The world came back to her in a haze. It was dark. Cold. The ground beneath her was solid: concrete, or stone. It didn't matter. Mariana rolled onto her side, head still spinning, pounding. She tried to lift her hand to soothe it, but her arms were pinned. Her wrists were bound tightly behind her back. She jerked against the tape to no avail, then tried to scream, and noticed, to her horror, that she had no mouth.
No... no, that's not right. She shook her head, the world swirled with it. Gagged. I've been gagged. The layers of duct tape pinched at her skin every time she moved her mouth.
Mariana struggled upright, forcing her eyes to focus. Her gaze trailed to the light hanging above two figures sitting at a table. Muffled voices. People talking, but she couldn't make out the words. A girl crying. Her own heartbeat thudding against the throbbing in her skull.
What... what happened? A concussion, she surmised.
She wriggled her back against the wall to sit straighter, eyes wandering the scene as memory tried to claw back. To her left, four more people. Prisoners. Hands bound, mouths taped shut. Their clothes black and tattered: spikes, leather, neon green and red. One girl in fishnets and a skirt, black makeup smeared into the tears trailing down her cheeks. Mariana's eyes brightened with recognition.
The concert. Blacklight.
One prisoner was huddled in on himself, a wound across his stomach still oozing, painting the white logo of Plastic Saints a dark, wet red. The other two seemed resigned: one slumped against the wall, one sagged against the metal bars of the cage. Both heads hung low. The closer one's greasy green hair hid his features, but not the silent tears dripping from his chin. Too cold to be sweat.
Her eyes drifted to their captors. One was cooking. The smell hit her first: like braised beef or lamb, rich with fat. Her mouth watered. Hunger clawed at her. Then the metallic reek of blood smothered it.
She heard it next; the sickening grind of a bone saw. When she looked, her mouth went dry. Her stomach lurched.
The third captor worked on a naked corpse, hung upside down like a slaughtered pig. Muscle peeled away from the arm, exposing wet bone. The chest cavity was split open, its contents collected in a trough. Black blood pooled on the ground from the slit throat, too congealed to drain properly. The skin was white as snow, except for the face, where blood had stained. The eyes were open. Staring at her: glassy, afraid.
Her own eye twitched, then darted to the floor. The saw finished its cut at the shoulder, and she heard the arm land in the trough with a wet thud.
Blue eyes. Her body shook and she curled her knees up to her chest as though they might protect her. I'm going to die. I'm going to fucking die!
It all flooded back at once: her heart hammering, palms slick with sweat, vision blurred with tears. The concert. The Scarred Man. The Fiends. Their profanities shimmering like a mirage; ethereal, beautiful, alien. The thunder of gunfire. The deafening ring that followed.
"You about finished over there?" The Chef called. Panic surged through her before she realized it wasn't directed at her.
"Dinner's ready. You eatin' or what?"
Mariana pressed her back against the cage, forcing her breath slow. The reek of iron and fat clung to her nose. She followed the Fiends' voices, but her eyes locked on the table: a ring of keys, wallets, a purse dumped empty on the floor. Her jacket draped over a chair. Her heart skipped.
My jacket. Phone... please still be there.
"I've been snacking," the Butcher grumbled. "Besides, can't have him spoiling on us. He's gotta last a while, and we ain't got a fridge big enough for the useless bits." He slapped another slab of flesh on a block and began slicing it into portions.
Mariana turned toward the source of the sobs: the crying girl beside her, bound and trembling. Her muffled whimpers cut through the Fiends' laughter.
"It's gonna get cold, then you'll be bitching the rest of the night."
"Are you my wife now?" The Butcher smiled eerily. "Besides, I ain't no stranger to raw meat."
The crying girl's eyes flicked to Mariana, desperate, unfocused. Mariana gave her a sharp, deliberate nod, then twisted her body and thrashed her shoulders, showing the tape binding her wrists behind her back. Pay attention. Help me.
"Leave him be, Russ. The man's got work to do," the third Fiend said, spearing a hunk of meat from the pan and sliding it onto his plate.
Russ sat across from him, grease dripping down his chin. "So," he chewed, "what are we doing with them?"
The Boss chuckled. "Oh, so I'm the boss now?"
