Kyrn is a land not for the faint of heart, mostly because those with heart faint.
It is a land of cesspools of geography and people, but these cesspools, both, are over watched by official guards and troops.
Kyrn is a dead, acidic rock floating in space. It is surrounded by more dead space and dead rocks that one could call asteroids, and acts as a prison for the worst of the worst of this current reality.
The guards were making their usual rounds of the pits: giant seemingly endless holes in the ground with prison cells carved into the walls, makeshift ledges being the walkways for each level. The only way to another level would be the renovated mine shaft elevator that takes a guard key to operate.
They passed by the only occupied cell on the lowest level. The hole went deeper, but no amount of money would get other levels built due to superstition that these pits led to something like Hell.
The prisoner inside the cell knew this untrue. He had been to hell before. He had to admit, honestly not the worst of places to be.
One of the guards, the more official looking of the two, rattled his baton against the bars of the cell. "Rise and shine sweetheart. Time for transport." He smiled as he unlocked the cell. His attendant, a seemingly new recruit to the guard force, seemed already nervous to be helping transport such an apparently dangerous person from the lower levels, but also unnerved that this prisoner never seemed to sleep.
The official-er one turned to his recruit. "Now we ask them some basic questions to make sure that they weren't brain damaged by some mafia keeping them silent or they didn't replace themselves during the night or something." He stepped aside as the prisoner calmly stepped forward, staying in the doorway of the cell.
"Name?"
The prisoner stated at him from behind shades goggles. His entire body hidden in rags and coats and gloves. If this were Earth you'd describe him as probably a really cold skier.
He did not answer.
"Crimes and wrongdoings?"
The prisoner continued to stare intensely. The official never looked up from his pad but the new recruit made the mistake of creating eye contact with the prisoner. He suddenly felt as if his very soul was being searched, the warmth of life and the extreme toxic heat of the place vanished in an instant and replaced by an ever present, ever growing cold. Everything was growing darker and all he could see was the prisoners gaze drilling into his very being, tormenting his existence to the point o-
"Well, that's good enough. Come on." The official walked between the two, breaking the eye contact and escorting the prisoner towards the elevator. The recruit nearly crumpled to the floor, taking deep breaths and shaking madly. He popped a few pills and ran to catch up.
The two guards stood in front of the prisoner. The recruit leaned towards the official. "If those questions were to help establish identity, why are we taking him with if he never answered? "
The guard turned and smiled "He never talks. His silence is proof of identity. And I take from your glazed eyes you had to take some calmers? Did you make eye contact?"
The recruit looked away towards the floor. "Yes sir."
"Then you know he's the real deal."
The official sounded less like he was giving his recruit grief and more as if he was just as scared as he was.
It was not that the prisoner couldn't talk. It was just he had secrets that no one should know. And he had learned that the hard way.
Transport wasn't much a fun trip or just a little ride from one to another place. It was mainly for criminals who's justice is reserved for the culture they had offended. If someone insulted a king of one planet, then that king can reserve the dispensement of justice over that criminal. Upon capture, the criminal's record and bio is searched to see if any such reservations had been made. Then the first civilization to speak up and take claim, if there are multiple reservations (rare), will then have the criminal transported to them.
This prisoner had a reservation from one hundred and fifty sovereign worlds, twenty different monarchies, and several types of tribal systems.
The system that claimed their right to dispensing justice on the prisoner was that of Kavron. An old timely kingship that most other planets allowed to live because of their incredible marketing skills and craftsmanship of gold.
To Kavronites, gold was that of a god, a highly respected material thought to contain heavenly powers.
The prisoner was wanted for having not only destroyed several of their statues, but nearly inciting a civil war by having two nobles blame each other for the vandalism.
Most prisoners are dragged about and thrown by guards who are "escorting" them. This one was kindly asked to step off the elevator.
Although the two guards lead the way it was difficult for onlookers to tell who was really in charge of the procession, debating between formal outfit or the eerie calmness of the prisoner as he strode forth.
They loaded him onto the transport ship as the transit officer halted them for authentication. "Name of prisoner?" he sighed in a bored tone.
"He's never spoke it sir, but he's referred to as Mavic. " replied the official.
The transit officer looked up from his pad. "If he's never spoke then how does anyone know his name?"
Mavic was sitting, in mortal handcuffs, between the official and the recruit as the transit officer took shotgun on the transport. They were off to Kavron. Not that Mavic minded he was headed towards what everyone believed to be his execution. The kind had his stuff. And he wanted it back.
