Keitaro awoke from his drugged sleep groggy and uncertain. His head felt like it was being held underwater. All sound was muffled and garbled, and his sight was blurred and out of focus. There was a familiar sickness in the pit of his stomach, and Keitaro felt the bile rise in his throat as his body fought against the medication that had been forced upon him once again. His shoulders shook and perspiration created a shiny sheen on his tense skin. He was too hot and too cold at the same time, and his throat burned with a thirst that demanded water. Blindly, Keitaro flung his arm wide in an attempt to feel for the pitcher that was a permanent fixture at his bedside. His hands shook as he forced his wretched body into a sitting position, and just as he did, accidentally knocked the little plastic cup from the low table. The dull sound of it striking the ground resonated dumbly in his little wooden cell, and he groaned. But the little sound and the parting of his lips made his nausea worse, and Keitaro soon found himself doubling over on his bed, his back arching as his body threatened to eject the contents of his stomach onto the filthy, sweat stained mattress. Keitaro gasped for breath, his trembling fingers finally hooking around the ceramic fixture. It was heavy, and it seemed like an eternal struggle as he lifted it to his lips.
His arm gave an involuntary spasm, knocking the water from the pitcher so that it spilled over his head and face, to drip sickeningly down his bare back. Keitaro gasped, and the water helped to knock sense into his befuddled mind. The sharp chill striking his hot skin brought sanity back, and he staggered away from his bed to lean against the wall, forcing air in and out of his lungs. With each breath he took, memories returned and so did his senses. At first, it only made the nausea worse, but Keitaro growled softly in an attempt to control his rebelling body. First, came sight, though there wasn't much to see. His little cell was crafted entirely of wood and plastic and materials that were of no use to him whatsoever. The sights were all cruelly familiar, except for one shining beacon of hope. The door swung ajar, and from outside, the sounds of screams and disorder reached his ears.
On unsteady, bare feet, Keitaro stumbled over to the door frame, which he clutched tightly. Each move was an effort, but he was regaining his strength with every passing second. Outside, the corridor was filled with people crushing together. It was a writhing mass of bodies, and blood seemed to smear each person's face. Many were frightened and confused, but others, mostly the guards, fought the tide of freed prisoners with brutal lashings of their batons. Keitaro recoiled instinctively, almost tripping over the cup that had fallen to the floor, just as a guard caught a hold of one poor prisoner and thrust him into Keitaro's open cell. The skinny man who had fallen to the ground cried out for mercy, curling into a fetal position and covering his head as the guard yelled obscenities at his unwilling victim, striking him masochistically with his shiny baton.
Anger flared in Keitaro's body, and despite his delayed recovery, he took advantage of the fact that the guard hadn't noticed him. Turning, he took the ceramic pitcher in his hand and hefted the heavy contained in one hand, before raising it above his head and then bringing it down on the skull of the guard with a sickening crack. The guard let out a grunt of pain before keeling over and falling to the ground beside the prisoner who lay shaking and in shock on the floor. It was then that Keitaro became aware of the ringing of the alarm, and he remembered the plan. He grimaced and looked around wildly. Time was passing, and he knew that the others wouldn't wait for him. Sparing one last apologetic glance to the prisoner he left behind, Keitaro turned on his heel and ran.
He knew that he would be risking things even more by taking the detour he felt duty bound to take. But Keitaro felt honor bound to follow the path. When he had been taken to the prison his first time, all of his possessions had been taken from him. At the time, Keitaro remembered caring about many of the items they had taken - a watch, a pen, his money - but now it was all worthless in materialistic value. Except for one item, and that was his family sword, and he didn't hesitate before turning down the hall that would take him to the room where all of the prisoners confiscated belongings were kept.
When he arrived, it looked as though the room had already been raided for all that could be used as a weapon, and the floor was littered with the remains of prisoners and guards alike. Abstractly, Keitaro wondered just how many people had died so far, but he knew that he didn't have time to dwell on the thought. He turned to where there was a closet on the back wall, and nodded to himself as he stepped over the dismembered arm of some poor and probably deceased individual. That was where his sword was kept. The closet itself was of a dull green wood that stank of damp, but the ground at it's floor was scorched an ashen black, which made Keitaro pause. Though the closet was pretty poor defense for some of the objects that would no doubt be kept inside, the burnt ground informed him that at some point there was some sort of a Power Shield around the structure, and he had no idea if it was still active. Keitaro cursed beneath his breath at the delay before looking around the room for inspiration.
Keitaro was well aware that if he touched the shield itself, if it even existed, it would likely burn him pretty bad, and alert whoever had created it to the fact that someone was trying to get past it. And that was something he couldn't risk. As he frantically looked around the room, Keitaro's gaze fell on an abandoned arrow. It was average in appearance, but there was one thing that he noticed in particular. The tip, like the tips of all modern arrows, was crafted of a fine black metal, and he found himself grinning with victory. After exerting his power for just a moment, the metal had melted free of the shaft it was attached to, and had formed a perfect sphere, which he directed at the closet.
The spherical morsel of metal shot forwards to strike the wood of the closet with a soft thump, but moments before it did, there was a slight rippling of light in the air in front of him as it broke the Power Shield that had protected it. Keitaro chuckled softly. Really, the shield had been weak, but from the remains of the little metal ball he had created, it did have quite a strong heat to it once broken. The shiny metal had turned dull, and a light white crust had formed over the top of it. But, now, it meant nothing to him.
Keitaro strode forwards and melted the padlock on the doors before tugging them open, and then found himself faced with an earthy stench of damp and decaying wood. It really was foul, but he could afford no more time for hesitation. He reached in, pulling out and throwing aside the myriad of items within that didn't belong to him, before he found his sword at the bottom of the pile. Victoriously, he pulled the scabbard free, and held it aloft to examine the damage done to the finely crafted weapon.
The scabbard itself was of lacquered wood, deep black, and strong enough to withstand a blow from most swords. But, as he pulled the weapon from it's rest, Keitaro scowled at the condition it was in. Rust discolored the once fine steel, and the blade had become blunt. It was easily fixed. Keitaro ran his hand along the steel, and as he did, the blade became razor sharp and the rust fell away to form a small pile on the ground between his bare feet. Satisfied with the restoration of his family sword, Keitaro felt that progress was finally being made. He put the scabbard at it's place on his back, and slid the sword back in. As he turned to make his way to the designated meeting place, Keitaro froze just as his bare foot landed in a gory puddle of thick, congealed blood.
He almost gagged at the feeling of a dead man's cool, wet, innards squelching between his toes and hastily fled the scene, fleeing the sensation as much as running from the horrific prison itself. By now, the corridors were become clear. The sound of the alarm was fading, and the screams were becoming little more than whimpers of denial and fear as prisoners were herded back inside their cells by grim faced guards. Keitaro shook his head and ran, carefully leaping over the corpses that made his path dangerous. It was only as he ran, that he realized that he was slightly under dressed. His chest and feet were bare, and his pants, torn at his calf, were bloodied and worn. But it didn't matter now. All that mattered now was that he got to the cafeteria before the others left. Keitaro was becoming slightly breathless, but he pushed forwards, until he heard a familiar voice just around the corner.
"Who else are we waiting on?"
"I'm...I'm sorry, I'm late," Keitaro gasped as he slid into the cafeteria, looking around wildly, his chest heaving as he dragged air into his lungs. The nausea returned for a moment, but he pushed it away and looked around at those that were gathered, counting them.
"Is this everyone? I count everyone," He coughed as he ran a hand through his hair.