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SETTING

Setting of the story

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a character in “Facility”, as played by The(Doctor)Horrible

So begins...

SETTING's Story

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Embossed into a wall of each cell is a list of rules. These are also broadcast each "morning" over loudspeakers hidden in the shadows hanging under the tall roof.

Welcome to the Facility.

All inmates are reminded that you must be wearing the scrubs provided to you and demonstrate good hygiene. This includes daily showers, disinfection, clothing changes, and compliance with staff requests.

All inmates are reminded that acting up is not tolerated under any circumstances.

All inmates are reminded that good behaviour is rewarded.

All inmates are reminded that sedation is not optional, nor can it be given by request.

Welcome to the Facility.


Matthew Wilson has been assigned ID number 2120

Roald Hartford has been assigned ID number 2121

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Persephone Nyx Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: SETTING Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson Character Portrait: Zilla Levina
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Cells are arranged in long rows consisting of one hundred a line. The first two numbers in an ID is the row number. Odds are for males, evens for females. Row 11 faces row 12, row 13 faces row 14, et cetera. The last two numbers are the cell's placement in that row. For example, cells 1111 and 1211 are directly across from one another. Unless a Powered requires it for the safety of everyone in the Facility, cells are not soundproof. They can be communicated across unless preventative measures are taken. All cells are adaptive. Visibility is a privilege. All cells are able to be moved by a large crane hidden in the shadows over everyone's heads, almost like an elaborate warehouse. The facility is invariably painted bright white and is very very well lit under the level of the lights. Again, this can change depending on the needs of an inmate's keeping.

Meals are given twice daily, sedation by various means whenever the previous dose is half an hour from running out. The most common method is a gas vent in the ceiling. Some Powered require tranq shots or some other method. Unless otherwise required, each cell has a simple cot, sink, shower spigot, and powdered disinfectant dispersal system. Emergency methods are in place for every inmate.

Any polymers used are clear, tintable, and able to be manipulated in a variety of ways. They are insanely resilient, nearly impossible for even a Powered to go through. Any other materials are treated to be more than strong enough to handle what it will receive from any side.

Matthew Wilson's cell is constructed of polymers. It's kept colder than most, but not unbearably so. Emergency measure: A sudden drop in temperature to below freezing and water vapour dispersal.

Roald Hartford's cell is constructed of polymers. It's just large enough to keep any large forms he may shift into contained, if uncomfortably so and to the damage of all interior features. Emergency measure: gas grenades of varying strengths depending on the size of his form.

Wayland Smith has been assigned ID number 1337. His cell is constructed of non-flammable, conductive polymers. Below the floor is a matrix which is able to send up electricity. Emergency measure: Activate said matrix and keep active until cell is able to be moved away.

Persephone Nyx has been assigned ID number 1441. Her cell is constructed of Gypsum boards with Rockwood insulation. Only one side is constructed of polymers, and upon any sort of heating up the cell will begin to take on water. All items inside are flame retardant, scrubs included. A thin film of water is kept on the floor. Emergency measure: Flood cell.

Cassandra Hall has been assigned ID number 1434. Her cell is constructed of polymers and has a thin film of water on the floor. Emergency measure: One shot gas grenade, flood cell.

Zilla Levina has been assigned ID number 2218. Her cell is constructed of insulation coated by conductive polymers, through which a pulsing current runs through. Emergency measure: Tazer, gas grenade.

Welcome to the Facility.

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An expressive male voice booms out from above the inmates' heads, as it always has, far too loud to sleep through.

Welcome to the Facility.

All inmates are reminded that you must be wearing the scrubs provided to you and demonstrate good hygiene. This includes daily showers, disinfection, clothing changes, and compliance with staff requests.

All inmates are reminded that acting up is not tolerated under any circumstances.

All inmates are reminded that good behaviour is rewarded.

All inmates are reminded that sedation is not optional, nor can it be given by request.

Welcome to the Facility.


Staff patrol is coming with food and to check on inmates.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Valen "The Shade" King Character Portrait: SETTING
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Valen King has been assigned ID number 1926. His cell is constructed of polymers and is, of course, well lit.

Welcome to the Facility.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Persephone Nyx Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: SETTING Character Portrait: Zilla Levina
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Persephone stared at her wall, wishing flames would appear. She couldn't stand it. Her mother had always told her she was special, and that she had a will to live. But now, being 'special' put her in a cell. She looked around her room and began muttering curses under her breath. When she had woken up, she aced all over. Now, she was just mad. Her food had arrived, but she has not touchen it. She had taken her sedative, but nothing else. She was careful of the floor.

Arrogance. She thought to herself when she had seen the water.

