Paws Chase Murder Case ✓| bxb, police drama, urban fantasy

23: Sniperhelm Torture Chamber

Scotch woke to a blurred pipe-laid ceiling. He was on his back, or so he thought. But he soon realized it was not the ceiling, but the wall he was looking at. Too far away to see clearly without his glasses. His shoulders ached, but his arms were above his head, bound. Ankles below him, bound. He twisted his body and heard the clink of metal. Sniffing the heavy air, a stench of urine and sour-scented Human sweat lingered.

He dry heaved and smacked his lips.

Holding, jail, whatchamacallit. His parched throat craved for water. The air was like a steamy sauna. From one wall, sunlight streamed in making dust sparkle in the air. On the other wall was trophy display. Whatever this place used to be they sure earned a heck of a load of medals for something. He counted twenty of them hanging from the wall, nailed to or dangling on a hook or spoke.

"Scotchie," came a whisper.

Scotch couldn't turn his head well as it was sandwiched tightly between his arms, but he could tell it was Mason somewhere next to him.

"Scotchie, I'm sorry." Mason let out a mewl. "I was dumb."

Scotch pursed his lips. He ran the roads of Syaraize for Mr. Impulsive Paws. Maybe back in Marmaglaid reckless things wouldn't cost their safety, but out here, the real world, this was where they ended up.

"Yeah," he grunted, "you were."

"I tagged Luka and took this chip thing he said he had to get back to Trinity. Saber stole it from HC. The real records on yer Pa, Scotchie. I had to get it. Then we—"

"So ya chase Luka, screamin' about Maya killin' citizens, steal a chip, get caught, and end up 'ere in the hands of Scuttle?" Scotch said and heard a dry laugh.

"Ya good at summin' it up, man." Mason's voice fell. "I just thought I had solved the case."

"You're a bastard."

"I know."

Scotch took a deep breath. "A fignuttin', noodle tail, lemon peel, banana furred, impulsive bastard who could be gettin' us killed now."

Mason winced. "Ouch, but I'll take it."

But Scotch couldn't be mad too long. At least he and Mason were together now. They were strongest when they were together. He tried and failed to see how high up the ceiling was. Besides, moving his head around made his ears brush a little too hard against his sleeves that it hurt.

"What do ya gather?"

"Ya forgive me?" Mason let out a trill. His chains clinked.

Scotch sighed. "Ya payin' me in scotch a whole week when we get back, noodle tail."

"Roger." Chains rattled. "Yer glasses are near ya, but ya can't reach 'em."

"How far?"

"About my tail's length."

Scotch imagined where they could be. Maybe it was the splotchy blur not too far ahead. Or the other one. In fact, it could be any of them. If he had been a bit taller or had longer legs or didn't even need glasses, he wouldn't have had to worry.

"Anythin' else?"

"The windows, there are five. The two farther from us are unhitched, but they've got screens on them."

"I heard your whistle. How could you see me?" Scotch, from what he could tell, couldn't see anywhere there could be a window to look out. He knew they had to be at Sniperhelm, the old station.

"There was a guard in 'ere with me then. Said, 'Looks like she brought him, the orange marmalade.'" Mason chuckled. "Good one, don't ya think?"

Scotch compared that to Christoph's nickname for him because that was where the cleverest ones came from these days. "Nah, I like bein' called Beverage—my Bolt!" he hissed and wiggled his hips. It was still there. They'd forgotten to remove it.