Bolt

BOLT The sandy floor was cool against Bolt’s bare feet. As he walked around his tiny ten by ten cell, he noticed every small rock and imperfection that touched his skin. The floor was mostly cold stone, gritty with gravel in some places and rough with sand in others. Pacing and focusing on the sensations in the cell kept him from going entirely mad. However, he was aware that his captivity had certainly driven him away from sanity. As he turned at the corner to pace back along the wall, he could almost feel the powerful limbs and swinging tail of his shifter form. The pensive pacing wasn’t uncommon for creatures of his ilk. The prison echoed with the voices of other prisoners. Farther down the corridor, he could hear shouting, even begging and pleading. His muscles tensed, and he growled just a little. The comfort and power of his other shape was so close, but he could not shift. They would not let him shift. He was weaker than he had ever been in his life. Recently he had begun to lose most of his muscle. His daily work was utterly backbreaking — smashing massive boulders into sand. He paced most of his time in captivity, the restless movement a reaction from his inner beast to being caged. The issue was the food. It was barely enough to keep a man alive, let alone maintain his fitness. He paused by the corner and put his hands on the bars of the cell. Across the way, he could see a thin man sitting, staring at the wall. He couldn’t tell much by looking at his back, but his stance made it clear that the other prisoner had given up. He had wasted away, in his mind, body, and soul. I will not let that happen to me! He thought in a fury. He could not conceive of giving up. His pride and strength would not allow it. With a pensive growl, he resumed his pacing, so intent on his inner turmoil that he could almost feel his tail twitching behind him. His fists clenched, and his shoulders tightened. In response to the adrenaline, he started walking on the tips of his toes, ready to spring or pounce. He had been beaten, starved, and tortured with sleep deprivation and hunger, yet his pride would not die. He had thought that taking his power, his ability to shift, was the worst possible insult they could do to him. In the days after that, he learned about true brutality. With his shifter self out of reach, he had to endure all of this torture as nothing but a human. Being beaten because he couldn’t pound rocks fast enough. Being jeered at and degraded. Forced to wear ragged, dirty clothes. The horrific state of the cell that did not even have a proper bed or blanket. The horrible thin gruel that was their only food. Anger burned inside him. He could tear them all apart in seconds with the strength of his tiger. It lurked within him, a bright, burning presence that looked upon the world with utter disdain. It fed his anger, his spirit. He knew even if they broke him with beatings and torture, or even killed him, his heart would still beat with the fire of a tiger. I will not go easily! He thought when he heard the footsteps of multiple people approaching. No one ever came down this way unless it was for mealtime. There was only one reason more than a single person would be visiting. They had to be coming to execute him. He felt a brief moment of despair. All the things he had done — he admitted that not all of it was good — and all the things he would never do crowded his mind. It didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was to hold his head high and maybe take out as many of the bastards as he could. Two guards entered the cell. He rushed them, but one of them neatly cracked him in the knees with a short baton. He went down, and then the weapon struck his ribs. He cried out in pain. The moment he was immobilized, they snapped heavy chains on his arms and dragged him to his feet. His breath came hard, and he glared at his jailers, all the fury of his tiger emanating from his eyes. The chip implant in his neck that prevented him from shifting tingled as he thought about how wonderful it would be to tear them apart. As they dragged him down the corridor, Bolt thought of Cannon, his best friend, and the rest of their unit. He knew all of them were ultimately guilty. They had fought hard and well in this war. They did not harm women or children and tried to engage in battles for the fair and just. Though he felt a terrible regret that he had been a mercenary at all. Fighting for money wasn’t as pure as fighting for a cause. He'd had a family once, mother and father and a little sister. They believed he was dead. After one of his early missions went awry, and he and Cannon and a small group of others found themselves on the run, it was better to break all ties with his past to protect them from anyone wanting revenge. “I never disobeyed my own honor!” he hissed at the guards as they dragged him down the corridor. He was weak and stumbled, but they just kept dragging him, making his toes slide on the stone. He shook his head violently and felt a trembling in his arms. His strength was failing. It was over. They’ll kill me, and finally, I will have peace. I’ve tried so hard to do the right thing, to put my brutal skills to good use. If I’m still seen as an enemy, there is no reason left to fight. They dumped him in a straight-backed, metal chair and locked the cuffs to the armrests. He sat with his head hanging down, breath heaving. Where would the blow come from? Would they cut off his head? He braced for it.