Tiny - Tomatt

Wrong

Heya, my lovely readers! Here's a shorter and... different... chapter for you all, I hope you can still enjoy it however! And thank you all for not quitting on me when I had that hiatus! All the support I've gained for this means so much to me and I want to thank all of you individually!

He paced tiredly up and down the hallway of the base, expression dull, lifeless. Empty. He watched the ground, watched his shoes step straight forward. Listened to the downpour that apparently was loud enough to be heard through the ground. His hands were clasped behind his back. His real hand stung at the cold metal of the robotic one.

He'd been sulking for the past two days after the prisoners escaped. Actually, not sulking. More like despondent. He'd barely fed himself. His henchmen had forced him to eat, having sat him down and fed the sullen man soup as if he were sick in bed with a cold.

His two most loyal soldiers were on edge because of their boss's new demeanor. They never saw him like this, especially not when their prisoners escaped. Mostly because they never did. But they would've expected him to be consumed in a burning rage and mercilessly pursue them. However, after the two had fled the base, he hadn't done anything. He had been frozen. His soldiers looked at him, waiting for an order, but he just stood there. Unmoving.
Silent.

His henchment would meet in corners and deliberate with hushed voices about how they could possibly help the man. Paul suggested that they could go out and retrieve them themselves, but Patryck disregarded the idea, as that may make Tord angry.

Occasionally when he was alone, the Red Leader would have fits of anger and hatred. But they weren't at the prisoners. They were at everything in general, including himself. Especially himself. He would kick the wall as hard as he could with pent up rage or pick up some of the robotics he built and simply smash them on the floor. When he was done, he would sit down and stare blankly at the floor as the soldiers hurried in to comfort him and clean up the mess.

Eventually Tord stopped doing anything anymore. All he did was pace around the base, silent, contemplative. Dull, lifeless, quiet. He didn't give orders anymore. He didn't plan for future attacks like he always did. He didn't work on his gadgets and inventions in the room made for them.

Many of his workers wanted to go home and quit his army because they believed since he was out of it, it was basically over. However, Paul and Patryck took charge in his place and didn't let a single disloyal person leave, instead threatening to punish them if they did, just like Tord would have.

Tord stopped next to the storage room as he paced down the hallway. It's still there, isn't it. After a long moment of hesitation, he turned and opened the door, stepping inside. It fell closed behind him.

The room was lined with tall rows of shelves with boxes of all sizes containing many stolen assets obtained from the Red Army's ventures. Each one was decorated with that blood red, horned symbol that Tord had designed himself. The rows of shelves were close together, making for cramped aisles that led to the back of the room. The room was unlit and dim, only slightly illuminated by the light that seeped under the doorway and the blue center of Tord's robotic palm. The sound of the rain and low, rumbling thunder from outside was more muffled in the room.

At a snail's pace, he wearily made his way to the side and down the wider end aisle, his shoes tapping along the tile flooring. He made his way to the back, past the row of the largest boxes next to him, each one about the size of a sofa. He reached the back of the room and came to a heavy steel door.

Tord reached down for his belt and unclipped the master keyring. It held a copy of every key that opened every door, box or cell in the base, so it was reasonably large and heavy. He flipped through the keys until he found the one with the engraving that matched the numbers on the door and unlocked it.