Chapter 29: Heart to Heart

It wasn’t the first time Quentin woke up from the pain and, gods willing, it wouldn’t be the last. At first he was annoyed. In a matter of seconds it was like floating in pleasant blackness, getting some much needed rest, and then the first aches and pains roused him. It was the pounding head that pulled Quentin from his slumber, though the burning of his various cuts were what kept him awake. He stirred, letting out a groan as he opened bleary eyes.

Bars in front of him, and to the sides. He had just enough space to lay down lengthwise in the cell, and maybe half as much width. He was laying on old, smelly straw, but it kept him off the cold stone floor. Quentin wiped the sleep from his eyes and sat up. There were two buckets in front of the cell door. One was full of water, the other was empty. He grabbed the empty one and turned towards the wall.

“Ain’t any privacy in here, sweetheart,” a voice called from his left. Two cells over was a ratty looking young man laying in his own straw, watching Quentin try and fail to piss.

Quentin turned with his back to the other prisoner and let it out haltingly, feeling eyes on him the entire time. So far, it was the worst part of being arrested. No sooner had the thought crossed him before the last night came back to him all at once. His throat tightened. Quentin shook himself empty and replaced the bucket, grabbing the water and splashing his face with it.

“Come on luv, don’t hide. Aww, I was enjoying the show,” the young man continued to call out to him. Who knew how long he’d been in there. He was probably bored out of his tears and Quentin was the closest thing to something interesting he’d seen in a while.

“Show’s over,” Quentin said, sitting back down and leaning against the wall. He checked over his arms. There were some light bandages there that were already soaked through with blood, but at least they hadn’t just thrown him into this piss smelling cage to die of an infection.

“Come on. Just a little bit of skin for a dead man? I wanna know if your cock’s white too.” The man waggled his eyebrows.

Quentin’s face heated up. That was far from the first time someone had said that to him. It was hard to avoid the anger, but anger was pointless right now. He sighed and closed his eyes. “It’s pink, actually. And maybe a bit purplish at times. Same as yours, I’d wager.”

There was silence, followed by snickering. “You’d lose that wager. Mine’s bigger.”

Quentin chuckled. “Of course it is.” Then he felt the blade dig into the big man’s guts and spill them out onto the ground. The image was gone in a second, but the horror lingered. “How long have I been in here?”

“How the fuck should I know? Do I look like I keep track of all the comings and goings of this charming establishment?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Been here since ‘bout ten last night.” There was a brief shuffling sound, and Quentin opened his eyes to find the other prisoner had shifted closer to the bars. With one cell between them, they were maybe four feet apart.

“Thanks,” said Quentin. He had no clue what else to say. It was still a shock, waking up in the local Watchtower’s basement cut up all to hell and having killed a man on the streets. Right in front of everyone. Gods, the girls had seen him fight for them before. They’d never seen him eviscerate a man. Razia had never seen it before.

Thinking of her hurt and made him unbelievably angry at the same time. She was lucky, he decided. Lucky he was there when those three assholes showed up, and lucky that they were apart so he couldn’t chew her out over keeping his new reputation from him. If he’d known...What? Would he really have stopped going out and spending time with his new friends? Quentin frowned.

“Name’s Peter,” the man said. “In for some petty thievery. Okay, a lot of petty thievery. You?”

“Quentin,” he grunted. “Murder, I think.”

Peter let out a long, exaggerated breath. “Oof. You just had to one up me, huh? Bastard.”

“Well, if I could take it back I would,” said Quentin. Would he? That man (Gregor, if memory served), had been trying to kill him. Which was fine. That was just another day for him, but he and his friends had been after Razia. It wasn’t like he could just let her go. She may have been a slippery, two faced bitch at times but she was his friend.

“Ahh, so we have a remorseful killer on our hands,” Peter said, nodding with understanding. “Nevermind, not one upped at all. You’re probably the only remorseful one in here. See that fat fuck over there?” He pointed, and Quentin followed his finger to Peter’s other side, where a large man was sleeping on his side.

“Yeah?”

“In here for killing neighborhood pets. Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Peter said, a crooked grin appearing on his face. “That doesn’t sound so bad, right? He was eating them. When they caught him, they found enough dunewalla bones to make a godsdamned dragon. Can you believe that?”

