Scraps and Promises

4317 clawed his way through the jungle. The winds howled in the dense forest. It giggled through the leaves, like hyenas laughter.

He grasped for air desperately with every step he took. His eyelids drooped. He could barely stand. The Earth dragged him down. The soft soil felt like quicksand.

He collapsed, slumping back against a tree trunk, the potion's power had finally ebbed, leaving behind crushing fatigue and hollow uncertainty. The forest's silence pressed in, heavier than before. 

What now? 

The question loomed, vast and terrifying. He was free, perhaps, but utterly alone.

Where could he go? What could he possibly do? 

The vast, hostile wilderness outside seemed just another kind of prison. The image of Elera's smile flashed in his mind. He blushed remembering their brief exchange.

Maybe she'll forgive me. Should I go back to the pit? 

His stomach growled.

Should've brought the bread.

The oppressive gloom between the twisted trees Closed in. The unnatural stillness felt… watchful. A primal warning prickled the back of his neck. But he didn't have any energy left in him.

Even the insect chorus, the glass-bell chirps that filled the forest had stopped. 

Too quiet.

He tried pushing himself up, every muscle protested. His head spun.

A shadow detached from gloom beneath a massive, fungus-capped root to his right. Not a sudden movement, but a smooth, silent coalescing of darkness into a humanoid shape, clad in matte black gear that seemed to drink the weak light. No emblem, no insignia. But 4317 knew deep inside they were here for him.

He froze.

Watchers? Guards?

Instinct screamed at him to flee.He tried whirling up, but he just couldn't.

Another figure stepped silently from behind the twisted tree he'd leaned against. Taller, closer. It didn't draw weapon. He was the weapon. Before 4317 could react, before he could even draw breath to scream, the figure moved. A blur of impossible speed.

A gloved fist, impossibly hard, drove into his solar plexus with surgical precision. All the air exploded from his lungs in a silent gasp. Agony radiated outwards, he saw stars, he felt bile in his mouth and threw up. As he crumpled forward, consciousness shredding like wet paper, a voice cut through the ringing silence. It was flat, devoid of emotion, yet carrying the chilling weight of absolute authority – and a message not its own.

"The Lady is disappointed."

The words were the last thing he heard before the forest dissolved into absolute, unforgiving black.

 ......….

Consciousness returned like a slow, painful tide washing over jagged rocks. 4317's head throbbed, a dull, insistent drumbeat against the inside of his skull. His mouth tasted of copper and bile. He tried to move, but cold, biting metal answered, clamping his wrists and ankles at place. 

He was seated on a frigid, damp floor, back against a stone wall.

He forced his eyes open, blinking against the gloom. Dim, flickering light came from a single caged bulb high on the opposite wall, casting long, distorted shadows. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, stale water, and something metallic – blood or rust, he couldn't tell. Condensation beaded on the rough-hewn stone walls, dripping with slow, maddening regularity into unseen puddles. 

A cell. But not like the tiers. He knew there was a prison somewhere but he never thought he'd be lucky to visit. The chill seeped through his tattered and bloodied surgical gown, gnawing at his bones. 

Dizziness swirled, remnants of the knockout blow and the sickening over exhaustion of the potion. 

Elara. 

The name stabbed through his fogged mind.

What does she want? Didn't she like me?

But he heard clearly, the guard said lady Elara was disappointed. The crushing weight of helplessness threatened to smother him. He was chained,clueless and utterly drained. His eyes threatened to glue shut again.

A little bit of rest won't matter.

He closed his eyes. The pain from the gravet-maw vines fight felt like a dull ache now. Though the wound will fester at this rate. The memory of burying 3952 felt warm in his mind.

Hope you're sleeping well.

..........

How long did it pass?

He blinked in the dark. A rat stared at him.

It chewed on something. His stomach growled. His lips were parched. 

Did they just leave me here to die of thirst and hunger? No… They preferred seeing us slaughtered. I would've been dead already if they wanted me dead.

4317 stared ahead. His thoughts drifted here and there. He saw the distorted shadow dance as the bulb flickered. He counted the rats, some of them came close and sniffed him and decided not to bother, and went scurrying somewhere. Another climbed over his leg. He didn't care.

Elara. I don't understand. Why did she heal me, and even gave me bread. She's different. She can't be the same as the others. Right?

He wanted to believe it. That some part of her—the way she smiled, the way she looked at him when he gave her his number—meant something. That the cruelty she inflicted on Jax meant she cared about justice. Not just power.

But then... Why the chains?

The silence was shattered by the sharp, precise click-clack of heels on concrete. The sound echoed down the corridor outside, growing louder. Each stride was measured. A soft floral scent wafted in. He couldn't forget it. 

The steps stopped just beyond the heavy metal door of his cell. A key scraped in the lock. The door groaned open.

Elara stood silhouetted in the slightly brighter light from the corridor. She stepped inside, the click-clack resuming on the damp floor. She wore sleek, dark attire, functional yet elegant, her hair immaculate. Her expression was one of detached curiosity, like a scientist observing an interesting, albeit troublesome, specimen. She stopped just beyond his reach, looking down at him where he sat chained.

"Awake, I see," she remarked, her voice smooth, almost pleasant. It made the setting even more perverse. "Good. Saves me the trouble of reviving you." She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting in the low light. "Do you know what you did wrong, 4317?"

He stayed silent, meeting her gaze. It was unsettling, this was not the same person that saved him from Jax. Her eyes made him shudder. A cold seeped in his bone just from looking at her, he broke the gaze and stared at the floor.

4317 didn't know what to say, "Sorry, my Lady. Please forgive me."

