Green Light

Processing room 7 was dank and dingy, illuminated poorly by a scattering of poxy lamps bolted to the dark metal walls. Five fidgeting bodies lined the benches at the edges of the shoebox room. Their forlorn faces made all the more sorrowful by the shadows cast over their features by the low light. Their sunken eyes flicked toward the door that dominated the north most wall of the chamber - not that one could tell north from south in the expansive labyrinth of the facility - as a mechanical whirring began to grind behind the solid vault-like entryway. Whirring that started low and distant but grew closer and closer, higher in pitch until it was accompanied by muffled begging and prayers to any or all of the Ghrymar people's many deities. Begging that became screaming, and screaming that was cut off abruptly by a jarring pneumatic thunk.

Above the door the red light turned green.

“Next.”

Gears clunked against one another as the door slid open revealing the tight stinking cavity beyond. Empty.

Closest to the gaping maw, on the left bench, sat a frail old man. His wrinkles, deep as the ravines of the Tartarus Basin, made it clear he was older than anyone he sat along-side, older than conflict itself. Silently he rose on brittle bones and entered the chamber all the while staring at the guard who stood by the cell door clad in the anonymity of the General's signature black armour. A vain attempt at defiance. His milky eyes lost what tiny dying spark they had left as the door started to close, creeping tauntingly slow before slamming and locking with a distinct bang.

The green light turned red.

All eyes in the room stayed downturned, focused on some inexplicably important spot in the centre of the filthy floor. Desperate to zone out distance wails, hollow thunks of flesh against metal and thumping footsteps drawing nearer.

“Lucky number seven!” Boomed a laugh from the doorway.

The speaker received no reply as he shuffled into the miserable room. His shackles were unlocked then clattered to the ground. They were useless here anyway.

He smiled, thanked the soldier who had escorted him and stepped further in as the door was closed behind.

A couple of sets of eyes lifted little more than a fraction to take the prisoner in.

He wasn't particularly tall, shaved head reaching no higher than the shoulder of a yearling runner, and not built in the way of any man who worked with metal or earth. His red beard had been twisted into decorative plaits by some unknown hand and his blue eyes twinkled with something so rare in this place it had all but been forgotten.

The guard shoved him roughly onto the right bench and he landed with a thud and a breathy chuckle.

“Best seat in the house.” He smiled, again. Beneath the onyx black helm the guard rolled their cybernetic eyes, and the prisoner smiled wider, almost as if he knew.

He looked from side to side, taking in each of the hopeless forms around him.

The figure to his right, he noticed, was rather more hunched than the rest. A distinct roundness to their quite broad shoulders. And calloused hands too, he realised as he observed how they were clasped in front of the man - perhaps in prayer.

“Let me guess...” He lightly nudged the praying man, drawing his gaze for no more than a few seconds. “... you're a miner at Lambda 3?” He earned himself a wary sidewards glance and after a few contemplative moments a hushed 'I was.'.

“Aha!” He exclaimed, sending a wave of flinches about the room. “I knew it! That restrium ore is back breaking to mine, no wonder you're all bent out of shape.”

The miner didn't respond, turning his gaze back to that ever illusive important something on the ground. But the prisoner was unperturbed.

“I could tell because my father worked in that mine, perhaps you met him. Then again perhaps you didn't, it's a huge place, no?” He didn't wait for the response that wasn't going to come. “His back was all rounded up too after years and years of using a pickaxe down in the tunnels. He worked in Theta 6 before, said the sparkrock was way more dangerous to mine but he'd of taken being blown up by it any day over another trip down into a restrium mine.”

Dazzling blue eyes pulled themselves from the man next to him over to the other side of the room where he caught a younger captive watching. A man that could've seen no more than six black-suns, at a guess, and who hadn't averted his gaze fast enough.

“What do we call you?” He boomed in an assertive jovial tone far larger than his frame.

“M-matthias.” the youngster stuttered, pushing himself further back on the bench to show the guard that was trying not to engage the disruptive man. The guard didn't care.

“Nice to meet you, Matthias, I'm Peodren.” He extended a large paw over to the young man who glanced around himself before accepting the bruising handshake that Peodren offered.

“Now you are definitely not a miner, not with soft hands like that.” Peodren roared, nudging the man to his right again, who huffed out the ghost of a laugh. “What do you do Matthias?”

He sat back and placed his hands on his knees, tanned skin peeking through the tears in his raggedy clothing and a wide grin set on his scuffed face.