Quentin didn’t care. Not much, at least. In spite of himself he said, “Huh. Really?”

Peter grinned. “Naw, I’ve got no idea what he’s in for. But he looks the type.” And he burst out laughing again.

This time Quentin joined him with a weary chuckle and a crooked smile. It was surprisingly difficult to brood and hate himself with Peter’s chatter. Both of those things were important to him. No one else would give two shits for a dead gang member, or that Quentin killed him. No one was going to feel as much about it as Quentin was.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you Quentin?” Peter asked. Quentin shook his head no. “That’s alright. I’m sure I can talk enough for the two of us. At least until they drag our asses off to the Colosseum.”

Quentin’s first thought was how difficult it would be to execute himself. Going out into the ring and slitting his own throat would sure be a new show for them. At the moment, it sounded appealing. He’d killed a man, and that’s what they did to the killers they caught. Then the rest of his brain caught up with him. “They’re going to kill you over petty thievery?”

“A lot of petty thievery,” Peter corrected cheerfully. “At one point I may or may not have stolen a copper’s beetle cart. To be fair, I did give it back. Or they took it back before too long, at least. Was just a bit of fun, but they got offended. Said I’d had enough chances, and they needed more sacrificial lambs for the Blooming anyway. Bleeeeeh,” Peter bleated.

With growing horror, Quentin understood. Thieves sometimes got put to death, but most of the time they either did hard labor or spent a couple years as a slave, working off their debt. The only thieves he regularly put to death were those who stole ridiculous amounts from old, wealthy families. They were really going to have him kill Peter just to add to the Blooming’s quota. No wonder the man, barely more than a kid, really, seemed cracked.

Which meant that the Watch was looking to do the same to him. It was almost enough to make him laugh too. Quentin could just imagine Amicus’ face when he found out his star performer had been arrested for murder. He’d throw a fucking party and then have Quentin’s replacement do the deed. Well, Quentin amended with a snort, he’d try.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Quentin said, and he meant it. He offered Peter a sad smile. “For what it’s worth I don’t think you deserve to die for that. You probably deserve a good beating or two, but not death.”

“Aw, d’you mean it?” Peter clutched at his chest dramatically. “Thanks Quentin. That means a lot, coming from a bonafide murderer. But at least you’ll be right there with me. That’s why I’m making friends now,” he added in a stage whisper. “They do this every year. If we work together, we might be able to take the Butcher down.”

“Oh?” Quentin raised an eyebrow. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“Easy. Whichever of us goes up first, we try to wound him. Just a cut or two, right? Maybe that’s all we’ll get to do before he, y’know.” Peter drew his thumb across his throat and clicked. “If enough wounds add up, maybe one of us will get lucky.”

That made Quentin smile. “I like that plan,” he said. “Funny enough, that’s how the Butcher got his nickname. Did you know that?”

Peter’s eyes lit up in delight. “I did not!”

“Yeah. He wouldn’t kill them right away. He’d cut them a few times and let them start to get dizzy from the blood loss. His first win, it wasn’t a clean one. The man bled out on the sand while the Butcher stood there and watched.” Honestly, it wasn’t something Quentin was proud of. He’d been about the same age as Peter there, and was scared out of his mind. It was his first match, almost exactly ten years ago. The Blooming was the anniversary.

“So what you’re saying,” Peter said, “is that he’s a sadistic motherfucker and plays with his food? Maybe we should think up a new plan.” And then he fell silent for the first time since Quentin woke up, seemingly lost in thought.

That was fine. Quentin had plenty to think about on his own. Or to avoid thinking about, in Razia’s case. So much of the night before was a blur, but he remembered her face when that obnoxious bastard Georgie came up to them and Quentin realized what he was becoming. What Razia was setting up for him. It wasn’t fear, exactly. Quentin was used to fear.

It was hope. There they were, about to get into another of their arguments. Quentin had a reason to be upset, and Razia, damn her, was going to dance circles around his anger and point out exactly why her idea was a good one. Things went blurry right after that, but it was the hope Quentin couldn’t forget.

‘I was going to tell you, I promise.’ she’d said. When he played it in his head over and over again, it didn’t sound like an excuse. It sounded like a plan, interrupted before it could see fruition. Razia said she hadn’t planned on any of it, but she saw an opportunity brewing. An opportunity in him, or because of him? That was the part Quentin couldn’t quite get over. The real question was whether or not she was just using him. Whether or not she was actually his friend, or if he was just convenient.

