Their jaw ached, forced open unnaturally with the knotted leather sitting heavy on their tongue, makeshift gag tied tight around the back of their head, Hero was sure there would be marks left over when it was finally taken off.

Their legs were bound in a similar manner as their arms, secured at the ankles and then just above their knees with the thick cords. Their uniform, once a clean, thigh covering, was in tatters, partially from the battle, partially from the defeat, and partially from the abuse they’d suffered at the henchmen’s hands directly following. Bruised and bloody, skin littered with scrapes and mottled splotches of color, still the physical pain hadn’t amounted to anywhere near what they were trying to process.

Sidekick had betrayed them. Stabbed them in the back—literally. The wound wasn’t fatal, more towards their shoulder than any vitalities, but holy hell did it hurt. It was deep enough for even one of the henchman to recognize, after the collective had finished beating the crap out of Hero, and had taken the time to scavenge for some bandages and gauze to at slow the bleeding “until they got back and Boss can decide whether or not to let them bleed out”.

They had given a whole monologue while Hero, injured and exhausted, was overrun by henchmen. Hero hadn’t been able to hear them too well, between the commotion, pain, and ringing in their ears, but they think they were able to catch the idea.

I’ve lived in your shadow for so long. I will finally be seen. It’s my turn to get the credit—something like that.

Hero had never thought of Sidekick as a sidekick. Hell no. They were incredibly talented, gifted. The only reason their rank was “sidekick” was because that’s how it fucking worked—Academy graduates who joined the Agency were automatically given the role, placed under the guidance of a Hero who would help acclimate them to the job, get them prepared for when they no longer needed surveillance. “Sidekick” was never meant to last longer than a year, maybe two depending on the needs of the trainee. Hero had thought Sidekick knew that. They had only been six months in, but Hero had been getting ready to sign off the documents supporting their promotion. Sidekick was brilliant and strong, and as far as Hero knew they had never treated them any different than they would treat their colleagues.

Apparently Sidekick didn’t see things the same way. That hurt more than a blade ever could.

Then Sidekick turned and walked away. Not even glancing back as Hero struggled futilely against their assailants, screaming and begging for Sidekick to help, to not leave them. Yeah, not Hero’s proudest moment.

Neither was this.

After they had been subdued, beaten, and finally restrained, the henchmen had shoved them blindfolded into the back of a van, they had been driven for nearly two hours, along a roughly paved road with sharp turns, until they had arrived at what Hero could only assume was a lair. From there, they had been dragged down a few halls, and kicked into a cell, the henchmen not even bothering to remove their blindfold. Hero, after spending a good five minutes sobbing and squirming on the cell ground, fought for their bearings and was able to curl their knees up, then rub their face awkwardly against them until the blindfold came loose.

They almost wished they hadn’t.

The room they were thrown into wasn’t quite a cell, as they had originally thought. They had been dumped close to a wall, which they now leaned heavily against, not wanting to put themself in such a compromising position as laying down. The walls were made of slick, cold white tiles, leading to a paneled ceiling with a grid of thin, sturdy beams bolted across. From that hung all sorts of things that made Hero’s stomach twist with nausea. Shackles, bars, pulley systems, they saw a shower head in the far corner, protruding straight from an exposed pipe, dripping quietly over a drain.

In the center of the room there was a large metal table, maybe three feet wide and triple that long. Around various parts, long leather straps not dissimilar from belts hung off. The table itself was steady, welded over another drain, the floor underneath slightly discolored with the faint stain of bleach. Against one wall, furthest from Hero, there was a desk of sorts, framed with two tall cabinets and then a counter to the side of that. The drawers resembled those of a filing cabinet, each with a small key lock keeping them sealed. There were two cameras that Hero could see, in opposite corners casting the whole room under surveillance.

The worst thing, Hero thought, was the small wire crate only a few feet to their left. It wouldn’t have been big enough for an average dog, but Hero had a sickening feeling that it was not intended to house a pet.