Russ shrugged. "Looks that way. Certainly ain't Mack over there."
"Fuck off," Mack muttered, starting on the other arm.
Mariana's eyes stayed fixed on the jacket. The girl whimpered again. Mariana leaned into her, shoulder to shoulder, forcing her to focus.
"Someone's coming by to assess the damage," the Boss said, skewering another strip of meat. "That one's spoken for." He motioned toward the butchered corpse. "Maybe we could sell some of the meat, but Mack's right; we're gonna need it. Won't be able to show our faces topside until this blows over. I figure we can sell those three for spare parts. Livers are pricey these days, lungs too. Enough cash to start fresh somewhere else. I'm thinking we might get more out of the girls if we can set something up with the Menagerie. Troy had a few contacts."
Menagerie...? The word crawled down Mariana's spine.
Russ shook his head, gnawing on gristle. "I told you we should've gone straight to Troy's house and ransacked the place as soon as the club got hit. He had tons of cash lying around, not to mention what was in the freezer and the cellar. We could've slit their throats and been on the road a day ago."
"Word is they hit his place at the same time," the Boss sighed. "Inq's caught us with our pants down. Big time. Never seen anything like it: an Inq comes in the morning looking for a missing girl, comes back the same night and dusts him. Ends the whole fucking operation. Eight years gone overnight, Russ. Over-fucking-night."
"Probably sniffing us out for months," Russ muttered. "They don't usually go off their gut anymore."
"Or someone squealed," Mack offered.
"Could be." The Boss nodded. "He had a few Inq's paid out too. Could be the money wasn't enough anymore. Or someone had a quota to fill."
"You think something's fishy?"
"I don't know. I was sketched out by the guy. So was Becca. We both told Troy to think about closing up shop; at least clean out the basement and scrub some files. He thought we had more time. A week, at least, before we had to be worried. Money usually smooths things over."
"Money," Russ snorted, wiping grease on his sleeve. "Meanwhile we're broke. He's paying their kids' tuition, and I haven't had a raise in five years."
"I guess it was only a matter of time," the Boss said grimly.
Russ raised a dark red glass. "I suppose we should toast the sorry bastard, no?"
The Boss smiled faintly. "Not quite blood-wine yet, but it'll do." He raised his own glass, half full. "Go on, then."
"To our dear old boss Mr. Martin," Russ bellowed, "cheapest bastard in the dustbin!"
"Cheapest bastard in the dustbin," the Boss echoed.
The laughter rose. Another slab of meat slapped onto the butcher's block.
The girl finally moved. They shifted awkwardly until they sat back-to-back, shoulders pressing together. Mariana felt her fumbling fingers creep down, clawing at the tape around her wrists. She dug in, tried to peel it, but the adhesive held fast. Her nails scraped uselessly against it. Mariana's pulse pounded. Yes. Just do it. Hurry. But the girl's trembling hands slipped away. Come on, fuck!
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three hard blows landed on the metal door in quick succession, stealing the attention of even the dejected prisoners wallowing in the misery of their circumstances. The girl's hand fell, and Mariana's head snapped toward the sound. For a moment her heart swelled with hope.
Rescue!? The thought was thrashed almost as fast as it came.
"Let 'em in, will you?" the Boss ordered.
Russ tore a chunk of flesh and washed it down with another swig of blood. "Your legs broken all of a sudden?"
The Boss chuckled. "I'm in charge, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah," Russ sighed, licking his fingers as he stood and made his way to the door. "Can you believe this guy, Mack?"
Mack replied with a grunt.
The door groaned open, revealing two masked men, tall and broad-chested, wearing suits that seemed a little too small. One wore an ornate moon, craters inlaid with silver. The other a sun with four points of blazing light.
"I... uh..." Russ stammered, looking up at them, then back at his boss, who gave him a nod. "Come on in."
They stepped inside, filling the room with cold silence. Their masks scanned the space up and down as Russ stood awkwardly in front of them. Tactically. Robotically.
Then the Moon spoke. "Clear."