They knew her strengths, weaknesses.... it killed her. She wanted her fiancé, her mom, her sister, and her kindergarten class.

Goodness, they have a new teacher now. She thought. She kicked the bed and sat down again, trying her best to set herself on fire.

Sadly, she could not.

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Character Portrait: Thomas Mullen Character Portrait: SETTING
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Thomas Mullen has been assigned ID number 1942. His cell is constructed of polymers which are still tinted due to his initial disobedience and the time spent chasing him down. To keep him from meditating, short, sharp electrical pulses are occasionally administered by an anklet he is required to wear. Unlike most Powered, which will break down to the grasp of insanity soon enough, his process is being sped up by random spans of complete darkness and harsh, warbling screeching. Eventual visual and auditory damage will ensue from this. He is currently three and a half days into one of these phases. Emergency measure: gas grenade.

Welcome to the Facility.

You should have known better than to bite the hand that feeds you.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: SETTING
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Loudspeaker announcement: All inmates are reminded that cell walls are impervious to attempted escape. Continued acting up will result in punishment.

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Character Portrait: Scruffy Tommings Character Portrait: SETTING
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Scruffy Tommings has been assigned ID number 2041. Her cell is constructed of polymers and is, of course, well lit. Emergency measure: Gas grenade.

Welcome to the Facility.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Valen "The Shade" King Character Portrait: SETTING
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Cassandra Hall's clear front wall is now at half tint and a light shock has been administered through the water on the ground. The gas vent hisses with a 20% increase in sedatives.

Loudspeaker: 1434, you were given warning not to attack walls. Your next disobedient action will result in two skipped meals, a day on the table, and a week in isolation.

Valen King has severely betrayed the kindness of the Facility with full awareness of his actions.

The following description is graphic.


With a whine of metal on metal and an angry hum of electricity, movement can barely be detected by those with their ceilings untinted in the shadows above. The crane. Two staff members abandon their carts to help maneuver the gleaming monster over cell #1926. One fits a portable gas mask over his nose and mouth, as all staff have one handy for cases like this. Before the crane descends, the cell fills with sedatives heavy enough to put down a Clydesdale. Best to be sure. The masked man is then boosted to the cell roof with the help of the other. Smoking floodlights are carefully walked around and checked for damage. None. The lighting matrix is moved to the man waiting below, the gas, disinfectant, and water line disconnected, and the open square frame of the crane moved into place. With that, he straps onto the metal monstrosity, gives the okay, and rises with the entire cell and the occupant unconscious inside.

The other member returns to distributing food as the display moves out of sight.

Once the cell has been moved far further into the gigantic Facility where no other inmates or staff reside, the crane lowers it into an area set for instances like this. The masked worker disconnects and descends a ladder rising from the ground. As with nearly every area of the Facility, the area is heavily aided by shining machinery. The man checks his mask one final time, sets a dial to the proper cell size and desired replacement for the floor, and sets it to work. The bottom hisses out, complete with all fixtures and inmate, and drops easily onto a conveyor belt. The entire setup is drenched in disinfectant, including the unconscious and bloodied form of Valen. The red runs away and his wounds bubble with the solution. Couldn't have any sort of infection setting in.

With that, the bulky worker sets about shaving the man's head, then hefts the inmate over his coated shoulder and moves to the new floor. This one has only one fixture in the center: a long, sterile table made of the same clear polymers, along with wicked shackles of the same material placed strategically to hold forehead, wrists, chest, hips, and ankles. A floodlight lies beneath, silent and waiting, close enough to the top that burns are sure to occur within minutes. To the side is a bracket which will soon be outfitted with a container of experimental gas.

The worker drops 1926 unceremoniously onto the table and sets about stripping him of his scrubs. Moments later, all that remains is a pair of black briefs. Shackles are put in place about fair skin. The inmate now lies on his back, face forced to the sky, with no protection or way to defend himself from what's to come.

A silver canister is loaded into the bracket. A thick hose leads to a mask which is clasped too tightly over 1926's nose and mouth by straps which lead behind the head, under the jaw, and over and behind his shaved scalp over the table restraints there. There is no way this mask will come off, but for good measures, it is locked in place both under the jaw and behind the head. It is oriented in such a way that his teeth are locked together to a painful amount of pressure, tongue trapped inside.

With this done, the worker opens the valve and lets the experimental happy gas begin to filter in, currently at a dosage which would keep at the very least a smile on their tormented patient's face. As thin as he was, it was a delicate balance. The dosage would eventually be upped, yes, but they had to be sure not to give him too much. Otherwise he may laugh to death. That would be a shame. Then he wouldn't feel how severe his disobedience was.