A faint, cold smile touched her lips. "At least you have manners. Look at me, 4317." He obeyed. Her gaze softened a bit but it was still there. He knew one more mistake and he'll meet the same fate as Jax or even worse. He gulped, the silence was oppressive.

"I'll do anything to get forgiven, my Lady." His voice quivered. Elara mused, "Oh! Then tell me, what is it that you did wrong?" 

Silence.

"Cat got your tongue?" 

"I'm sorry for betraying your expectations and sneaking out." 

"Well, there's that. Let me illuminate you," Elara conjured a burning flame orb in her hand. It lit her face in warm gold but her eyes remained cold. 

"I offered you… respite. A taste of comfort. A glimpse of something beyond the grime." She took a slow step closer, the scent of her perfume momentarily overpowering the damp. "And what did you do? You spat on it. You chose filth. You chose carrion." Her voice remained level, but the accusation was scalding. "You betrayed the opportunity presented. You betrayed me. Do you understand the gravity of the sin you committed?"

The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Her gaze raked over him, not with anger, but with a chilling appraisal that felt violating. It wasn't just about the escape; it was about him rejecting the role she'd begun to craft for him in her twisted narrative. "Such potential," she murmured, almost to herself, her eyes lingering on his face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "To kill a gravet-maw without blooming. Bare-handed at that. It was entertaining. So I'll give you another chance."

She crouched down suddenly, bringing her face level with his, too close. He could see the fine lines of calculated cruelty around her eyes, the utter lack of empathy. "You want freedom, little mouse?" she whispered, her breath ghosting over his cheek. The proximity was intimate, terrifying. "True freedom is an illusion. But survival… survival is a prize you can earn. If you are strong enough. If you are… entertaining enough." Her hand rose, not to strike, but to hover near his cheekbone. He flinched involuntarily. Her smile widened, a predator relishing the prey's tremor. "Survive what comes next. Prove it wasn't a fluke. Prove you have value beyond being tierless fodder." She paused, letting the implication sink in, the threat veiled as an offer. "Survive… and we'll discuss your future. Fail…" She shrugged, the gesture elegant and dismissive. "Well,you'd be dead to know what's happening."

She rose slowly, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve with deliberate precision.

Then, with that same breathless nonchalance, she added,

"Oh—and your little medic friend. The droid."

4317's gaze flicked up.

Elara smiled again. This one was different. Tighter.

"Hel, was it?" she mused, as if searching her memory for something trivial. "Quite the anomaly. Did you know she's under Emberdeep jurisdiction? Strict protocol. Can't override orders. Can't choose favorites. Yet she healed you more than she was supposed to. Broke regulation. Gave you this…" Her finger tapped the spot just above his heart, gently. Mockingly. "…and then handed you a berserker-grade stimulant on top of that?"

She leaned in again, her perfume sweet and sickening.

"I could've had her melted down. I still might."

4317's jaw clenched. He tried to speak but couldn't. The air in the cell felt suddenly thinner.

"But I didn't," Elara continued, voice honeyed. "No, I merely… reassigned her. Sent her to the salvage tiers. Stripped for parts. She might still be humming, if no one's picked her clean."

She watched the horror bloom across his face.

"Now do you understand, 4317? Mercy is a currency. And you just spent yours."

He looked away. Breathing hard. Fists tightening until the chains rattled.

"I could've left her untouched. Could've let her work her duties until her clock burned out. But instead, I had to correct a mistake. Yours."

Silence stretched.

Then softly, like a blade sliding under skin:

"But here's the game. You survive the arena… not just survive, but impress... and I'll call her back. Whole. Intact. Maybe even promote to someplace better. Wouldn't that be nice?"

4317 trembled.

"You want her free?" Elara asked, voice silken. "Then crawl, dog. Bleed. Kill. Bow."

A pause.

"Give me what I saw in that dome... what made even the vines hesitate. That spark."

Her hand cupped his chin this time, gently tilting his face toward hers.

"You may hate me, 4317... But hate, when wielded right, is such a beautiful motivator."

Then From a small pouch at her belt, she produced a collar. Not leather, but a seamless band of dull black metal, unadorned but radiating a subtle, technological menace. She didn't ask. With swift, efficient movements, ignoring his instinctive recoil against the wall, she fastened it around his neck. It clicked shut with a final sound that vibrated against his throat, cold and constricting. There were no visible controls, just smooth, unyielding metal. A leash.

She snapped her fingers and the restraints clamping his wrist and ankles were freed. "Another snap and your head will pop like a balloon."

Balloon, what's that? I don't want to find out.

Just like before she conjured a bread and a potion from her jeweled ring and threw it in front of him. 

"Be ready, and don't die pathetically." Without another word, she turned and walked out, the click-clack fading down the corridor. The heavy door clanged shut, plunging him back into the oppressive gloom, the cold collar a new, tangible weight of her ownership.

He didn't have long to dwell on it. The rats already gathered around the bread, so he hurriedly ate the whole loaf, and drank the whole vial. He felt warm energy rush in him, the wounds itched as the open skin mended together to form a bruise. Not completely fixed but better than before.

Minutes later, the door opened again. Two figures, clad in the same featureless black gear as his captors, entered silently. They didn't speak. One of them gripped his arms with impersonal strength, and hauled him to his feet and marched him out.

He was led down damp, echoing corridors, deeper into the bowels of… wherever this was. The air grew colder, damper. Finally, they stopped before a massive, reinforced hatch. One guard worked a control panel. With a grinding rumble, the hatch slid aside, revealing not another corridor, but vast, terrifying darkness.

He was shoved forward, stumbling into the cavernous space. The doors clanged shut behind him, sealing with a hydraulic hiss.