In walked a slim figure in a satin red suit, black dress shirt beneath, tie the colour of an oil slick. The mask was shaped like a cardinal's face, lacquered in deep crimson with streaks of black feathering across the cheeks. Its long beak curved downward in a sharp point, polished to a faint sheen that caught the bulb's weak light. Even with its exaggerated plume, he still stood a head shorter than his guards.
"Welcome," Russ offered weakly, extending a hand. "Make yourselves comfortable."
The Cardinal looked down at the outstretched hand and walked past without a word, hands clasped behind his back like a detective. He strolled leisurely toward the cage, taking his time to look over each of the captives. His dress shoes clicked with each step, the sharp sound cutting against the butcher's ceaseless sawing.
Mariana held his gaze as he drew close. The mask lingered on her, tilting. His hand darted suddenly and she flinched, while the girl beside her buried her face in her shoulder, whimpering into the fabric. Mariana tried to shake her off with a sharp jerk of her elbow, but the girl clung tighter. Cardinal gave a small wave, like a child greeting an animal at the zoo. It made her teeth grind together.
He clicked toward the Butcher, who barely paid him any mind, giving a curt nod before wiping his hands of gore and returning to work. Then he drifted toward the table, stepping behind the Boss, who followed him with wary eyes. Cardinal continued to wander, poking idly at a slab of meat on the cutting board.
"Is, uh..." The Boss coughed. "Is everything... alright?"
The Cardinal leaned on the counter. His voice came at last, soft but certain. "So it's true. The Jailer is dead."
The Boss opened his mouth, but Russ jumped in. "We sure as shit aren't hiding him down here, if that's what you're looking for."
Cardinal's mask flicked toward Russ, silent and sharp.
"Inq raid," the Boss cut in quickly. "Things went south fast. Morning they came sniffing. By nightfall they were back with an army. Hundred Ops, at least."
"Curious." Cardinal paced slowly around the table. "I always knew the Jailer to be a cautious man."
"Rumor is he had a couple Inq's paid off," Russ offered. "Maybe one of them flipped, or-."
"Excuse me. Who am I speaking to?" Cardinal cut him off. His gaze lingered on Russ, then turned to the Boss. "You? Or you?"
The Boss scratched at the back of his head. "I suppose that's me."
Cardinal lifted a finger to his beak and shushed Russ without a word. Russ crossed his arms and looked away.
"Now then," Cardinal sat down, voice low. "You asked for the Baron's assistance, and he sent me to inquire about your current... situation. It strikes him as highly irregular."
"Well... yeah, but-."
"Highly respected Seat holder runs his operations unimpeded for eight years. It all comes crashing down in one night. No evidence gathered. Not even a cursory investigation?"
"Troy paid the guy off, he thought-"
"The Jailer," Cardinal corrected.
"Come on," the Boss chuckled. "The guy's dead, we can't drop the whole...?"
"Do you know who's listening?"
The Boss froze, glancing around the room. "...No?"
"Neither do I. That's why we're careful about these things." Cardinal's voice sharpened. "Perhaps if you'd been more careful, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Now; would you like to know what I think about this mess?"
The Boss sighed. "I guess so."
"No evidence. No delay. They knew exactly where to strike. Which tells me one thing: there's a traitor among us."
The Boss barked a laugh. Cardinal didn't move.
"You can't be serious."
"Deadly."
"You think we ratted him out?"
"I think someone did."
The Fiends' voices rose, snapping over each other. The girl beside Mariana flinched, then broke into fresh sobs, clutching at her arm. Too loud. Mariana shot her a hard look, but that only made her curl up smaller and hold tighter. Reluctantly, she pressed her shoulder against the girl's until the noise dulled to a whimper.
"Then..." The Boss rubbed his temple. "Like Russ was saying, it was probably one of the other Inq's he had paid off."
"The Baron was never made aware of that dangerous habit," Cardinal whispered. "That would constitute fraternization, would it not?"
"Well... it's a bit late to punish him for it now, isn't it?"
Cardinal leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. His stare was fixed and unblinking.
"What was he supposed to do, jump ship every time an Inq sniffed around?"
"Yes."
"It's bad business."
A breathy laugh escaped the mask. "And this isn't?"
