▬▬▬ ⊰ｉｎＦＡＭＯＵＳ { echo/agnores }

[Echoplex]

​

 

[Agnores]

Delsin Rowe smiled as the guard's burnt husk of a body fell from his grasp. It was too easy, he thought. Prison guards were either too mundane to pose any challenge, or too weak. Any of the Conduit guards had done nothing but provide a slightly more challenging fight, while feeding him all sorts of new powers. And all the Conduit prisoners? Man, Delsin was a kid in a candy store. Still, it wasn't like he was here for the killing and the powers, though that was definitely a plus. There was a specific prisoner here, one that Eugene had decided to recruit for his little band of heroes.

Delsin began to casually walk down the halls of the prison complex, completely relaxed. As he passed, the prisoner's reached out to him and begged for him to let them out, but Delsin would only laugh at them, making sure to touch them only long enough to get their powers. Those who hadn't approached the door to their cells would get taunted by Delsin until they tried to attack him; depending on the insults hurled his way, Delsin would either simply take the pour soul's power or kill him. A few guards showed up along the way, desperate to stop Delsin, but they proved somehow less of a challenge than the prisoners, with all the new powers he had gained.

His phone rang as he rounded a corner, and Delsin didn't have to check his phone to know who it was. "What do you want, Eugene?" Delsin said, feigning annoyance when he answered the phone.

"You're giving the Augurs a bad name, Del. We could have negotiated her release. We didn't need the bloodshed!"

Delsin laughed. "You didn't need the bloodshed. I find it suits me quite nicely. Besides, man, if you saw the powers I got today, you'd be happy I did this. I'm a regular one man army!" As he spoke, Delsin rounded a few more corners, took a few more powers, and dropped a few more guards. "This shit is awesome, 'Gene!" Without waiting for a reply, Delsin hung up, rounding the corner to the cell where his prey lie. He smiled as he approached.

"Hey, babe. Come here often?" He smiled at the prisoner, but it was far from savory.

 

[Echoplex]

• They called her Vulture.
  
  Her prison, Grimglass Down, was erected in nine levels that reflected every circle of hell. Vulture was condemned to the sixth circle, Heresy, and in tandem with her alias, she and her prison ilk were referred to by the demonym ‘heretics’. She’d lost track of her time there—two years, maybe three, but it didn’t take the attendants long to realize how dangerous she was. With metal and wires composing the veins of the compound it only took one misplaced lock on her fetters for her to raise hell. The first time the guards misjudged her was immediately after her capture. She rent the entire quadrant with jagged black wires and made the corridors resemble a treacherous maze of barbed wire, reminiscent of the ones laid in trenches during war. There was a second instant was where she escaped to one of the server rooms and attempt to flee via computer wires. This was, in essence, a monstrously dangerous ploy. Her energy had to be brimming full, but even with a strong reserve, there was a ten percent chance she could travel the entire circuit and make it out unscathed.
  
  That evening she was brought her traditional meal by the guards—a bowl of thick, gummy oats, water and a half-stale heel of bread. She noshed on the bread every few hours, sluicing it down her throat with small gulps of water. Like clockwork the guards would peer in on her. She seldom stirred—in fact, she was often seen meditating for even days on end. This made her appear harmless to the new hires, but she was a prime example of an opportunist.
  
  She was meditating; she cleared her mind of all thoughts of her family, her employer, her past and other outliers. The blank slate was a perfect environment for her to dream up new, imaginative ways to exert her conduit powers. She was eager to practice and test them, but like glass, her tranquility was shattered when she heard an unfamiliar voice. Her eyes, glowing white for a blink, widened, drinking in the sight of a man through her door. She couldn’t make out his words since the door’s design purposely muted them. In addition, English still felt foreign to her. She was so accustomed to speaking Afrikaans and the indigenous workers in the prison spoke a lilted version of Spanish.
  
  “’N verlosser. Toevallig.”