Frost fell deep into a slumber from which his mind didn't want to recover. Dreams played scenes from time long past. He saw the golden hair of a girl he used to love and the bed at the orphanage where he'd entertained many sleepless nights. He'd lie awake and stare at the ceiling, wishing that when he fell asleep at last he wouldn't wake up at all. During those days, death seemed like it would be more productive and worthwhile than life.
He'd never thought that, in facing his final moment, he'd feel terror. In that emotion he found something far more terrifying, and that was a will to live.
[GreatGadfly30: It wouldn't be very interesting if he died just like that.]
[TheConquerer356: Have you no faith at all?]
[GreatGadfly30: I limit my faith to avoid making an idiot of myself.]
[Checkpointer20: Both of you just shut the hell up and watch.]
Frost saw Ren's face like a flashbang across his vision as his brain sprung to life. It was the last thing his eyes had seen, desperately imprinting it upon his brain so he couldn't possibly forget. Of course, he did not yet know his name.
He groaned. "What the hell?" He placed a palm firmly against his pounding skull as he rose up into a sitting position. It seemed was lying in his own filth on a bed of straw. His clothes were replaced with simple rags that were soaked in his own sweat. It went without saying, but his weapons were also gone. Looking around, he seemed to be utterly isolated in a dark prison cell made of grey bricks. From the vibe of the place, he correctly assumed that he was underground.
One problem. He'd… Died. Right? Did this mean the afterlife was real after all? Bummer. This must be hell, then, he thought. But then there was the problem of the text seemingly arguing back and forth in the top right of his vision. It was reminiscent of a live stream chat, with usernames and all in small white text. They seemed to be people, and they could see what he was doing based on the exchanges.
[Checkpointer20: Try not to get too flustered. You've been sold into slavery by a group of drunkards. Stay put for now.]
"I'm losing my mind," Frost decided. Slavery…? This was probably what he deserved. His bad karma had finally caught up to him. Five years was a lot longer than he expected to get away with. An ironic punishment like this was the perfect compliment to his search for freedom, so he had to give kudos to God where they were due.
[Checkpointer20: You aren't losing your mind. It's just… Expanding.]
[GreatGadfly30: I know nothing. But I do know this: Heed our advice, lad.]
Frost turned his eyes away from the text. It was small enough in his vision that he could probably ignore it safely. For now, until he figured out what in God's name was going on, he'd do just that. He climbed to his feet and immediately felt weak, falling into the wall and catching himself. As if to mock him, a drop of water plopped down from the roof and struck him on the forehead. It ran down his face and touched his lip. Salty. Rainwater. That explained the distant sounds of pattering.
At that moment, a voice spoke "Good morning–" with great hesitance. He wasn't trying to scare Frost, but also obviously wanted to make himself known. It came from his left, an area of the cell shrouded in even more shadow, and out of range of the lantern hanging in the hallway.
Frost turned slowly as if expecting to see a hideous creature, a shiver running down his spine. What he found disappointed his expectations. Indeed, it was a normal looking lad if ever there had been one. Still, if Frost looked dishevelled, this man may as well have been dead. He had matted brown hair that covered his face almost entirely, the faint light of his eyes seen behind the strands like a cat in the darkness. His body was clearly malnourished, and yet somehow built with muscle in the places where it would matter for hard labour – specifically the arms.
"And you are?" Frost couldn't bring himself to drop the attitude despite his apparent situation.
The man sighed. "They're usually rambunctious like you when they first arrive… We don't have names around here, kid. I'm Fourty-two."
"People don't forget their names because they're told to." Frost reached a hand out to the man. "Frost," he said, looking around the cell. "It seems like you and I will be getting to know each other," he added begrudgingly.
Fourty-two regarded Frost for a long while. "Whatever, kid." He took the hand and shook it. "Talk like that to the guards, and you'll probably die."
Frost frowned. "At least I'll die with a name." He said these words without full confidence in them. His last waking memory was of nearly dying, and that beautiful vista as he lay bleeding against a tree. The fight with death wasn't an epic as promised in the stories. It was an instant of terror before plunging into an abyss where your screams could not be heard. The memory of it came rushing back to him as he so bravely declared his intent to die once more. His posture slumped and he leaned into the wall for support.