The Boss leaned forward, frustration mounting. "Look, I'm not the brightest bulb in the box. But if I'd planned to take out the Jailer, you think I'd have chosen this exit strategy? Getting shot fifty times in the ass, losing my house, my whole fucking life, and ending up rotting in this basement with my face plastered on every bus stop and liquor store from here to San Diego? Come on. If we sold him out, why the fuck would we still be here to face the music?"
Cardinal tilted his beak toward the ceiling, silent for a long moment.
"It was the Inq's he had on payroll. Plain and simple."
His gaze slid back down. "Do you know which agents in particular? Loose ends must be tied. Leaks plugged."
The Boss shook his head. "I saw a couple of 'em around. Could point them out if they were standing in front of me, but I don't know names. Troy handled all that himself."
Cardinal's eyes narrowed behind the mask. "And the ones who led the raid? Same men?"
The Boss leaned back, shaking his head. "No. Different guy at the front. Face was a mess—scar carved all the way down, like someone tried to split his head in half. Ugly bastard. Couldn't forget him if I wanted to."
Mariana's chest tightened. She remembered that face in a flash of muzzle fire, barking orders as bullets tore through bodies. He hadn't stopped when the Fiends dragged them out as shields. Her eyes drifted to the hanging corpse. Maybe that would've been kinder. The thought weighed heavy.
Cardinal stilled. Then, slowly: "Ahh. Now that paints a clearer picture..." His voice softened, almost reflective.
"You know him?" the Boss asked.
"Unfortunately. He's always been a nuisance. Becoming more of a problem these days." Cardinal's gaze drifted upward, thoughtful. Then a long, drawn-out sigh. "Bad luck. Bad luck indeed. We really ought to do something about him soon..."
The room went quiet, save for the butcher's saw chewing steadily through bone.
"So... are we good?" the Boss asked.
Cardinal blinked, as if returning from a private calculation. "Hm? Oh. Yes. Yes. I believe that bit of business is concluded."
The Boss rubbed his hands together. "Good. Now, I was hoping I could ask for a favor."
"Oh? And what might that be?"
"We've gotta skip town, at least until things settle down. We were hoping to sell off some of this dead weight." He motioned toward the cage. "We just need someone to set up the meetings, that's all."
Cardinal glanced at the captives, then leaned in, mask tilting. "Mm... if you don't plan on staying, how do you intend to repay this favor?"
"Wherever we land, we'll serve as the Baron's eyes and ears," the Boss snapped back immediately.
"Interesting." Cardinal tapped a finger against his beak. "In that case, I can do better. I'll take them off your hands tonight. Wholesale prices, of course. Call it five a head."
The Boss shook his head. "Ten at least."
An amused chuckle escaped the mask. "It's a buyers market, friend, and you're in no position to haggle. I won't go higher than five. But I can get the ball rolling on documents for you. Transportation as well. The Baron would be happy to facilitate it."
The Boss looked to Russ, then nodded. "That's... fair."
"Delightful. Twenty-five in total, then." Cardinal outstretched his hand.
"Fifteen. Just the men. The girls are worth more to Menagerie."
"Menagerie, eh?" Cardinal mused. "Then I suppose you'd want me to set up a meeting with them?"
"That was the plan."
"If that's the case, I'll want a cut. Call it twenty percent."
The Boss bristled. "That's robbery."
"The Baron needs his cut as well."
The Boss muttered under his breath, then gave a stiff nod.
Cardinal clapped his hands together once, sharp and final. "Good. Then we are agreed. Take the men."
The key turned. Metal shrieked. The three captives screamed before a hand even touched them, voices breaking into muffled animal noises through the tape. One kicked until his feet slipped out from under him, dragged across the floor leaving streaks of piss. Another tried to beg, words choking behind the gag until his jaw worked uselessly like a fish on a hook. The last said nothing—eyes hollow, body limp, dead weight in the guards' arms.
Their terror rattled through the cage, every sound amplified in the silence between heartbeats. Mariana dug her nails into her palms, the gag sealing her own cry in her throat.
Cardinal lingered by the bars, gaze settling on her. The mask tilted. "I think Red here will need to be broken in before Menagerie has any interest in her."
Mariana's stomach turned to ice. The girl beside her whimpered, then shoved herself sideways, pressing Mariana between them like a shield. Her shoulder slammed into the bars. For a moment she couldn't breathe.
