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Hugo clutched at his side as another cough wracked helplessly through his body. He rested his head back against the thick stone wall behind him, trying desperately to catch his breath. The wall was cold. Damp, from the air of the nearby docks that the gapped construction of his cell did nothing to deter.
He should move. He knew that. But the floor was cold, too, and he didn’t think he could manage standing. Even now, his lungs shook with the effort of breathing the stagnant air.
His hands were shaking, too, he noted passively as he brought them into his chest. He curled in on himself, just like he had on the unforgiving streets of Bayangor, desperate for whatever warmth he might find. It was never enough.
It certainly wasn’t, now.
No, the guards may not have executed him for his crimes. But he would die for them, nonetheless, becoming just another body for the guards to throw back into the streets. If a tired numbness wasn’t all he could feel, Hugo was sure he’d be angry. The guards didn’t believe his life was worth anything. He was a petty thief, who would pay whatever price fate gave him. His birth didn’t matter, and neither would his death. So what did it matter, if they sped along the process? If they only remembered food and water when it was convenient. If they ignored the coughs and fevers that spread through the prisoners like wildfire. And if any of those prisoners had the audacity to try and escape; to save themselves? Well. Scarring them as they were dragged back to their cells was only justice, right?
Hugo absently wondered if the gash on his leg would get infected. After all, bandages were a luxury afforded only to the sorts of criminals that didn’t get caught, so a strip from his shirt had to suffice. It didn’t matter, anyway. He’d had a fever the past two days; this illness would take him before infection ever could.
Even now, despite the cracked lenses of his glasses, Hugo’s vision was blurry. It was all he could do to desperately hope for another hour, another day. Biding his time until he succumbed to the fate everyone believed he was destined for.
He’d managed to last three months, at least. Best he could tell, anyway. Light and darkness took on very little meaning when one’s life was contained underground. Days blurred into one another until centuries and seconds had passed, and one was forced into stagnation anyway. He supposed how much time he had didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though he was using it.
“Boy,” a sharp voice called, startling Hugo out of his thoughts. “Hugo, correct?” The woman stood before his cell, hood of her cloak confidently drawn back in a manner not common to the tattered remains of the underside of Bayangor. The torchlight cut harshly across her face, making it impossible to tell her age. What was clear, however, was his wanted poster clutched in her hand, the vibrant scar on her face.
“If you had any doubt as to who I am, you would never have approached my cell in the first place,” Hugo said, voice a painful rasp. She was clearly from the same world as him; albeit far more successful. You could not mimic the way a thief stood should you not be born of that blood; the confidence of owning the world, the constant understanding that it could be taken away.
No, her clothes were fine, but nobility fancied themselves far safer than the wary resilience of those born to the streets. After all, when you’re handed everything, you never consider the fact that it might be taken from you.
He wondered how much this woman had had to pay the guard to let her down here alone. Wondered what she wanted from him.
She chuckled. “They don’t lie about your cleverness. Though you’ll have to agree you look rather different now to your likeness.” Three months confined to a cell with no running water will do that to someone. “So tell me if something else is true. They say you created false life, through the power of alchemy.” She gripped the iron bars, now, leaning closer.
Hugo looked up at her curiously. “I have. This machinery cannot create thought on its own, but can follow a set of given directives.” He pulled himself blearily to his feet, stumbling over to the bars as well. He gripped them heavily, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. Maybe another time, he would be wary of how she came to know so much about him, or carefully guard his abilities until he knew what he would receive in return. But his hazy mind registered all this a beat too late, and arrogance hadn’t landed him in trouble yet.
“Well then, Hugo the Human, I have an offer for you.” She paused as another cough shook through him. He stared down at the thin spatter of blood on the back of his hand. His time was wearing thin. “I will buy your way out of this prison. You will be freed legally; not a fugitive, as you would be if you somehow managed your own way out of here.” She looked him up and down, doubt clearly written on her face. “In exchange, you’ll enter into my employ. We could use another skilled alchemist. You’ll be paid and housed in exchange for your service, and, of course, your confidentiality.”
Hugo swallowed thickly, blinking his hazy vision back into focus. There was a catch. There had to be. No one offered anything worthwhile without expecting something much, much greater in return.
But, in spite of himself, Hugo didn’t want to die. Didn’t want these prison walls to be the last sights he ever saw. Anything, he wanted to say. I’ll do anything. Just get me out of here. Besides, if it ended up a trap, he could escape from that, too. “Yes,” he said, desperation seeping into his voice. “Yes. You have my loyalty.”
The woman’s harsh grin was the last thing Hugo saw before his world spun into darkness.