“I was a stable boy, I'd just started when-”

“A stable boy? You'll lose those soft hands quick!” Peodren's deep laugh rumbled through his chest once more as he slapped one knee then pointed a finger straight at Matthias. “When I was young, younger than you maybe, I got caught by a yardhand trying to borrow one of Lady Arazmus' prize Boreas runners. I needed it because I had slept in late, missed the Broughswine Wagon from my village to the next town over. I was going to be late for a date, was even later when I got caught and had five lashings with a stirrup leather for my troubles.” His fingers travelled to a tan line on the middle finger of his right hand, rubbing absent mindedly. “She forgave me, Lady Arazmus didn't.”

A loud thunk drew his attention to the chamber door as it crept open.

“Next.”

One of their silent cage-mates rose to his feet and limped into the dark void.

“She was never the forgiving type.” Croaked the last to speak in the room – a pale sallow woman, bundled in many layers, who was quite distinctly missing an eyeball.

“Oh ho ho! You incurred the fine lady's wrath too?”

She smiled a crooked smile, many of her teeth also in absentia.

“Why do you think I'm missing this.” She gestured grandly to the pit on the left side of her face. “Stole a glance or two at her then paramour, she didn't take kindly to it.”

She joined Peodren in laughing, her shrill titter harmonising with his howling.

“Isold.” She reached her hand out to her bearded associate, he took it gently and pressed his lips to the top of it.

“A pleasure, Isold.” Peodren beamed, ever grinning, ear to cauliflowered ear.

He sat back and nudged the miner again but received no response. The hunched man was too preoccupied with what he could hear from his position, now the closest to the door.

Down the hallway more footsteps were approaching, reverberating through the vast expanses of iron and rock that made up the General's prized knacker's yard.

Peodren heard them coming, and caught Isold's eye again.

“She'd of eaten Matt alive, don't you think.” She guffawed while Matthias made a pitiful collection of distressed and embarrassed sounds. Isold reached a hand over and patted his shoulder gently.

“If you were her stable boy, most certainly.”

Matthias flushed a terrible red scrambling for words that just wouldn't come.

The guard spared him, as the cell door swung open once more and young lady was lead into the room, her skin dark and her eyes a mystifying amber. She glanced around pondering which pair to make a trio, making her mind up to delicately slide herself next to Isold when Peodran gave her a wave with the full length of his arm and an open mouthed smile.

“Don't worry dear,” Isold comforted, as much comfort as she could grant a scared girl with no teeth and only one eye. “What is your name?”

The newcomer looked from character to character: the bold, the kind, the shy and the downtrodden – and with a soft accent from the Western Lands far beyond the war-torn Omen's Vale whispered back,

“Kaimei.”

“What do you do for a living?” Matthias asked shyly, the red flush in his cheeks made even deeper by the entirely conspicuous thumbs up Peodren gave him.

Kaimei eyed her collection of cellmates carefully, convinced the absence of food and sunlight had long since driven them mad.

“Handmaiden.” She answered shortly.

“A Western beauty like you, we should have guessed.” Cooed Isold, “And who has the pleasure of your company?”

“It used to be Helene, wife of Colonel Gerges.” She huffed, “But I was caught giving her leftovers to some urchins and now, I guess you have the pleasure.” She was smooth and effortlessly charming, raising a chorus of laughs around the cell.

“Gerges...now there's a name from the start of the troubles.” Peodren muttered, his tone strained yet still chipper.

“Next.”

All heads in the room turned to the guard, then back to the chamber door which fully slid open.

“Next.” The guard repeated, hand moving to the truncheon on their waist.

The miner stood, it was his turn after all, and made his way to the last threshold he'd cross. But before he stepped inside he looked over his shoulder “My wife is from the West. She would sing in the old tongue while she did the house work, I never did learn what it meant.” A mournful smile spread over his dry lips before he entered the room – not turning back to face the rest, he began to hum a broken facsimile of a song marred by hidden falling tears.

“See you soon my friend.” Peodren whispered as the red light shone above them.

“Ormadra Svist.” Kaimei explained, “It's a lullaby from my homeland.”

The idle chatter bounced freely back and forth, for in this cell the imprisoned would not be the silent shuffling and sorrowful. The guard, who had sat silent and stalwart throughout the entire exchange was almost disappointed when the alert came through that no more prisoners were to be processed today. These were the last four.

At the end of the room the light turned green once again, and Matthias rose shakily to his feet – only to be shoved down firmly by Peodren.

“Well, my time to go.” He grinned at his companions, cutting across whatever grievance the boy was about to air. “It's been a real pleasure, may the skies be clear-”

“-and the waters be kind.” Isold finished, softly.

Heavy boots clanged against the metal floor as he made his way in to the chamber.

“Hey Kaimei, how does that song go again?”

She cleared her throat and began to sing, a sound that resonated so warmly and perfectly from the awful metal walls it would make even the god's weep. As the metal door slid shut, and locked, the melody still reached Peodren's ears – and oh how he strained to hear it as a single tear slid down his face...

and outside the green light turned red.