Another sob was choked in their throat, the gag soaked through with coppery tasting saliva. Hero squeezed their eyes shut and pressed their head back hard against the wall, as if that would ease any aspect of their situation.

They were to wait for a long time, long enough for their arms to go completely numb, before the door finally opened.

——————————————

I’m so done with this piece

Yes this is the exact setting I’m envisioning for what I’m about to do to Noah. I’m in a mood ok. Sue me.

The man was dressed in a fine, dark doublet and hose that were stained lightly with travel. He moved to sit down at a nearby table.

Omen flexed their calf. He had missed the knife in their boot. Interesting.

Omen eyed the room. 

This was some sort of cottage. The floorboards creaked and were caked with dust. The fireplace had been lit but was belching smoke, meaning it hadn’t been cleaned recently. There was a lit lantern on the single table. And the window to the outside, beside the only door, spoke of midafternoon or late morning. The sun was bright and the trees swayed in a breeze, creating a shifting dappled effect on the floor. 

Omen could only hear the crackling fire and birdsong from outside. They were alone. 

Their possessions were tossed to the side, laying haphazardly on the floor. But nothing had been searched yet. Caey was safe. For now. 

Omen was laying on the floor, so that when the man sat down, he was still looming above them.

“I’ve been looking for you for a while.” The man took a swig from a waterskin. “You’re difficult to find, girl.”

Omen winced at ‘girl’. It shouldn’t have bothered them. That was the least of their problems right now.

The man continued talking. “I’d been hearing rumors for a while of a girl fighting in the False Queen’s little band. A girl matching the description of someone I killed several years ago.”

Omen’s belly turned to ice and they stopped breathing.

“I was contracted to kill a highborn lady suspected of aiding the escaped False Queen. And I did so. She was easy to identify due to a mark on her wrist, a brand. A very-”

The man roughly reached down and yanked on Omen’s bound arms.

They cried out through the gag. Arms pulled into a painful twist, shoulder sockets screaming.

“A very distinctive mark.” The man breathed, looking down at Omen’s wrist.

The wrist that bore the brand that he spoke of.

The man, the assassin from all those years ago, released Omen’s wrist, letting them fall back to the dusty floor.

“So, you lived.” He murmured.

Omen grunted around the gag. 

The assassin leaned down and pulled the gag out. “Where is the False Queen?”

“Fuck off.” Omen spat.

He popped the gag back in, wound back his foot, and kicked Omen in the stomach. Hard.

Omen struggled to draw breath. The wind was knocked out of them. Before they could recover, there was another vicious kick.

A blow to their nose. Stars. Blinding pain. Watering eyes. Blood streamed down their face and trickled into their throat. Metallic and hot.

Omen writhed, crying out through the gag.

They arched their back. Reached with bound hands into their boot. Felt the slim, bone knife handle, warm with body heat. Good. 

They grasped it and hid it behind their body, working on the bonds as best as they could.

The assassin paced around the cottage.

Omen sliced their fingers and hands. The knife was sharp. Blood made the process slippery.

“I’m going to ask you again.” The man circled back around to them.

The rope was cut. The bonds loosened. Omen pulled free.

“And if you say-”

Omen hurled the knife. It stuck neatly in the assassin’s shoulder.

He bellowed. 

Omen rolled away, under the table, and began to attack the rope that bound their ankles. Halfway through, the assassin came at them, their own bone-handled knife in hand. Omen scrabbled back with their legs untangled and the rope in hand.

They leapt on the man.

Spat blood in his face.

And it was quick work after that.

Several minutes later, Omen stood. Head throbbing, nose swollen and bleeding, and ribs maybe broken. They wiped off the knife and placed it back in their boot.

They limped over to their pack and belongings. With cut and bleeding hands, they prepared to leave. The diadem still lay within their pack. As soon as they touched it, Caey spoke into their thoughts.

“You look terrible. What happened?”