Name: shadowsong26
Story: Desperate Times
'Verse: Feredar
Colors: Bone #12. bone farm, Arsenic #4. mercury, Grey #8. the men in grey suits
Supplies and Materials: photography, eraser (Confessions AU), stain (“You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.” - Winston Churchill), modeling clay, pastels (my current GRK card O3 "hunger"), novelty beads (Heat holding steady)
Word Count: 224
Rating: R
Characters: Isshiri
Warnings: References to torture, references to the events of Sending a Message, references to amputation, molten metal being poured on skin
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always. This takes place some time after It's a Trap. Last Bone!


Isshiri had been left alone, for the first time in the days (weeks? months? He'd lost track) since his capture. He shied away from attempting to catologue everything that had been done to him. Once he got out (he would get out) he'd be debriefed and he'd have to. But that was a ways away.

First he had to get out.

He tested his range of motion as best he could--limited. When the pain didn't stop him, the chains did.

Chains. First problem.

(How will I be able to move after I--)

Focus. Chains.

He couldn't break them. Not after all the...sessions.

But he hadn't been recollared. Just shackled. Which meant...he had options. Not fine control, not right now, so he couldn't cut the chains, but...

He stared at the manacles.

It would hurt. It would hurt a lot,

But he'd be free. He'd have a chance.

He closed his eyes and poured all the heat he could into his wrist and ankles. He did his best to ignore the pain, the stench, the sick crawling feeling of molten metal trailing down, the desperate certainty that this meant losing the other one--

And the door opened. And there was someone yelling, and a sharp impact on the back of his head, then everything died--heat, light, sound, stench, molten trails--everything except the fear.