Turning the Cards of Fate

Chapter 11

It was funny, in a way, how things could go from being calm and quiet to so chaotic in just moments. One second, Trish was smiling, Ulric was relaxing a bit, Zephira was telling them a story about Sector Z before it had become the place it was today, and he was trying not to fall asleep.

The next moment, they were fighting for their lives. Bullets rained down from every direction. He yanked Zephira under him, using his body as a shield for her, and next to him, Ulric had done the same for Trish.

He could barely hear Trish whimpering under the beating of his own heart. He cursed himself as bullet after bullet broke through their bubble. His body jerked with every hit, and he had a feeling that he wasn't going to be able to move without pain for a long time. He reached for the emergency hatch, and yanked it. Trish and Ulric fell first, as they were over it.

He pushed Zephira out after them, and once he was sure they were out of the carriage, he glanced around. He didn't go out after them. He couldn't. He dropped a Iron shield from his pocket, over them, pushing the button to make it come to life. They would be safe for a few minutes. It could block several dozen hits, but it wasn't impossible to break. That was alright though, he didn't need it to. He reached up and started the carriage again, letting it move, and with it, himself.

They did as he hoped and followed him with their fire. He counted to ten, before he took out one of the several dozen explosives he had on his person, and threw it up. He slid out of the hatch before it closed. The explosion rocked the carriage, and he covered the back of his head with his arms.

Heat bit his skin, metal shredded his back, and then nothing.

He woke up. Somehow, someway, he did. It shouldn't have been possible. He had known he was going to die from the moment he decided to save the other three. He had hoped that the explosion would take out most of the people shooting at them, giving the other three at least a fighting chance.

A steady set of beeps pulled him from his mind, and he jerked. His eyes bolted open, and his body sat up, or at least, it tried to. He was stuck to a table again.

But this one wasn't metal, no this one was much more familiar. This one was made of splintering wood that pierced into his shredded back. Shackles around his hands and ankles made panic rise from his stomach.

Had it all been a dream? Had he never left the punishment room? Had he never actually met Vladislav or Vilmos or Osred or Zephira? Had they all been a part of his mind? A trick of his psyche?

He jerked his head back, and felt the scar on his neck pull. He sighed, almost in relief at the familiar discomfort. Minds could lie, but scars couldn't. Which begged the question, what was he doing here? Where was here?

Somewhere in his mind, he knew exactly where he was, but he refused to believe it. He couldn't have been back in Vilmos, could he ? The last time he had been awake, he had been about to cross into Sector T's land.

There was no way that he was unconscious for that long, right? Then again, his back was already scabbing, so he had clearly been out for a while. It had been sewn up, but not bandaged, just like always.

They had never bothered wasting bandages on people like him.

No, don't think like that, he tried to tell himself. It couldn't possibly be true. How could it be?

The only way he could be brought back to Valos was by order of whoever the Councilman was. Seeing as the boy who was supposed to take up the mantle was no more than 10, Vilmos had kept the position safe for the boy for a few years.