A second, far smaller container of water is hooked next to the more important gas and spliced into the same hose and diffuser within the mask. This setup will only allow him a drink if he is able to catch the randomly timed scant mist before it rolls off his lips. With no ability to use his tongue, this is sure to be a challenge. One he will have no choice but to accept in his soon-to-be surroundings.

Satisfied with his setup, the guard exits the floor as a new set of four walls comes down and the floodlight blares on. Surrounding the ceiling of the clear cube are cameras, all aimed down at the table. One wall holds a door, unlike the other cells, guarded by a keycard reader. The floor snaps into place of the already levitating room, and the crane moves away.

Minutes later, just before the sedatives will wear off, 1926 lies supine under a sun far larger, far brighter, and far hotter than anywhere else in the world in his own miniature greenhouse. Heat and light stream in from all angles, including the bright white cement pad the cell rests on. There are no opaque walls to protect him now, no way to see to the sides far enough to gain information on their location. Just the impossibly bright sun, the driest air, and humiliation.

Faces of the staff peer in on break. Some laugh and take bets on if he'll live or not, how long he'll be forced to stay conscious. Some stand silently with smug smirks, content with this after the trouble they've been given.

Within five minutes, his skin will burn to the point of discomfort. Five more and pain. His tender scalp is exposed to harsh rays from all sides, his eyes unshielded from intense light. Blindness very well may results. Burns will be severe. By the time an hour passes, blisters are highly likely. Another hour and they may just pop themselves. All the while, Valen will smile, torn between the drug induced glee and the natural terror and need to survive engendered by the burning ball of gas directly above and the mocking faces all around.

You should have known better than to bite the hand that feeds you.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: SETTING
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The sound of pneumatic clamps locking on the side of a cell was what woke him. Senses coming on line in a surge of adrenalin as he noted that, no, it was not his cell being prepared for movement.

“What?” He muttered, hearing Cassandra crying, but not registering why, the question on his lips. Before stopping, hearing the sound of footsteps coming up the hall, orderlies. Where are you going? He thought, watching the two men in white coats closely, eyes widening in surprise when they stopped in front of cell 1434, Cassandra's cell.

“This one 1434.” One of the men said, clipboard in hard, checking it going down the list, this one, this one, this one. Like we weren't even people. Like we didn't have names, families, jobs, children, LIVES, that we had been living. He could hear the crane whirring, preparing to move the cell.

'I won't let anyone hurt you.'

His words from earlier tasted of bile in his throat, they had been said with sincerity, with the belief that he could actually prevent them from hurting her, or punishing her if they wanted. He could hear Cassandra crying, begging for them not to take her, pleading, apologizing.

“Damn it.” He grit out through clenched teeth, realizing he'd moved without realizing, that he was already standing, already against the polymer pane separating him from them, forehead pressed against the glass, nails scratching along the surface of the wall making a screeching noise as the steel talons tried for purchase against the polymer. Smoke and superheated air pouring from his mouth with every breath, and in this lighting his eyes glowed with an unholy amber light. He knew he couldn't force his way out, but maybe...

“Take me instead!” He'd yelled it before even registering his own words, slamming his forehead into the wall, he could hear the mechanical hiss above him signifying the activation of his sedatives, could taste them on every breath. This time he didn't feign weakness, didn't play the game that had become almost second nature. He stood strong repeating his words from before even as a loud 'Boom' issued forth from Cassandra's cell.

“Take me instead!” This time he yelled it to the monitors in his roof, getting a jolt from the floor for his trouble. He growled low in his throat, a noise not so much like an animal, as it was similar to the roar of a diesel engine coming to life. The two men in the hall were now looking at him like he was crazy, fear clear in their eyes, and in their body language.

Maybe he was crazy, he knew what they would do to him if they did let him take her place, but he'd promised. Had given that women his word, so he'd begged.

“Please, she wasn't even supposed to be taken. She'd only gotten a warning before, take me, do whatever you want with me, just leave her alone, make an example of me I don't care,” He stopped there to stare into the camera again. “I'll come quietly, I'll walk right up to the table and let you strap me down no struggle, I won't make a noise. So please, take me instead.”

Time seemed to stop for a second in his mind. Like the world was holding it's breath just for him, and then the whirring of the crane started back up. He drew breath to begin screaming anew, when the familiar clank of hydraulic locks engaging drew his eyes to Cassandra's cell, sitting back where it belonged. Another set disengaging moments later, his cell was being prepped to move, there might have been an announcement over the speakers, but he didn't hear it, couldn't acknowledge it. He was happy, god he was happy that he would be tortured. By his own request no less. He wanted to laugh.

