Marcellus Kane - Capitol (complete)

Fifteen…Sixteen…Seventeen…and a bit. Five inches? Six? Maybe five and a half. No, it has to be six.

Even this debate with himself was old…as old as the internal disagreement over whether the water stain on the ceiling was shaped more like a leaf or a heart. A moment passed and he let all the weight of his body rest on one leg, fists outstretched, and the other foot laid against his bent knee. Muscles twitching along his calf and thigh screamed out their discomfort as he stubbornly pushed himself to hold the posture while lowering his large frame into repetitive squats. One leg and then he would switch and concentrate on the other. When both refused to hold for a second longer, he straightened…slowly and painfully… then turned and began counting out the length of the room again.

The white walls were so stark it was as if the color had been bled out of them -- sucked away in some ghastly, vampiric desecration. Twelve foot by seventeen and five inches (six?), that was his world. His realm, his kingdom, his domain…ok, I need to stop this!

Underfoot was a white-washed cement floor, its color as even and unbroken as the walls -- ceiling too for that matter. A world of wintry colors…and no window. Not a glimpse into any existence but this sterile box that he had lived in like a lab rat for the last eight months. Did anyone even recall that he was alive? They must, because a food tray was still passed through a slot in the door at pre-ordained junctures. It was the only measure of passing time in an otherwise meaningless span. A single pad in the corner was allowed him for sleeping comfort, and a hole in the floor opposite was for all other business. The hole offered no escape route, he knew after painstakingly extensive inspection. It went god knew where, but for a big man like him, it would remain an impossibility.

It began to feel as though he had been born in this room, and it certainly appeared that he would die here. When first he arrived, there had been numerous episodes of interrogation. Questions were asked that he refused to answer, and others that he had no answers to.

"Were you involved in the bank heist on Accent Street?"

"Who was your partner during the armed robbery?"

"Did you kill Esme Fayette?"

and then…

"Did the rebels have any involvement?"

"Which District did you send the money to?"

Rebels? Districts? What were they trying to get from him?

The questions turned to beatings…cuttings…burnings…then other things that he would never let himself recall, but they kept him from making use of the sleeping pad for actual sleep. Finally, when all of their efforts failed to produce the answers they obviously wanted -- and not for lack of him making up every conceivable lie in hopes of appeasing the meaningless questions -- they locked him in this cage and left him. You would think it would be a relief, but of all their tortures, they had finally touched on the one that would break him.

In another life, the one before his capture and imprisonment, he had been a wanderer of sorts. No roots, no ties…just the insatiable itch to be somewhere else. There were forests that he knew better than a morphling addict knows his own veins.

God, morphling.

He clenched his palms until nails bit skin and sank deep.

Water, think about water…pools as deep and glassy as eternity, cold and still…rushing brooks that sing their own theme songs…cool wind on my face...

The shaking slowly eases, leaving his limbs weak and exhausted. The muscles cramped and complained, but they were only a welcome distraction from his mental masochism. Thoughts of the wilderness he would gladly lose himself in was akin to opening his skull and pouring acid over the exposed brain. To trap a woodland creature in this space of stone and still air was exponential agony, and if gnawing off his own leg would have freed him from this trap, he would have done so gladly.

If I remain here much longer, I will cease to exist, they'll walk in one day and find an empty husk of the man who was once…

"Marcellus Kane."

It took a long, stupifying moment for him to realize that his thoughts had overlapped with someone's spoken words. When his mind caught up to reality, the impatient guard was already halfway across the small room, dangling a set of stun cuffs. Human contact, it had been so long since he last experienced it that Marcellus could barely register the actuality. Cold metal closed painfully tight over his wrists, each arm bent at an unnatural angle behind his back. The man gripped the chain attaching the cuffs together and used it to yank him upright and propel the larger-bodied prisoner across the room and through the open door.

A hallway stretched bleak and empty left and right of where they now stood. The guard turned right, and Marcellus marched docilely in front. Another open door, and then a nearly identical cell…except this one had a wall made entirely of glass. Reflective glass.