It hurt to think of that, so Quentin didn’t. He went back to other painful thoughts, like the way that Gregor froze when the knife entered his stomach, and the way he dropped to his knees when the knife came out. Those weren’t much more comforting, but thinking of that was a pain Quentin deserved. Drugged or not, it was his fault for not finding a way to drop the bastard nonlethally.

Quentin knew it was stupid. He was drugged, and not in control of himself. Not all the way. He remembered things as they happened, but it was like remembering through a haze. In his memories he was loose and laughing, enjoying himself. Even when the fighting broke out. That much tracked. Quentin had an unfortunate love of fighting, even as he hated what came after the fight. That love is what made it his fault, even if everyone else were to forgive him.

Two cells over, the occupant stirred with a long, low moan. Quentin looked up from his brooding and his insides froze. There was the bastard’s leader. Philus, he thought he heard one of them say. At least Quentin wasn’t in here alone, but that sick feeling only deepened. It wouldn’t be long before Philus looked up and saw him and his memories would come flooding back too.

He watched Philus in silence as he dragged himself off the floor, blinking stupidly as the drugs still affected wracked his body. At least he wasn’t laughing like an idiot anymore. Philus dragged himself across the ground and all but buried his face in his own bucket full of water. He drank greedily from it, not stopping until he was out of breath and gasping for air. Then he sat up and looked around. Before too long, his eyes stopped on Quentin.

“You,” he seethed in a wet, raspy voice. “You fucking monster.”

“Oy, that’s my good friend Quentin,” Peter called from his cell. “That’s Mr. Monster to you.” he flashed Quentin two thumbs up.

Quentin cleared his throat and said the first thing to come to mind. “Me. Hi. I’m sorry for your friend.”

There was no right way to say it or approach the topic, but even then Quentin knew he chose an especially wrong way to go about it. Philus got to his feet and gripped the bars tight. His entire body shook with rage. “You killed Gregor.”

“Oh. Oh shit, this is juicy,” said Peter, eyes widening.

“He was trying to kill me first,” Quentin countered. “You were trying to kill me. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Just give us the fucking whore and walk away!” Philus screamed hoarsely. “That’s all you had to do. But no, you keep sticking your fucking nose in where it doesn’t belong and now Gregor is dead because of you. I hate you. I fucking hate you so much.”

Quentin closed his eyes and lay back against the cell wall. “That makes two of us,” he sighed.

“I still like you,” Peter supplied helpfully.

Down the long, thin corridor of cells, the door to the rest of the Watchtower opened and two officers came through. They went straight for Philus and drew their clubs. “Keep it down in there, scum. This is your one and only warning. If you scream or cry or fight with the other pieces of shit in here, we’ll start with your fingers.”

He slammed the wood against the bars, and Philus flinched away, falling on his ass. He turned that look of pure hate towards the coppers and quickly paid the price for it. Without needing to confer, one of them opened the cell while the other came in and brought the club down on Philus’ head. Philus kicked at him, probably without even meaning to, and that just earned him a second, and a third club until he was on the floor, head bleeding and eyes dazed.

The coppers left his cell and closed it, turning towards Quentin and Peter. Quentin dropped his eyes to their feet, knowing what they wanted from him. It wasn’t respect. Bastards who became the kind of coppers to bully prisoners wanted submission. Even Peter kept his mouth shut the moment they walked in there, and Quentin would’ve put money down on him being mouthy during the entirety of his arrest.

“That’s what I thought,” the copper said, laughing and patting his round belly. “At least one of you’s going to the Colosseum. No one’s gonna ask questions if you show up half dead already. I don’t wanna hear a peep out of any of you cunts. That clear?”

Quentin nodded, keeping his eyes at ground level.

“Peep,” peeped Peter.

Silence, then a sigh. “We thought you learned your lesson last time, Pete.” They walked past Quentin’s cell. They opened Peter’s and gave him a taste of what they gave Philus. The young man didn’t fight back, didn’t do much more than cover his head and take the beating on his arms instead. The bastards hitting him didn’t seem to care so long as he got beat down.