Fourty-two was obviously not convinced by his declaration. "If you want to die, leave me out of it, lad." He gripped the rags he was wearing upon his legs and pulled them into himself, curling into the corner.
[TheConquerer356: A man's heart is conquered through action.]
[Checkpointer20: The less talk, the better, Frost.]
Frost went right back to ignoring the chat. He had no use for the opinions of a bunch of nobody spectators. If you wanted to change the way the game was flowing, then play it yourself. A man's heart was conquered through action? At least someone was speaking his language.
"So that's it for you, then?" Frost stepped in front of the man, which prompted him to look up as Frost's body blocked out the little light he was allowed from the hallway. "You give up your body and your mind?"
"Lad–"
Frost grabbed him by the lapel of his tunic. The cloth nearly ripped as he lifted the man to his feet and slammed him into the wall with considerable force. He grunted and then slumped his head down, resigned to his fate. Frost held him there for a moment, but gave up and dropped him back to the ground where he lay unmoving. This man didn't even care if Frost killed him just now. It probably would be better than the life he was living. Frost's life had been like that once.
He stomped his feet angrily and spun on his heel to march back to his side of the cell, giving up on convincing his cellmate.
"Dammit all. I'm not even supposed to be here. It was those men… They sold me like I was their fucking property!" Frost doubled around the cell a few times before coming to rest at the bars. He gripped them desperately with both hands and pulled with all of his strength until his muscles went taut and eventually gave out. He so badly wanted something to punch, or perhaps to punch himself and awaken from this dream. Or to be dead…
Was it true? He'd been sold as a slave…? Him? A slave? There had to have been some mistake. Once they heard that he was sold by a group of men that didn't even know him, they'd set him free.
As if sensing his thoughts, Fourty-two spoke in a hoarse voice from his sad little corner. "It's the same story for most people. Some are kidnapped. Some owe a debt. It doesn't matter who or what you are. Once they've paid for you…"
You're property. He finished the sentence in his head, terrified by the implication.
Frost's hands grew sweaty as he held onto the bars, listening to the words of the man that most certainly knew better than he did. They were painful truths that he'd rather not acknowledge. "What's my number," he asked, hands shaking.
[Checkpointer20: Don't let your emotions get the better of you, now.]
[GreatGadfly30: Emotions are a trivial matter.]
[MasterOfTheFlute: Free yourself from the pain within the mind.]
[Checkpointer20: Another member of the peanut gallery. Just what we needed.]
[MasterOfTheFlute: There is hatred in your heart. You, too, should heed my advice.]
Fourty-two glanced at Frost with pitiful eyes. This was a man with his own story, but they both knew that none of it mattered now. "You're Sixty-three," he said. "The last Sixty-three… He–"
As if the words were some sort of passcode, lights came alive all the way down the long corridor with a series of deafening clicks. A faint energy could be felt radiating. Suddenly, Frost could see down the seemingly infinite hallway of cells. There were others just like him, leaning against the bars and despairing. Some were human, while some were strange colours or even strange shapes. Maybe this wasn't hell, but it certainly wasn't home. Frost blinked his eyes in shock, as well as an attempt to clear the water inspired by the sudden brightness of the lights.
Fourty-two could be heard standing up behind him amongst a chorus of voices screaming out in a cacophony of pain and excitement. He walked up and joined Frost at the bars where they remained in silence for a long while. "It's amazing isn't it? So many lost souls trapped in one place, and yet somehow none of them can dare to hope."
Frost stared at him with his jaw slightly unhinged. "You… What is this place? It's like a prison."
Fourty-two shook his head, a frown painting his lips that were faintly visible through the hair. "A prison is for rehabilitation, lad. A prison lets the prisoners go eventually. No. No. This place isn't a prison."
Two men wearing chainmail armour could be seen walking down the hallway, each pushing a cart filled quite extensively with meals. Each meal was exactly identical, a plop of brown slush that looked like it could've come from a horse's ass. It was the type of thing that could make someone like Frost miss the taste of instant noodles. Still, the rest of the slaves went wild, excited to be served what seemed to be the meal of the morning.
Frost looked back at Fourty-two, who had a wry grin on his face.
"I hope you rested up well, youngun. First it's slop for breakfast, and then we hit the mines."