Raising his eyes to the monitor a familiar smile on his face he replied the same way he always did to the feeder. “Much obliged.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Persephone Nyx Character Portrait: Cassandra Hall Character Portrait: Roald Hartford Character Portrait: Thomas Mullen Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: Valen "The Shade" King Character Portrait: SETTING Character Portrait: Matthew "Stretch" Wilson
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Valen King's torment is about to worsen. With the higher dose holding, the cameras click on to show the red, cracked skin of Valen in the sun. The image shows only due to shaded lenses. Between the intense sunlight and floodlight beneath (to ensure no shadow), it's somewhat difficult to see, but clear enough. The angle shown is one of his hips up, a focus in one corner of the screen being the masked and shaved head of the inmate. His wrists are shackled far above his head on the slim table, exposing tender sides, shivering from the giggles he's wracked with on occasion from between clenched teeth. For the first time in several hours of torment, a spritz of water is put into the mask, just so the others can see him struggle for it. The staff laugh and jeer from the sides, but their faces and voices don't carry to the cameras. They're centered on the maddening chuckles of the inmate. This plays in every cell, the audio over the loudspeakers.

A man comes into the room, midnight hair resembling his before it was shaved, wearing a surgical mask and one glove covered in slim tassels. He stands over the inmate for a moment before barely upping the dosage of happy gas. He then sets to work. The tassels on the glove are gently skimmed over Valen's sides, forcing his traumatized skin to ripple with the spasms of muscles underneath. At first, it's not much, but after so much pain with lack of touch, the tickles quickly increase in severity. They flicker over cracks in his flesh, spreading the sensation while he has no chance to defend himself from it. His desperate squirms are for naught except to cause the splits to set about bleeding and discharging pus in various areas over his body. The areas around the shackles are hit particularly hard, where he may have hope to press the tickles away (quickly crushed by the true lack of movement he's allowed). He has no choice but to writhe as the glove trails inch by maddening inch from hip to underarm.

All the while, the happy gas courses through his system. Chuckles before spread to insane laughter, cutting off oxygen and furthering his need to thrash about. He bleeds harder. He's defenseless. His sides, belly, inner legs, the bottoms of his feet are all tickled without mercy. Halfway through, he receives another spritz of blessed water. It will be impossible to catch with his distraction. His lips will be unable to close around it before it evaporates. A shame, seeing as how he just lost a load of the precious fluid onto the table. The scientist glances at the inmate's soaked through briefs and directs a camera to show the spreading puddle running down his shivering legs. He laughs something about a "filthy beast, unable to control his own bladder and happy to piss on himself" before continuing. Oxygen becomes a luxury. One he can't afford. It suddenly becomes very apparent how slim his chances are of survival for the next few minutes.

The laughter increases in its maddening severity as the inmate desperately bucks against his bonds. He can hardly move, and all it manages to do is cause him far further damage. Blood runs freely about his bonds, trickling down his sides and joints, about the mask on his face and the straps cutting into his traumatised skin. His scalp is hardly distinguishable as such from the burns streaking down it, same as his face. Tears and discharge mix with blood as Valen's scarred lips begin to pale under the sunburn beginning to blacken them. He's suffocating. The laughter is now far between, though his body still shows the signs of it. The brief moments he can laugh in are choked through with mirthful pleads for mercy. They're indistinguishable through his tightened jaw and the choking guffaws.

He fights harder, gripped with natural panic as he realises he's dying. The harder he struggles for air, the more of the gas he sucks in. Soon he makes no sound at all, though his lips are peeled back in a fierce grin. Dying, but overjoyed on top of terror. That sort of conflict would tear apart anyone's mind. Everything is tensed, bleeding, and raw. No more air is entering his system. The scientist notices the silence under the tears of amusement from the staff. Many are doubled over or patting others on the back. The inmate's skin twitches and quivers, overstimulated, and now without the oxygen needed. Hell, it needs more than usual with the excruciating torment it's been subjected to. With a hiss of irritation, he lowers the dose to where it was before. Were it not for the locks he would have cracked open the mask for a split second. Instead, he improvises. Taking off the glove, he gingerly soaks it through with the inmate's urine, walks around the table and presses it to Valen's face. It's still warm, and the acid only causes further bleeding, but after a few slaps to the eyes and scalp with it, breath begins to return. Disappointed that he can't logically continue, the man leaves. The cameras continue to roll, focused on the three liquids running down the inmate's face and his insane smile. One minute later, they click off.

Let this serve as a warning: Do not bite the hand that feeds you. 1926 is less than one day into its punishment. It has earned three. If it dies, it's its own fault for disobeying. We only want the best for you, but we will not hesitate to bring order to this environment. That being said...