Satisfied, the more violent of the two hacked and spat on Peter before locking the cell back up. They walked out slowly, drawing their clubs along the bars and letting the sounds of the thunks serve as a warning or a promise to the prisoners. When they finally left, the silence that followed remained heavy with their presence.

“You alright?” Quentin said to Peter, craning his head to get a better look. Peter let out a pitiful groan. He was bruised all up and down his arms and face, but at least he wasn’t bleeding like Philus was. He’d taken a bad couple of hits to the head and his eyebrow was bleeding profusely. “What about you, Philus? You still with us?”

Philus haltingly pushed himself into a sitting position. His eyes roamed, never sticking to one thing for very long. “The fuck you care?” He said with a bit of a slur.

It was a good question. The fuck did Quentin care? If things had turned out differently last night, Philus would be the one who was dead and not Gregor. Or maybe the short one, Markus. The three of them had been hunting Razia down for weeks now. By all rights, Quentin should’ve hated them or been glad that their hunt was over. But he wasn’t.

“Look,” said Quention. “I don’t particularly like you and I don’t want anything to do with you. But that doesn’t mean I want anything bad to happen to you. Maybe I should. You three tried to mug us, and then you tried to turn Razia in for a bounty. That’s a shitty thing to do to people, but this is Orchrisus. I’ve come to expect that out of people. Mostly, I just want you to leave us alone.

“So I really am sorry about Gregor. If you three hadn’t come after us, this wouldn’t have happened. I may have killed him, but your insistence on coming after us is what got him killed.” Saying that didn’t end the guilt, even as Quentin recognized the words as truth. “I was just the knife, you were the one who did the stabbing.”

For nearly a minute, no one spoke. Not even Peter, who had sat back up and looked like the mirth had been beaten out of him. Philus stared at him, glared even, but said nothing until eventually he closed his eyes. A couple of tears trailed out from the corners. Quentin looked away from him.

“This was going to make us,” Philus said in a thick voice. “We were gonna be somebodies after this. Do you have any idea how much money they’re offering for that whore? We were gonna throw a big party, get noticed, get some real weapons and maybe do a real job or two.”

“I know,” said Quentin, not unkindly, “but you picked the wrong person to go after. I’m sorry it happened, but this is your fault.” He could’ve said more, but it would’ve been pointless. Words weren’t Quentin’s strength. Nothing he could say could convey how much he wished things had turned out different. “Have you ever killed anyone before?” he found himself asking.

Philus sniffed and wiped blood and tears out of his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course I have. Who hasn’t?”

“I haven’t,” Peter said weakly. They both ignored him.

In that second, Quentin appreciated the fine line Razia seemed to walk between truth and lies. She told him on more than one occasion that she lied a lot, but the lies were a way to shape and display the truth better. He hadn’t really understood what she meant up until now. “I hadn’t,” Quentin said, “not like that. Not in my personal life.”

Philus’ eyes managed to focus on him. There was confusion, realization, disbelief, and then loathing, back to back. “Gregor was the first person you killed on your own, and now you’re sorry, yeah?”

Quentin nodded.

“Fuck you, freak. What does it matter when or how you killed before? You think that’s gonna make me feel better? Gonna make Gregor feel better? Right now he’s probably being dipped in fire by the Darkstar for the shit we did. You think knowing it was your first time will make his atonement any better?” His voice rose as he spoke until he was all but shouting.

Quentin clenched his teeth. Every point driven home was like a fist to his face. No, he supposed it didn’t matter if Gregor was the first person outside of the Colosseum he’d killed. At the end of the day, Quentin was a killer, and it wasn’t fair of him to suddenly start caring or showing remorse now. For fuck’s sakes if he somehow got out of here, he was going to have to put down Peter, and maybe Phil anyway.

The door to the holding cells opened again. The same two officers stormed down the corridor. Peter whimpered and balled up as they got closer. Philus scrambled to put as much distance between him and the front of his cell as he could. He needn’t have bothered. They stopped in front of Quentin’s cell.

“On your feet, prisoner,” the fat guard barked.

Quentin obeyed, heart pounding as he looked between Phil and Peter. Why him? That was a stupid question. With everything else going on, why not him? Quentin grimaced and said, “What’s going on?”

The cop grinned a nasty grin. “Your fate’s been decided. It’s time to go.”