Two big ones and me, locked in a sealed cell. My chances aren’t looking good. Can I pretend to cooperate? Will they believe me?

  “Relax, we only want you to answer some questions,” the partner… no, this Padras voice casually says, lifting a chair and gently carrying it over next to me. “Take a seat, you’ll be more comfortable.”

  They’re so obsessed with their seats. Is the ground not good enough for them? Or keeping on your feet and busy? Lazy, lazy, lazy. Out of habit I bring my hands up to check my hood, but then recall that I’m wearing a false face. Need to be careful to not accidentally give the ruse away with old habits.

  “Here, don’t be scared,” the Padras voice softly coos, lifting me up from the ground and placing me on the chair. “There, much better.”

  “Don’t coddle him just because he’s a kid,” the strong one scolds. “That might be a stone cold killer right there.”

  Concern electrifies my body at his statement. Do they know? How could they? It was only the three big ones! Are they angry? My brothers never got particularly upset when one of ours was killed, so what right do they have to be so mad? Hypocrites.

  “Come on, Kurt,” the Padras voice chides back, rolling his eyes. “He won’t give us anything if you keep threatening him. All I did was give you a seat, right?”

  The partner looks me dead in the eyes, beaming out a bright, saccharine smile. This is strange. A smiling big one always, always means that they want something, and usually they don’t ask. They take. Not knowing what else to do, I enthusiastically display an encouraging nod in return. Their favorite.

  “There, you see? It’s not hard if you’re not an asshole.”

  “Not sure that I’m the asshole given the smell of him,” the Kurt voice grumbles softly, turning away.

  “Actually, that’s a really good point,” the Padras voice agrees, scowling.

  Reaching inside a bag, he pulls out a stick and then lays it on my shoulder. Watching fearfully, I notice his eyes glowing. Is he amplifying them? Will he be able to see through the mask? Wincing and tensing, I realize that all I can do is wait.

  The stick also begins to glow, and then its light gradually travels out to cover my entire body. A moment later, there’s a quick, small burning followed by a cooling breeze. Leaning forward, the partner takes a sniff before quickly moving back and repeating the process several more times.

  “Gads, kid. How long have you been down there?”

  On the last iteration, I finally understand what’s happening. All the dirt, dust, and grime that I’ve lovingly built up on my skin and clothes is gone. All burned away. Risking a quick glance under a glove, I see that the tiny cracks on my skin have greatly worsened, visible now without even empowering my eyes. Why would they be so cruel?

  “Kyack!” I impulsively gag at the sense of putrid sterility covering me before I can help myself.

  “All better. Did our boots as a matter of habit when we left the sewers, but forgot about little old you.”

  “Enough wasting our time, Padras,” the Kurt voice interjects. “This pup better start answering questions or I’ll bring out another magic rod that he’s not gonna like.”

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  “Ugh, we have to actually ask him questions first, Kurt,” the Padras voice calmly redirects with shrinking patience. “Can you tell us your name, child?”

  Frozen in fear and still racked with disgust, I can only shake my head from side to side. Maybe I should have created tokens to better explain my situation? Like the ones I use for the porters. However, I’ve always avoided any interactions that aren’t forced on me. Therefore, what would’ve been the purpose?

  “You can’t?” he responds, surprised and skeptical.

  Thinking fast, I point to my mouth and shake my head again. No voice, no voice. No significance. No trouble. Stop looking. Insignificant.

  “Aw no, he’s another blasted mute?” the Kurt voice loudly exclaims, dejected. “What a pain. There goes the bounty.”

  “Shut up, Kurt.”

  The partner softly lifts the table over next to me, and then takes out paper, an inkwell, and a small stick with a sharp, pointed end. It looks enough like the claw on my finger that I can imagine its intended use.

  “This isn’t my first time with a subject like this. It’ll still work. Can you write?”

  Hesitantly I nod, and then pull everything over close to me. Tightly holding the stick in a clenched fist, I dip it in the ink before bringing it over to the paper. However, then I pause. Is it right to tell them my real name? Thinking quickly, I take the first big one name that comes to mind.

  “Harold,” I awkwardly scrawl and scratch on the paper.

  It’s incredibly difficult to do with this stupid stick and these gloves. It’ll limit me to simple, short responses. However, that’s probably for the best. Don’t want to give too much away.

  “Excellent, that’s a start,” the Padras voice enthusiastically commends. “What were you doing down in the sewers?”

  “Home,” I write, unsure of what else to say.

  After all, it’s more comfortable down there. Better than living above ground with the disgusting big ones. Every cave, ditch, or sewer is more home than anywhere else in the dungeons. Hopefully they’ll accept that answer.

  “You live down there?” the Kurt voice contemptuously interrupts. “What, do you eat the rats too?”

  Eager to please, I nod in affirmation at his astute observation, but then both simultaneously lean back and glower at me.

  “You…? Never mind,” the Padras voice continues. “How long have you been down there?”

  About to honestly report six months, I catch myself.

  “Year,” I write.

  “Patrols have missed him for an entire year?”

  “No one’s exactly searching for a wild child down there,” the Padras voice explains. “He probably knows to avoid them. Especially if it’s some loud oaf like you.”

  Nodding in response, I’m elated that they’re buying the story. Not that it’s entirely wrong, but with the way that this is going, hopefully they’ll free me soon. After all, even the Vastra giant eventually bores of dragging me around. Maybe these are the giants here? Will they also give me an involuntary task? A copper coin gift?

  “About six months ago, did you happen to see another person in the sewers? Not a guard like us. He may have been dressed like a courier. He would have seemed very out of place. He may have also been gravely injured.”

  Panic. What can I say? I shake my head in response as quickly as I’m able.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean. Can you write it down?”

  “No,” I hurry to comply, scrawling a clear negative onto the paper.

  To my horror, In the rear of the room, the strong one grows a giant, goofy smile covering the entirety of his face.

  “You’re right, Padras. It works for writing too. He’s definitely lying.”