CHAPTER TWO
The hard steps of the patrolling prison guards on the stone floor awoke Tavish to a horrid realization. His days as a mechanic were shot, and rotting in his prison would be his life. His body ached from sleeping on the hard floor of his cell, along with two other political prisoners. He looked at their faces, examining each line, wrinkle, and searching for glimers of hope in their seemingly lifeless eyes. They looked new in his cell, almost as if they had just got there.
The younger of the two inmates was quietly crying while leaning next to the other elder one. They both looked as if death himself had sentenced them to an eternity of torture. He seemed to wrap his papery trappings around the two, surrounding them in a cold mindset of the future. Tavish saw that they had no hope. They hardly even had souls from the looks of them. His cold lips frowned at the thought. Humans without souls, he sighed in his head. Are simply living machines without purpose. They just act on command without question or comment. Not even to protest, the thought sickened him.
Tavish examined the dark cell once more. No furniture to sleep on, just a simple toilet and no mirror. Food only came once a day, and even the food wasn't exactly edible. He frowned, rubbing his unclothed feet on the floor.
"How long have you been here?" The elder man asked. His hair was long and ragged like the branches of a willow tree.
"Not long, just a week, maybe more. There isn't any time in here," he replied.
"So I've noticed..." the man left off with a slightly awkward pause. There wasn't much to talk about in a prison, especially one of that size. Tavish knew that they were underground because of the cool temperature of the place.
"What are your names?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"The name's Argyle," said the previously sobbing boy. It seems his little fit had stopped. There was no room for tears in that place.
"I'm Busby, I'm his older brother," the elder man said. Busby held out his dry hand for his cell mate to take.
"I'm Tavish, I used to run a shop down in the Tinker Market," he nodded and shook the man's hand. He had a firmer grip than he expected.
"We used to build for the factory down a ways on Stack Street. 'Used to' being key words there," Busby had a curious accent that attracted Tavish's attention. It was different than he was used to.
"What sector of the ship were your ancestors from?" he asked curiously. His question was answered by passing guards slamming their guns on the bars.
The hard steps of the patrolling prison guards on the stone floor awoke Tavish to a horrid realization. His days as a mechanic were shot, and rotting in his prison would be his life. His body ached from sleeping on the hard floor of his cell, along with two other political prisoners. He looked at their faces, examining each line, wrinkle, and searching for glimers of hope in their seemingly lifeless eyes. They looked new in his cell, almost as if they had just got there.
The younger of the two inmates was quietly crying while leaning next to the other elder one. They both looked as if death himself had sentenced them to an eternity of torture. He seemed to wrap his papery trappings around the two, surrounding them in a cold mindset of the future. Tavish saw that they had no hope. They hardly even had souls from the looks of them. His cold lips frowned at the thought. Humans without souls, he sighed in his head. Are simply living machines without purpose. They just act on command without question or comment. Not even to protest, the thought sickened him.
Tavish examined the dark cell once more. No furniture to sleep on, just a simple toilet and no mirror. Food only came once a day, and even the food wasn't exactly edible. He frowned, rubbing his unclothed feet on the floor.
"How long have you been here?" The elder man asked. His hair was long and ragged like the branches of a willow tree.
"Not long, just a week, maybe more. There isn't any time in here," he replied.
"So I've noticed..." the man left off with a slightly awkward pause. There wasn't much to talk about in a prison, especially one of that size. Tavish knew that they were underground because of the cool temperature of the place.
"What are your names?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"The name's Argyle," said the previously sobbing boy. It seems his little fit had stopped. There was no room for tears in that place.
"I'm Busby, I'm his older brother," the elder man said. Busby held out his dry hand for his cell mate to take.
"I'm Tavish, I used to run a shop down in the Tinker Market," he nodded and shook the man's hand. He had a firmer grip than he expected.
"We used to build for the factory down a ways on Stack Street. 'Used to' being key words there," Busby had a curious accent that attracted Tavish's attention. It was different than he was used to.
"What sector of the ship were your ancestors from?" he asked curiously. His question was answered by passing guards slamming their guns on the bars.
