II — Disingenuous

Carter woke up.

It was the middle of the night. As far as he could tell, though he hadn't the money to purchase a clock or anything like that, it shouldn't be morning yet — growing up as they did gave them a good sense of time, and Carter felt confident stating that it was somewhere between 2 AM and 3 AM.

In other, more important, news, Carter really needed to piss. Should've probably remembered to use the bathroom before he went to bed; usually, he had something of a nightly ritual. The night was also his only chance to converse with the other Bound and with Grandfather, so he liked to take his time before bed. The day hadn't even been uncommonly tiring — but he supposed everyone had their off days.

He jumped from his mattress on the floor and to his feet, crossing his legs a little as his bladder reminded him of his necessity, and so did Carter skip away from his room and to the bathroom area near the entrance — which had been built over painstaking two years by Grandfather and his helpers, if the stories were true. Regardless, it was certainly convenient; pissing on a bucket would be so… icky.

The path to the bathroom was a long one, and because of that, it was certainly awkward. He found himself skipping over each step in the stairs to the higher levels, and when he finally did reach the bathroom, he felt as if he was a few minutes away from a disaster of unparalleled proportions for his already odd self-esteem.

After his business there was complete, Carter walked out of the bathroom area a much happier, and a considerably less risky to be around, man. Boy. Moy. Ban? Ah, whatever. 16 was close enough to adulthood, maybe.

"Now," he muttered, "to find my way back to my room…"

— The clicking of metal soles against the floor attracted his attention. It was rhythmic, denouncing calm footsteps somewhere nearby. His immediate thought was "Oh, someone else woke up", but the metallic tint to it convinced him otherwise; absolutely no Bound would have metal boots. Any who somehow acquired some would certainly not keep them for long.

His instincts flared up, and his eyes narrowed. Cautious, he crouched and kept his back pressed against the walls as he sneaked across the many tunnels and hallways, heading towards the direction the noise came from — the deeper parts of the mine.

Which also happened to be where his room was located. Again, his instincts flared something awful at him; a "Hey, this is way too weird to be a coincidence, stay where you fucking are" type of feeling, as it were.

Counterargument, though — his chest was in his room. And within that chest, his only memoirs of whoever he'd been before he was handed over to work his life away until someone decided he was 'ripe' and left him crippled by harvesting more than they should from his collar.

Nope, he decided. No way. That belonged to him — it was worth just as much as his worthless life, if not more.

Carter pressed on. It was a little difficult to walk down the stairs without making any noises, but the sound of metallic footsteps deeper down motivated him, and he kept descending until —

The metallic footsteps stopped. Carter froze in place, back pressed against the wall and eyes wide in some emotion he couldn't quite name.

And then —

"Hm…"

A deep voice, clearly belonging to a man, hummed. It was of a rich baritone, with a slight rasp to it, as if his throat was sore or otherwise damage.

"These are the quarters of the one you told me about — ah, Carter, I believe it was?"

The question was spoken calmly, firmly, and without much emphasizing. Whomever the man was speaking to was clearly beneath him in station; there was a certain lack of any tension in his voice that wouldn't have been there had he been speaking to an equal.

"Yes," answered Grandfather. "That's his. He's not quite there yet, though — tough cookie, that one. Hasn't gone through enough to warrant harvesting just yet… but he's close. Ah, don't worry about waking him up — he sleeps like a rock."

And with that, Carter's heart broke into pieces.

His hand went to cover his mouth before any noises escaped from it, but none would have nonetheless — Speechless wasn't quite the word.

Rather, it was as if he'd had the wind knocked from his lungs.

How cruel life was, hm? Cruel, cruel, cruel — and poetic in its justice.

"I see," responded the baritone voice. "And do you believe his Mana will be enough?"

"I am sure it will. The boy's itch is constant nowadays — he's almost prime for collecting. If you're worried about how much he'll supply, I can promise you it'll be a pleasant surprise."

"...Good." A pause. "And you have plans in place to… ripen him?"

"Yes, yes, don't worry. I've called in a few favours — he'll break before long."

"Good. Now, show me what you told me about in the mines…"

Their voice trailed off as the metallic footsteps began anew — only one pair, but he knew better. Grandfather had been the one to teach them of the ways to move silently, after all.

Grandfather, who had —

His lips trembled.

Grandfather, who had betrayed him. Sold him off.

Grandfather, who had been making sure he was ripe for slaughter — who planned on breaking him to squeeze more [Mana] out of him.

His lips trembled. His eyes hurt, and Carter resisted the urge to clutch at the fabric of the shirt he wore. There was a buzzing in the back of his head, a faint screaming in the bowels of his heart, and he had to physically push the desire to mimic it and scream in despair so that he could sneak back into his room. Once he did, he locked the door behind him and stared at the mattress with eyes as wide as they'd been when he first heard the voice.

— there it was again. The buzzing. Louder, louder. He felt itchy, uncomfortable, and not just in his neck.

It was strong.

It was also muted — silenced by the force of his disbelief.

No, no, no — there was no way. Or so he would like to say, but fact defeated fiction, and he would recognize that voice anywhere.

Truth hit him again. Disbelief was replaced by sadness. The buzzing grew louder, louder, louder —

Loud, loud, loud —

His thoughts grew blurry. It was too loud. Too loud, too loud — he fell to his knees in the mattress and let his nails dig into the skin of his arms and itch it away. It didn't fade, didn't fade, didn't fade.

He wanted to cry.

No, he didn't want to cry. He wouldn't — he'd never let himself cry before. He wouldn't cry for a —

For —

… Sadness turned to anger, hot red in its all-encompassing intensity. The buzzing grew louder and louder still until the time came where his balls drew blood and his thought were consumed by the combined wave of undeniable deniability.

— and then,

The dam burst.

Like a puppet plucked from its strings, he fell face-first into his mattress.