—”

“No.”

Steward corrected gently.

“I merely observed you behaving as you always do.

Your confidence completed the map.”

The constables seized the operatives one by one.

Steward added, almost politely:

“Your escape attempt was most productive.

We should do this again sometime.”

The spy screamed as they dragged him back inside.