Mirror, that's called mirror.

Such civilities seemed to be from another age of the world, though it was only eight months since he had been here. The surface made him feel dizzy, as though the room and its reflection were converging and he might be trapped in between when they collided. To counteract the unsettling impression, he focused on his own image.


Tall, so tall -- a giant of a man they called me -- his frame towered well over six feet. Although it wasn't just large in that sense, he also carried an intimidating bulk to him. Muscles that had always existed were now clearly defined. Prison does that to you, not like there's anything else to do with your time. Wide shoulders and chest like a siege wall formed the support for sinewy limbs and hands that threatened with the ability to crush a man's trachea. Still, along with all of weight, he had an air of gaunt unhealthiness to his face. The sallow coloring of skin that has been isolated from sun and wind mixed with a looseness, as if it was a size too large for the rest of him.

Exercise only goes so far when you aren't getting fed right.

His eyes critically inspected the alien face that stared back-- thick black brows on a chiseled face, broad lips that covered even rows of white teeth, cheek and jaw bones that you could practically cut yourself on were softened by the shaggy growth of unkempt beard and hair. Dark eyes, angry eyes, with glints of desperation, like a predator backed into a corner…those stood out above all. All except his new defining feature. Ugly, raised skin warped and twisted in a cord of scar tissue along the left cheek from ear to the corner of his mouth.

Marcellus tested a smile in the mirror, the affect was grotesquely amusing as his reflection's mouth distorted into a lopsided grimace.

Well aren't you a handsome son of a bitch…


The door creaked shut, and he jumped. Alone again, even his momentary guard companion had melted away. Although the isolation would not last long this time. Nearly as soon as it had clanged to, the door swung wide again, admitting a man with a clipboard. The head of this man would have barely reached Marcellus' shoulder. He was stout too, probably as wide as he was tall. A fringe of graying hair clung to the circumference of his scalp more out of pity than practicality. A sheen of sweat coated the remainder of his pudgy head and neck, and damp spots blossomed on the pasty white of his peacekeeper's uniform.

The man sank gratefully into a chair that was apparently waiting for him in the center of the room, a small table was also in place, although Marcellus had failed to make note of either. It was a poor commentary on the state of his hunter's skills. The peacekeeper took his time arranging the constricting folds of his uniform and dramatically mopping his brown with an oversized silk handkerchief. He noisily flipped through pages of concisely typed information attached to the clipboard. Only after all of that was done did he even acknowledge the presence of the prisoner.

"Marcellus Kane?"

As if I might have swapped bodies with someone else? He only nodded in response.

Piggish eyes squinted peevishly, and more page flipping commenced.

"I am Pontius Atherfield. Head of Corrections. I've been looking over your record…accused of murder…my my, how dreadful."

"I'm innocent." The words rasped and cracked in his throat, hoarse from disuse.

The peacekeeper only clucked in amusement. Like as not every prisoner he talked to made the same plea.

"Of course you are. Water?"

Marcellus nodded gratefully. The small man left the room only briefly, returning with a paper cup. The stun cuffs were removed and he rubbed his wrists briskly before downing the water in a long, relieved gulp. It was as close as he would likely come to that cool air he had been craving, and each drop was uniquely appreciated. Pontius watched each movement with a keen interest, as though it would reveal some close-kept secret about Marcellus' crimes. When the water was gone, and the empty cup rested on the table, the questions commenced. Familiar questions they were, ones he had been grilled with after his initial arrest. Who were his contacts? Had he done this or that? He never even tried to respond, merely stared at the cup before him and wished that it held more water.

"I see you aren't much of a conversationalist, that's alright, I already know your story." Marcellus glanced up with the first spark of interest, which made the fat man smile triumphantly and continue.

"Marcellus Antonius Kane, age thirty-nine…oldest of five children born to Delilah Catarain. Your mother was a morphling addict who spread her legs for any man with money to feed her habit. Your father, Barabas Kane, was one of many to enjoy her…goods. Ah, ah…now don't start getting testy, or I'll have to send you right back to that cell!" The thought of returning to those four white walls was enough to smother any whiff of rebellion that he had entertained. When the large man had once again settled into a pretended apathy, the peacekeeper went on.

