Clear Skies

Chapter 11: The Crimson and the Dead

Sector Security chose the roughest boat and waters for my trip to New Domino City. Vomiting the second we reached the piers didn't improve my exhaustion. The escorting pair of officers shoved me for barely missing their shoes. Made me regret not aiming right for them.

The Facility in New Domino City perched upon a sliver of land overlooking the sea, sort of like Team Satisfaction's hideout. The Satellite was dark across the ocean even in the morning light. A Security pushed me forward, preventing me giving my home one last good-by.

Check-in inside involved intrusive pat-downs, removal of any personal items in my pockets, and an argument between guards about there not being a jumpsuit able to fit me. They agreed to leave me in my own clothes. I mourned the loss of my cuffs, though. They were my last physical memory of Team Satisfaction.

The ruder of the pair escorting me lead me into a dark room. A single light swiveled over a machine. He shoved me into the chair and locked my wrists into manacles. A woman's voice explained criminal marks over the loudspeaker.

Criminal marks were implanted on the faces of every prisoner who had stayed in the Facility. The bright yellow injection could serve as a tracking marker, since first-time inmates are likely to commit more crimes or attempt escape. Marks also served to alert others to the danger of the marked individual. The yellow facial "tattoo" was hard to miss, after all. Each visit to the Facility garnered a new criminal mark.

The machine on the table scanned my face. The mark would be placed underneath my right eye in the shape of two joint crescents. One faced up, outlining the underside of my eye. The other faced outwards on my right cheek, and its top tip blended into the first crescent. The shapes reminded me of double the moon my last night in the Satellite – one for me and one for my partner.

Agony like molten lava burned the underside of my cheek. Tears stung the back of my eyes and my throat fought for the breath to scream. I held them in. They would not have the satisfaction of my pain.

The next item on the list was a visit to the warden's office. The plaque outside read, "Mr. Armstrong." The man behind the desk was a large, dark-skinned man with black hair and a sailor's beard. His arms were ripped despite his potbelly, and his nose was similarly fat. Black, beady eyes scanned the forms in his hand. When he leaned back, I noted his navy blue chief's uniform.

"A Satellite, huh?" His voice deep voice was excessively loud. "And a girl? Never had one of them around here! They have special Facilities for you. This must be some sort of mistake. Unless you're real dangerous."

He shot me a glare of disgust, so I returned it in kind. "Filthy Satellites taking up space. What kind of charges? Aiding a fugitive and assaulting Security officers in the process? In possession of a duel runner? Those are some serious crimes, kid! Oh, here's your ticket. You're a powerful psychic duelist known to harm citizens and Securities alike with your powers. You're dangerous, all right. Throw this Satellite trash in the special room. Hope you have a horrible time!"

He loosed joyous laughter as I was led to my cell. The crueler of my escorts shoved me inside. I tumbled to the floor. A metal slab of an electronically locked door shut me in alone. Obstructing my hopes of escaping were columns of iron bars over a window looking out onto the City.

Though every room I passed was a single cell, this one had two beds. So that's why he called it special. They wouldn't catch Kalin. My partner would show them.

The pain of my mark had exhausted me, so I turned in early. The mattress was so thin, I wondered if they stuffed it full of hair. My thoughts wandered back to my room at Martha's. Stars above would she be angry with me. A smile found me.