Scars Bleed Gold

Eventuality

Even conversation can get stale when you're locked in a concrete cube for days on end. Some days were particularly bad, we couldn't even hear our own thoughts over something in the far reaches of our prison having a temper tantrum.

Weasel theorized that this was our punishment for what happened to that guy. Or maybe they knew what I did, and what I have. What we have. This was their way of dealing with me, to hell with the experiments, just lock the door and throw away the key. One less problem.

There goes the other 1471.

Still doesn't feel right, identifying with that number. With the number comes the status of being an 'anomaly,' something that shouldn't be. A glitch in the system, so to speak. That didn't feel right. I'm just me, just some guy! Nothing special. They killed the only one that really was special. Real special..

But that doesn't matter. I'll die in some 'glorified gulag,' or whatever Weasel called it.

Weasel tossed his hat at my face again, something he's grown all too fond of as a way to get my attention. He pointed at the wall bordering the hallway as I flicked the hat back to him, signaling me to listen.

I could just barely make out a cacophony of footsteps, the telltale sign of guards preparing the only event of our day, if we were lucky.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" He mumbled.

"Sounds like they're finally coming back. You know what that means, right?"

"Don't get it twisted, I appreciate the thought but I told you before, whatever you're planning leave me outta it!"

"I can't take on two guards by myself. If anything is gonna happen, it's gotta be quick, and quiet. If even one wrong person looks in here and catches us, we get our heads on a pike."

"You get your head piked! I want nothin' to do with this!"

"Then what was that business with the nodding when I took the shank? You looked all approving back then!"

"You were finally taking the right steps to keep yourself alive! Hanging back, keeping a little something sharp for just in case, because if you haven't noticed, the scrawny types don't do well!"

"It's a last resort. All goes well, it won't come to that. But I need help for that to happen. Come on, don't you want a chance to get out? You're at risk of dying early too."

"I've been fine before you showed up-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there. They came right for me; they knew who they wanted." When Weasel wasn't rattling on and on about something, my mind was replaying what had happened, trying to figure out an answer to something that had been eating at me.

"They don't pick and choose randomly. If they want you, they'll find you. The day will come. So, either help me out and get out with me or die here with me. Pick your goddamn poison." I spat, glaring daggers into Weasel as I pointed my shiv at him for emphasis, before tucking it up my sleeve.

Weasel nodded glumly, reluctantly producing his own and placing the shard under his hat like we were in a cartoon. I held back a snicker as we both leaned back against a wall, our eyes glued to the door. Any minute, they'd burst open, bathing us in light as guns were shoved up our noses.

"Run me through it will ya? Can't follow a plan you don't know, gotta go over it like fifty times." Weasel rasped.

"Plan is simple. Follow my lead."

The minutes dredged on. The both of us seemed to be locked in a never-ending staring contest with the cold steel, dreading to hear the faint stomping of boots stop outside of our door, before finally...