I can't rely on her. Not for anything. The thought blazed, hot and bitter.
Cardinal laughed softly at the display, then turned away. "Now, let us discuss the finer details," he said, beckoning the Boss.
They followed Cardinal out, voices fading up the stairwell. The heavy door closed with a hollow boom, leaving Russ and Mack in the stale light of the bulb.
Russ spat into the trough. "Masquerade freaks. Think they're better than us, walking around like they own the place."
"Shut the fuck up," Mack growled. He cracked the fridge, stacking parcels of flesh inside. Then he cut down what was left of the skeleton, bone clattering into the bin like trash. "Help me pack the meat."
Mariana sat with her back against the wall. The light buzzed. Time dragged. The girl cried into her shoulder.
She looked toward her jacket, draped over the chair. Not far from it sat Mack, feet propped on the table, nodding off from a hard day's work. The door; so close, but impossibly far. Her eyes shifted to Russ, sprawled on makeshift bedding in the far corner, arm over his eyes, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. One down. One more nearly there...
Her aching head buzzed as she took inventory of the situation.
They need us alive. That's clear. If we try to escape, they probably won't kill us. Even if they do, that doesn't seem like the worst outcome...
She closed her eyes against the cold wall. We could try in transit, but this crew is probably nowhere near as coordinated as the Mask's. Could try at 'Menagerie', but that's likely worse; more Fiends, more control, and God knows what else... A shiver crawled down her spine. She shook it off.
Too many unknowns. Too many ifs. All the knowns are here, in this room. If we can't escape now, we won't escape at all.
She swallowed, looking at the crying girl slumped asleep against her shoulder. Dead weight. Then her eyes caught the bobby pins holding the girl's hair in a stylized frenzy. Something metallic winked in the weak light, a safety pin, clasped at the hem of her skirt.
Rake and hook. Her pulse jumped in her throat.
Snoring drifted from the oaf at the table. If she could've smiled, she would have. Now. It has to be now.
Mariana jostled her shoulder. The girl only leaned harder, as though she were a pillow. She shoved harder, putting weight behind it. The girl stirred, eyes groggy, then stricken with terror. Before she could make a sound, Mariana pressed against her, pinning her in the corner against the bars.
She thrashed her bound arms, signaling: get to work. The girl shook her head, pressing deeper into the corner as though Mariana were the monster.
Useless sack of shit... Mariana's glare burned into her, until she noticed the edge of tape around the girl's wrists peeling loose. All that cowering must've loosened it.
Mariana turned her back and worked her fingers against the edge. The girl jerked, twisting away, a muffled whimper rising behind the gag. Mariana slammed her shoulder into hers, holding her firm against the bars.
Stop fucking fighting me. I'm trying to save you too.
The girl froze, trembling. Mariana hooked the tape and ripped it down, layer after layer, until the girl's wrists came free. The moment her hands were loose, she curled them tight to her chest like a child.
Mariana shoved her shoulder again. The message was clear: your turn.
With visible reluctance, the girl reached back. Her nails picked clumsily at the tape binding Mariana's wrists until at last it tore loose. The pressure eased. Mariana yanked her arms forward with a groan of relief. She clawed at her face, peeling the gag strip by strip until her mouth was raw but free.
Mariana caught the girl's wrists and tore the last of the tape away. The girl only curled into the corner, gag still fixed over her mouth.
Mariana leaned close, whispering through her teeth. "If I take this off, will you stay quiet?"
No response. Just a slow shake of the head, as if she could burrow into the wall.
Mariana pressed harder. "I need your help. If those Fiends were awake, they could hear our heartbeats from here. Understand? If I take this off, you have to stay quiet. Okay?"
The girl hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.
Mariana worked a fingernail under the tape and peeled it away. The girl whimpered.
"Shhh," Mariana hushed, pressing a hand over her lips until she stilled.
They sat a moment in the stale dark. Then Mariana whispered, "Your name?"
"Rosa."
"Mariana." The sound of it steadied her. "Listen. Cowering in this cage is just waiting to die; or worse," Mariana pressed, voice low and sharp. "Do you want that? Because I don't."
Rosa shook her head, eyes wet again.
