Chapter Text
“How could anyone be brave in a place so inhuman as this?” — Darrow, Morning Star
Cassius strode down the narrow hallway with purpose, white cape billowing behind him. Virginia had once told him that the times when he got like this, face all dark and serious, was when he looked most like a dashing white knight on his righteous way to save a damsel in distress.
There was nothing truly righteous about what he was aiming to do. Did it really count as saving someone when you were responsible for their current state in the first place?
Plus, this wasn’t even saving. Not really.
As Cassius approached the processing room in question, he heard voices from inside.
A woman with an Earthborn dialect was speaking. “… you can pop the eardrum with the pressure.”
“Thanks, Holi,” a gruff man replied.
“Here to help.”
“Like this?” The man said as Cassius opened the door to the processing room. He was greeted with the gruesome sight of the Gray man hitting a shackled Darrow on the side of the head with a cupped hand. Darrow’s head whipped to the side from the force. Blood trickled down his temple, likely from an earlier assault by the gun in the Gray’s other hand. The scene alone was sickening enough, but the most jarring part of it was Darrow’s complete lack of resistance. There was no fight in his eyes or body language, only fear and resignation. He just… took it. Somehow, that change in the man was more surreal than anything else.
Cassius felt rage among his twisted mix of emotions and let it surge above the others, almost grateful at the simpler feeling. “Stop!” he commanded. The Grays froze, looking up at the newcomer with disdain before seeing that he was a Gold wearing the mark of an Olympic Knight. They snapped to attention.
“The Protean Knight ordered that you prepare the prisoner for departure to Luna,” Cassius said sharply, “Not to brutalize him.” He looked at the Gray who had been violent moments before. “What is your name, sergeant?”
The rugged man stared a hole into the wall. “Danto ti Torvus, dominus.”
“Danto,” Cassius said. “I will be sure to discuss your actions with Preator Grimmus.” He silenced the man’s splutters with a glare and turned his attention to the rest of the room. Eleven other soldiers, three Obsidian men, and a squat Yellow doctor looked back at him, no doubt wondering why a Gold of his station had gone out of his way to visit this dirty hole of a room. All it contained was an examination table, a hose, and a chair. The floor was wet from what must have constituted as Darrow’s “bath.” As for Darrow himself…
Cassius mentally steeled himself and turned his focus to the prisoner locked into the metal chair. The emaciated man had been cleaned of the grime that clung to him from his time in the box. He was fitted in a black prisoner’s jumpsuit and wore an electric collar but had not yet been given shoes. One of his bare feet was leaking red from a busted toenail. His clothing may have concealed the scars, but it did nothing to hide his skeletal frame; the fabric hung loosely on his entire form. Darrow’s dirty hair had been shorn off none too gently, though they had left the scraggly beard. He was muzzled and bleeding in various places from the rough handling. Tear tracks lined his hollow cheeks. He too looked up at Cassius, his expression an open display of disbelief, confusion, and fear.
The fear gutted Cassius the most, though it wasn’t undeserved. He was one of the reasons for Darrow’s bleak life the past year, after all. He may not have known the details of what would happen, but he knew the type of man the Jackal was. Cassius had been fully aware of the kind of extensive treatment the Jackal offered his… guests. He had lay awake in his plush bed on many nights, twisting the two Institute rings on his fingers and knowing that somewhere down in the Jackal’s lair, Darrow was facing retribution and more for all he had done by the Gold man’s steady hand. But then the execution had happened. Cassius had thought that was the end of it…
The Red betrayed you first, A voice in his mind insisted. Nothing you knew about him was real. His face, his history, his Color — all lies. He used you, used Julian to bring the worlds into a state of chaos. And ignoring all of that, he murdered your family in cold blood. Defenseless, Scarless children. There is no justifying that. He’s a monster.
Even as he thought it for the utmost time, even as he knew the words to be true, Cassius could not continue to muster up anger at the pitiable creature before him. His own actions had led to the man’s current state. If Darrow was a monster, then what did that make Cassius?
He finally dragged his eyes from Darrow’s gaunt face to the Lurcher squad before him. “What are your remaining orders, legionnaires?”
After a moment of silence, a Gray woman stepped forward. “I am to sedate the prisoner for the journey to Luna, dominus.” Cassius recognized her voice from earlier as the one belonging to Holi. He scrutinized her wide, freckled face and narrow eyes for a second before shaking his head.
“That won’t be necessary,” Cassius said. “I can take it from here.”
Another, shorter Gray with a delicate nose stepped toward him. “Sir, we have orders—”
Holi swatted the soldier with a muttered, “Quiet, Trigg,” and he fell silent. Cassius looked around the room for further objections. Finding none, he nodded toward the prisoner. “Uncuff him.”
