#battlecast

He hopes that at least the rest of his comrades fled safely, though he doubts it. He was among the last standing that he could see, those ruthless, four-legged crablike automatons bulldozing the rest of the little outpost he was sent to supervise. It was a gargantuan fleet sent to take care of one measly outpost, almost as if Viktor had sent all his resources to that one place. Just because Jayce was there. No emotions, my ass.

The immense guilt weighs on him for having volunteered to lend a hand at the resistance’s struggling fringes. He, who was supposed to be their Defender, inadvertently signed their death warrant. Viktor saw his chance and he took it. Does anyone else know he was captured and not killed? Not likely, given that few to none would have survived to begin with. No one should come for him. Whatever awaits Jayce now will only be what he deserves. Viktor isn’t going to kill him, he knows. His fate will be much, much worse.

As his mind clears, his vision does not. His left eye has been gouged, he realizes. There’s stinging pain all over his body: broken bones, metal burns, gashes and cuts. All hastily bandaged. He must have been taken here right from the battlefield, with little time for medical aid. Any other prisoner of war wouldn’t expect their health to matter. Jayce knows what’s coming.

He scans the room. There are other beds, topped with thin mattresses, stained with old blood. All empty. The floor is segmented, like a conveyor belt, and Jayce’s stomach sickens at the reminder of the fate that awaits all who are captured. Their brains and souls harvested, then imprisoned in whatever horrifying contraption Viktor sees fit.

His eyes dart to the guard at the door. Canine ears and a jackal-like head on a bipedal body. By far the most humanoid creation to come out of his ex-partner’s nightmare factory. This newest robot made its debut in the most recent battle. It ignored all other targets on the field and made its way directly to Jayce. A hunter with a very specific prey. The very same one guards his door now, recognizable by the lingering damage left by Jayce’s hammer.

Sending an already-damaged automaton to watch his door isn’t a logical choice; it’s a taunt. No doubt there are more just outside, ready to gun him down if he manages to bare-handed wrestle his way past the jackal. It’s not even worth it, the thought of escaping. It’s likely he’s already deep inside the Herald’s central compound, dozens of layers of guards and security between him and the outside world. No feigning of surrender or biding of time will save now, this far into enemy territory.

His own placidity disturbs him a little. Even the most hopeless of prisoners throw their remaining might into one last-ditch effort. Jayce doesn’t even consider it. He tries not to think about the reason behind that, how his muscles are less tense despite the pain, how his shoulders feel like a burden has been lifted, how the reason he doesn’t try is because he doesn’t want to-

How being here feels like coming home.