"At thirteen you ran away from home, abandoning all of those brothers and sisters who depended on you, and joined a group calling themselves 'The Headhunters'…very descriptive. This colorful patchwork of orphans, runaways, delinquents, and no-goods committed minor crimes and generally made themselves a nuisance about our fair Capitol. You quickly found a place with them as a brilliant tactician. With a discovery of your natural talent for understanding how people think and react, and anticipating their actions, you made quite a reputation for yourself. Until an unfortunate incident surrounding the death of a young lady named Esme Fayette. She was strangled in her sleep, nasty business. There was enough evidence to convict you for her murder. You would have been seventeen at the time, no?"

Marcellus maintained his blank stare, refusing to allow this man any insight as to the veracity of his words. When no answer was forthcoming, Pontius shrugged and returned to his storytelling.

"We probably would have executed you, but you fled. They looked for you in all of the grimy alleyways where our good citizens fear to go. You weren't there, were you? No, Marcellus Kane abandoned the city of his birth and disappeared into the haze of the Districts. The trail grows muddy from there. We tracked you to District five, but you gave our men the slip at night. It was months in the woods before we had any sighting of you, and then it was only rumors passed along that you had passed through District one."

"You spent six months on a fishing vessel in Four. Then a sailor recognized your face on a wanted poster and reported your whereabouts to the local garrison. You were already gone when they came knocking, and that is when you dropped off the map entirely. I can only speculate that you too refuge in the woods, wandering, because you weren't seen in the districts. It's was what…twelve years since you were last in the Capitol? You thought we had forgotten all about you! Then we had little whispers…there was a ghost on the streets…Marcellus Kane was back. You were careless, and we were waiting for you."

Pontius folded his hands on one pudgy knee and waited for a response. The silence dragged on until Marcellus could stand it no longer.

"So, what happens now? If you were going to execute me, you would have done it already."

The words made the fat man smile radiantly, "A clever one! Oh, we have more than enough to try and convict you, believe that. Wouldn't it be a waste, though? So much natural talent. You have an affinity for reading people, dragging their darkest thoughts and fears out into the open. It is an interest I share. Such a shame that you aren't working -with- us." His face brightened further, if that was possible, as though suddenly uncovering a brilliant new thought.

"I'm sure you would love to, if all of this murder business would go away. It's so old that most people have probably forgotten it. Such a task could be easily arranged in exchange for say…your cooperation with our people. We have a team of our most brilliant scientists to undertake a very special experiment. Your talent, even though left crudely untrained, has caught the attention of some important names indeed. We are offering you an opportunity to be a free man once again, all you have to do is help our researches shape the tests to best elicit the information they seek."

A bitter taste filled Marcellus' mouth. Life had built him into a hard man, a man of difficult actions. For years he had tread the line between black and white, living in the gray shadows between. He was not unfamiliar with crime, as this man's story spelled out clearly…though not all of the facts were straight. Still, his recent time spent undergoing tortures similar to what he knew this 'experiment team' would be inflicting on District citizens made his very soul recoil. Could he do that?

"If I refuse, you intend to execute me?"

Pontius chortled at him in amusement, "Oh no! We won't execute you. We'll lock you back into your cell and leave you there. Can you imagine spending every moment buried alive without ever seeing the sun again for the rest of your life?"

The thought wrapped around his throat like a band of iron, threatening to choke the very life from him. He couldn't go back down there, he couldn't breathe down there with the weight of earth and stone crushing down on his sanity. They were the perfectly calculated words to break him. Head dropping down towards his chest, Marcellus finally nodded in defeat.

The door to the room opened, and freedom stretched out before his suddenly eager feet. A final warning hung in the air-

"Just remember, one toe out of line, and it's that cell for a coffin."



Codeword: Odair
Comments/Other: Character for 'The Great Experiment: A plot for the Ages'