We Hope Your Rules And Wisdom Choke You

Chapter 23: And you can laugh

The reflection staring back at him didn't look like his own.

Sure, his gi was that same shade of green that was bestowed upon him all those years ago, and even despite the lack of armour and wrapping and shoes, it still resembled the green ninja. But his face- sunken with exhaustion and pale from seclusion, hair undone and long overdue a haircut, much less a wash- he was looking at another person.

He'd long since patted himself down, searching for the many concealed weapons on his person- shuriken, sai, tantō, kunai, anything sharp enough to dig away at the glass- but he had no such luck. Whoever had stripped him of his armour had knowledge of every single place a weapon could be hidden- and he had a short idea who.

He turns his back to the curved reflection of a stranger, hitting his back against the glass and sliding down. His dried blood had long since flaked off by now, partially because of his half-baked attempts at breaking the glass, partially because of how often he would mop it with his back when he slid down it.

Stubby nails picked at his sleeves. They'd stopped growing a long time ago, as short as when he'd last cut them months prior. While it was nice not having to worry, he missed being able to scratch.

Fingertips rolled the fabric against his thumb. It wasn't soft, like many would believe. It was thick, and dried like cardboard, but that was due to the graphene that laced the gi. It made the material durable, less frail than cotton and linen, chiffon and silk. His magnesium-plated armour was infused with graphene as well. It was an impressive feat, done by Pixal herself. To create an armour that was lightweight and manoeuvrable, yet string enough to block bullets from an arms length- its an engineering marvel. Not that he would know: Engineering never was, and never would be his thing.

He wished he had his armour with him. If he did, he could use it to bash his skull in and put himself out of his misery. Jokes! He'd use it to break the glass; He wasn't to the point of suicide just yet.

He'd think about anything to entertain himself.

He's plunged into silence, and darkness, all at once. For a moment, he panics, thinking did I just die? But the glass is still cool against his shoulder-blades, and he clings to the feeling.

What just happened? The graining hum of the lazers had stopped, along with the lazers themselves and the light above his head. His senses are deprived, and all too quickly he's aware of every creak in the walls, every hair on his head, every inch of fabric against his figure. It was almost shocking how quiet it was, and it stung as a bitter reminder that he was alone in his head again, even if he'd long realised he always had been.

The silence grows too deafening, so Lloyd stands up, purposely scuffing his feet against the hard ground as much as possible, if not for the stimulation then for the noise. Right as he turns to face were the lasers once buzzed, he hears a CHICK CLANK, and a large slit of blinding white light appears from between the doors as they slowly open. From behind the slit, a silhouetted figure lurks, shadowy arm slung harshly over the throat of another. Once the gates are open enough, the bridge begins to impatiently veer over the void, quicker than he'd ever seen it.

It connects to the cell with a thud that reverberates through his ribs. They may be his heart, though, when he sees the face of the figure finally through his blinded eyes.

Garmadon.

He shoved the other man away- a guard- a captive, leverage, he realises- and he tumbles to the ground, scurrying away with desperately flailing limbs and short, quick screams of terror.

Lloyd frowns as his father paces over the bridge. Footsteps thundering, he barely has time to question things before his father is just feet away from him, reaching into a nook between his belt and robes and yanking out a small metal thing.