Surprisingly, it was the man named Trigg that took action. He stepped behind Darrow, keys in hand, and hesitated when the man flinched at the movement. Trigg glanced at Cassius, who nodded impatiently. Finally, the soldier finished unlocking the cuffs with a simple twist. The sound of Darrow’s shoulders cracking echoed loudly in the quiet room as he pulled his hands in front of himself for the first time in nine months. He moaned through his muzzle at the change, bringing his shaking hands to his chest.
Cassius kept his back straight and his voice level as he spoke to the men and women before him. “Legionnaires, you are released of your remaining duties regarding this prisoner. Thank you for your services up until now. I will take over all responsibility for him, as approved recently by Preator Grimmus.” That was not exactly true, but there was no way the soldiers would quietly let him leave with Darrow otherwise. They wouldn’t dare question an Olympic Knight’s authority by checking their DataPads now, but someone would look for confirmation from Aja shortly. He would need to talk with her soon. “Given the prisoner’s identity, I trust in your utmost discretion with this subject, as Preator Grimmus has surely already advised.” The soldiers nodded, some more reluctantly than others.
Darrow’s attention remained fixed on Cassius as the latter stepped toward him, extending a hand. He eyed his hands uncertainly, no doubt drawn to the rings on his fingers. Each one was a reminder of why Cassius had every reason to hate him, after all — the golden eagle of House Bellona, the family that Darrow destroyed. Cassius’s House Mars ring, the one he’d worn during all the times they had shared together at the Institute… and Darrow’s own ring. The one that should have belonged to Julian. Physical proof of Darrow’s betrayal which had hidden and festered in the roots of their friendship from the start, growing deeper and more poisonous with each passing day. How could Cassius have good intentions after all of that? Darrow must be wondering.
But here in this dank hole in the pits of the Jackal’s lair, he had no one else to turn to.
With fear and hesitance evident on his face, Darrow slowly extended his own hand into Cassius’s. The Morning Knight curled his fingers gently over Darrow’s skeletal ones. He pulled upwards lightly, signaling the other man to stand. Darrow got to his feet for only a moment before crumpling to the floor, hand slipping out of Cassius’s grasp.
There was a moment of silence as Cassius looked down blankly at the heap of spindly limbs on the ground. Low snickers quickly evolved into outright laughter as the Grays took in the pathetic sight. Like an idiot, Cassius had somehow forgotten the effects of intense muscle atrophy on the body. How foolish was he to expect the man to be able to walk after nine months in a box? Cassius glared the soldiers back into silence, though smirks remained on the crueler men, and knelt down next to Darrow. The man avoided his gaze, shame evident on his face.
With a start, Cassius realized how this must seem to him — like a purposeful act to embarrass the withered, feeble man in front of a sneering audience. Shame colored his own cheeks at the thought alone. Regardless, he moved forward to pick up Darrow who flinched inward at the movement. Cassius paused.
“Please,” Cassius said quietly. “Let me.”
Darrow finally looked up at him at the sound of his voice, and something in Cassius’s expression must have convinced him because he nodded once before forcibly relaxing. Cassius scooped Darrow up in his arms and stood to his full height, facing the lurcher squad before him. They stared at him, some with faces of confusion and others with anger. Trigg and Holi stood together in the front, their body language particularly tense and alert. Trigg looked strangely anxious, while Holi’s eyes pierced him searchingly. Not sure what she was looking for but disliking the examination, Cassius looked away and turned toward the door.
No one spoke as Cassius left, carrying Darrow out of the room and down the hall. The man was alarmingly light and fragile in his arms, like decorative glass that could break at the slightest push. In a way, that was exactly what Darrow was — at least to the Jackal, who had presented him to his audience as the table centerpiece with pride. Look at what I’ve made, his expression had said. A sudden feeling of protectiveness overtook him, and Cassius couldn’t help adjusting his grip to support the pallid man better. Whatever Color he was, he was still a person. And no person should be subjected to any amount of time in the Jackal’s grasp, much less a full year.
Darrow curled his shoulders in toward Cassius’s chest, burying his face into the Gold’s shoulder. His hands clutched weakly at the fabric of Cassius’s shirt, brittle nails pressing into his skin. Darrow remained silent as they walked, but Cassius felt the man’s shoulders shaking under his grip and wet spots growing on the fabric of his shirt. He felt tears of his own try to force their way forward but kept them back with the same restraint he had used to let the Jackal keep Darrow in his clutches.
With each step he took, Darrow wrapped securely in his arms, Cassius felt his resolve forming, hardening.
Never again.