Thomas Mullen's cell returns to normal light as the wailing fades away. He is given a small cup of extra food for good behaviour during this time.

Matthew Wilson's cell warms a few degrees.

Cassandra Hall's cell returns to full clarity in the front as if nothing happened. However, the front of her cell now displays her ID in large block letters.


...

Scruffy Tommings's cell increases in brightness by 50% with a 20% increase in sedatives.

Zilla Levina's cell is treated the same way.


... good behaviour is rewarded. Disobedience is punished.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crane dropped off Wayland Smith's cell somewhere far different than expected. Instead of the transition station, the cube, now tinted on his side so that he may not see the entire facility or the route taken, is brought to a large room with a regular metal table with six chairs around it. The table is obviously not one for examinations. As soon as the inmate's room was set securely on the ground, the walls cleared to reveal the space. Several minutes passed before a door on the far side opened and a tall man wearing an immaculate suit entered. He had blond hair which was short everywhere but a strip just off the center. A curtain of it hung straight over one eye, rippling with each paced step of his Oxfords. His hands were clasped behind his back, gloved and firm. He was obviously very at ease.

Slowly, he made his way to the table and slid into a chair. His elbows rested on the table and his fingers folded before his lips. He sat there for nearly ten minutes, simply inspecting the inmate before him, before he finally spoke.

"What's your name, Thirteen-Thirty-Seven? Or do you remember it?" His voice was soft, soothing, almost like a tenor lullaby. His head tilted amiably, shifting the hair away from one bright blue eye. "Unless of course you'd rather I use that address."

Setting

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Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: SETTING Character Portrait: Corso Asange Hart
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Wayland stood tall, back rigidly straight, head held high, feet set firmly shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, hands loosely held at his sides, staring straight ahead, a look of firm unflinching resolve, and acceptance on his face.

He could see nothing before him however. The tint of his walls was such that now he was in a black cube, headed to be tortured. It should have been a maddening experience, but he felt nothing, content in the knowledge that he had just won a small victory. It did not matter how small.

The only warning before the images began playing was a split second of agonized giggling, before the torturous scene was played. The very walls acting as massive flat screens. He caught sight of the inmate splayed across the table for only an instant seeing his burned skin, and shaved head, before he closed his eyes calmly. He could still hear it, could hear the words of the torturer, and the maddening laughter of the inmate, but he didn't watch it. Shut his eyes to that insanity, remaining in the exact spot, with the exact posture as before, features a mask of cold calm. The look of a man ready to face the same kind of fate.

Do not bite the hand that feeds you. He'd heard the phrase a hundred, hundred times since being imprisoned here. It was like something you'd tell an animal, a dumb beast.

They declared they just want the best for us, but then called us it, declaring that anything that happens to us is our own fault. It made him sick, made him want to rage, to thrash around his cage, allow his power to run free, but he didn't, wouldn't, do anything like that and they might change their minds and take Cassandra as well.

There ain't no getting off this train I'm on. He thought grimly.

He could feel the crane slow, his cell being lowered to the ground. The speakers and video cutting out as his cell came to a full rest. He opened his eyes to the sight of a room that he did not expect. There was a table, it's molecular structure coming into his head on an instinctual level, he saw it's construction, and the heat that tempered it, stainless steel high quality. The chairs too.

The only indication that he was surprised being a tiny narrowing of his eyes, he never moved from his position, using his peripheral vision to take in the entirety of the room. He examined the new sight, the first new site in years for several minutes before the door on the far side of the room opened admitting a man he had never seen before.

Confident, well dressed, immaculately groomed, he was sure of his standing, sure that he had all the power, and in this situation he'd be right. It made Brimstone want to growl.

The man slowly walked up to the table, settling himself casual as you please into one of the chairs steepling his hands in front of his mouth and observing him.

Wayland's eyes had locked on to him the minute he'd walked into the room, analyzed everything about him exactly as he did everything else, weighing how he could be used, or if he could be at all. He however would not be the first to talk. He would show these people no weakness. So they remained like that for several minutes before the man finally spoke.

“What's your name, Thirteen-Thirty-seven? Or do you remember it? He was a soft spoken man, surprisingly, voice a soothing tenor. It set Brimstone's teeth on edge. “Unless of course you'd rather I use that address.”

As if you don't already know, he thought furiously. I didn't throw it away, you lot tried to steal it. He couldn't not reply, so he spoke calmly, but firmly never changing his standing position. His voice raspy from little use, with a underlying rumble like a large engine.

“My name is, Wayland Smith.”