Snippet #2435507

“Wayland Smith...” It bothered him for some reason. He couldn't place his finger on it, but there was something up with the mans voice. It made his ears ring somewhat to hear it. Not the ringing most people hear, but a low metallic ring like a bell, and he didn't know why. It was disconcerting.

“Tell me, Wayland Smith, how would you like to be addressed, any nicknames, Mr. Smith, just Wayland?” Wayland appeared to ponder the question seriously for a second, but his mind was a storm of thought. Why am I not being tortured? Who is this man? Where am I? Question after question piled up, he however let none of this show on his face. He remained still as a statue, face set in rigid lines.

The man casually rested his chin on a single clenched fist. What did what he called him matter anyway? He wondered. Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, He couldn't figure out this ones game. Everyone to this point has been simple, low level grunts. This man, the way he's dressed, I bet you're right up at the top aren't you? He thought to himself.

“How did it happen?” He asked, in that same melodic voice that Wayland was growing to despise, his ears ringing with every syllable. “I know a great many things about you, but that was never found.” Oh, I see your game, I'm just an interesting little mystery to you aren't I? You'd just loved to figure us all out. Wayland grinned ever so slightly showing his teeth, and ignoring the question for the moment.

“Just Wayland is fine.” He rumbled out, relaxing his own posture into something less formal, but no less rigid in its bearing. “As for nicknames, some of the other prisoners seem to be fond of Brimstone.”

He let that hang in the air for a second, as he scratched his cheek, acting as if in thought again, but really watching the mans reactions, after a moment he replied.

“Honestly,” He started. Staring off into space for a second, lost in thought. Remembering the night he became like this. All he could remember was the soul searing agony of his Granny's death, and then the smell of ash, and flame before he passed out. He frowned as he recalled something, the pain was very much real. It had felt as if his whole body was on fire, then his senses were overwhelmed by ash, and smoke, and he woke in the facility. “I've no idea how I came to be like this, just born luck I suppose.” He tried, but couldn't keep from adding the last part to his sentence.

He'd always been comfortable around flames, temperatures that would make others uncomfortably warm rarely made him sweat. He was born with a higher than average core temperature as well, but he'd never thought anything of it, never considered why he loved metallurgy so much, or why he was so good at it. Curious.