"We're not safe in here. The only chance we've got is to try."
Rosa swallowed, then looked away and gave a small nod.
Mariana plucked the bobby pins from her hair and pocketed them. Then she tugged the safety pin from her skirt hem. She kicked off her shoes, bare feet cold on the concrete.
Rosa's whisper cracked. "Wait. Do you even know what you're doing?"
Mariana glanced back, half a grin, half a snarl. "Picked the garage lock a couple times." She remembered the grounding that followed when she jammed the mechanism with broken picks.
She crouched by the cage door, heart hammering, pins trembling between her fingers.
They felt flimsy, wires shivering with every heartbeat. She slid one inside, bending against the tumblers. The first scrape echoed like nails on glass. She winced, eyes flicking to Mack slumped at the table. Still asleep. For now.
She kept pressure with the second pin, but the angle slipped. The cylinder refused to budge. She tried again, sweat slicking her fingers. The pin bent, nearly folded in half. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, straightened it against the floor, and slid it back in.
The seconds dragged. Her mind spun: what if Cardinal comes back? What if Russ woke? What if the Boss already decided to sell them tonight, and they were only buying time?
A faint click jolted through the pin. Her chest seized with hope, but nothing turned. A false set.
She swallowed, reset, worked slower. One tumbler lifted. Another. Rosa whimpered behind her, and Mariana hissed for silence without turning.
Please, God, just this once...
The last pin lifted with stubborn resistance. She twisted, breath caught in her throat.
Give me a fucking break.
Something gave. A sharp snap.
Her heart plummeted. She thought the pin had broken. Then the lock shifted. The cylinder turned. The door sagged loose on its hinges.
Mariana nearly laughed, but bit it back, forcing her breath steady.
The easy part's over...
She slinked toward the chair, bare feet whispering on concrete. Every nerve screamed to stop, but Mack hadn't stirred; his chest rose and fell in heavy rhythm, a line of drool dripping down his chin. His boots were still planted on the table, gore dried along the soles.
Her jacket hung limp over the chair. Holding her breath, she slid a hand into the pocket. Cold plastic met her palm. Her phone.
Behind her, the cage door swung back against the cage itself. Metal clanged hard against the bars. The sound split the silence like a gunshot.
Russ stirred, eyes snapping wide. Mack snorted, rubbing his face.
Then Rosa screamed.
Mariana bolted.
The phone was in her fist, white-knuckled, as she tore down the hallway. For half a heartbeat she heard Rosa scrambling after her, bare feet slapping the floor, a sob on her lips. Then it cut off. The footsteps vanished.
Mariana didn't look back.
She snatched at anything she could reach, hurling it behind her as she ran: a steel ladder, a shopping cart full of tools and wires. They clattered across the hall, noise crashing into noise. Russ shouted, Mack cursed, heavy boots slammed the floor.
The phone nearly slipped from her sweat-slick grip. She stabbed her father's number with her thumb. The screen lit her face pale blue.
No bars.
Then one.
Then gone.
She skidded into a stairwell and scrambled upward, legs pumping, breath rasping in her ears. She held the phone high as she climbed, desperate. One bar flickered, weak and sickly. Gone. Back again. Gone.
She kept climbing.
The landing was a dead end. Steel door locked tight, handle cold under her hand. She slammed her shoulder into it. Nothing.
Footsteps boomed on the stairs below. Closer.
She turned, chest heaving, and spotted a narrow utility closet. She slipped inside, shut the door soft, pressed herself into the dark. An old steel locker gaped open. She crawled inside, curling among rust and mildew, rags stiff on their hooks.
She lifted the phone. One bar. Holding steady.
She hit call.
It rang once. Twice.
The door outside creaked. Boots entered, slow, deliberate. Each step a drumbeat.
Mariana bit her knuckle, lungs screaming for air.
Through the slit of the locker she caught a slice of the room. A shadow moved. Then a pair of eyes glowed red, staring back.
Her heart stopped.
She shoved the phone into a work boot on the floor, burying it, silencing the ring.
The locker door ripped open. A hand clamped her arm like iron. She kicked, clawed, heels scraping on the floor, a muffled cry tearing from her throat.
The stairwell spun as she was dragged out, back down into hell.