Drip! Drip!
Somewhere in this forsaken dungeon, droplets of water were falling. It echoed like a bell, reaching Allen's ears.
How long had it been since he arrived into this world, he wondered. His perception of time had long since been skewed to oblivion.
Allen leaned his head back, his greasy, slimy hair cushioning his scalp as his head pressed firmly on the crevices of the stone wall. After a few moments, Allen tried shaking free, but to no avail.
As expected.
He looked at the cuffs that strangled his wrists and ankles--he learned not too long after his descent to this world that these cuffs were used to restrict mana from the captive.
A person without a God--they are still able to use mana. However, they are unable to achieve the same strength as those who has a God watching over them.
Allen tried shaking free again.
It didn't work.
Again.
It didn't work.
Again...
~~~
A week later.
Outside of his cell and up the spiral staircase that was made of stone that was beginning to show its age, the man that had been prodding Allen this entire time was stationed at the top entrance, his body slouched into a wooden chair.
"What a bore..."
He had been doing this for almost two weeks. And, unfortunately, he had yet to bear any fruit. Not too far away from the man, another person came strolling by. They held a spear, playfully twisting it.
The passerby chuckled.
"No luck still?" He asked.
"Shit, no."
The passerby spun his spear around his back.
"Wanna let me have a crack at him?"
"Tsk... no."
"Suit yourself. But you gotta hurry up with that shit, El--Adam is getting impatient." El looked at him, his face draining in color. As he thought about his boss getting angry with him, El immediately stood up and opened the door to the pits of hell below.
The torches that hung above him as he descended down the stairs illuminated the dark. And each step ringing like gun shots. Arriving at the base of the dungeon, El walked through the initial corridor, passing by a few other imprisoned men.
As his figure descended further into the darkness, El could feel the glares sent his way, boring into his back like knives. He ignored it, however, as long he was out here while they were behind those iron bars, chained to their fate of a slave--he will be okay.
El arrived in front of another door. Opening it, its metal skin echoed a groan. Shutting it behind him, El was met with another corridor. However, this one was relatively shorter, probably half of the length of the corridor that El had just sauntered through.
Arriving at the destined location, El shuffled into the room, the scent of sweat and blood coalescing into a putrid stench that would throw any normal person into a frenzy. El looked at the end of the room, where Allen was shackled.
He was awake.
Just barely, however.
"You're awake," El muttered loud enough for Allen to hear. "That makes things easier for me." He wouldn't have to fill the bucket with another batch of cold water.
Allen looked at El, his eyes dreary, tired.
El looked at Allen's figure—he was far too frail.
If I do the same methods... he might just die. El thought, his eyes trailing towards the batches of steel rods that were scattered along the ground.
Allen's ribs protruded hideously, to the point where even his serratus anterior was prevalent under his pale complexion.
However... as long as I don't extend the methods too outlandishly, his death should be avoided. El thought, picking up a steel rod off of the ground. Bits and pieces of soil clad its metal skin, dirtying it.
"Again," he whispered to himself, then he rose his voice. "We will do this again." He did not bathe the steel rod in fire, instead he merely pressed on Allen's injuries, the flat top of the steel rod prodding around Allen's flesh like maggots.
He controlled it slowly, allowing Allen to feel the cold metal sensation engrave itself into his cells. However, Allen said nothing. His words were tightly shut behind the jails of his teeth--he would not yield.
Not that he knew what they wanted.
Allen assumed that what they wanted was what occurred in those lost memories. Which, even if he wanted to tell him, he wouldn't be able to due to this restriction.
More than that, though—he was waiting.
For an opportunity to rise.
El clicked his tongue, frustrating building up inside of him. He turned around, his back facing Allen's.
El planted his hands on a nearby metal table, on it were the scattered metal rods and other torture devices.
Allen let out a lowly breath; it shook like a tremor, resounding within like a calling. His eyes, facing that same tremor, looked at El's back.
Back.
Turned.
And eyes that faced elsewhere.
Something began to crawl along his human body--a feeling. One that penetrated his pale skin and crawled into his human heart, peeling a layer of flesh.
An instinct.
An instinct foreign to to Allen, yet awfully familiar to Grace Walker. An evil thought spread through his body, pushing him towards what he needed to do.
First, he twisted his ankles.
He had realized not too long ago that, even though he was still shackled, due to his body losing fat at an extreme rate because of the extreme caloric deficit he was going through: he was able to slip out of the cuffs if he twisted his ankles and endured the sharp pains.
He planted his feet on the edges of the cuffs, the metal brushing against his skin, and pressed against his bones. A groan almost escaped, but he held on.
As El began to turn back, another rod in hand — this time, the edges sharper — Allen twisted his wrists, his hands flying free. Allen fell forward, crashing into El.
Even though Allen was not able topple El into the ground with his feeble strength, El slipped on one of the rods that he had left on the ground. His body fell backwards, head crashing into the edge of the metal table, before roughly landing on the soil below.
"Fuck!" El cursed. "How the hell--!" His words were cut off as Allen crawled on top of his, straddling him from above. El looked at Allen, the faint glimmer of light from the corridor pressing against the side of his hollow face.
Allen's violet eyes shone.
The same instinct urged him to pick up the steel rod.
He listened.
Without another thought.
He knew if he didn't, this moment that he had been waiting for — the possibility of freedom — would be lost.
In either death or capture.
I... want to live. Wrapping his fingertips around the steel rod, Allen did not waste another moment--he plunged it straight into El's head. Blood escaped, the liquid laced in iron flicking onto Allen's skin.
"GHHHH!"
A muffled scream, one that exuded the painful woes that he, too, had to endure. Allen said nothing else; the flat top of the rod was not enough.
But he will make it so it is.
BAM!
He plunged it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Until what remained was not the face of a man, but a slaughtered animal.