Black Water

The Brothers

Life is a cruel game, and it's the brightest souls that are snuffed out first. That is how a young, raven-haired man ended up hanging by his mangled wrists in a dank dungeon. The cold air nipped at his scarred and fragile frame as he hung limply. If you looked at him you'd think he was dead. Not because of how still he was, but from the copious amounts of blood that trickled down his body and dripped from his toes. More blood sat stagnant in puddles on the ground and was sprayed across the walls. 

The man took a raspy breath, the only current sign that he still lived. Despite the vast amount of pain he should be feeling from his injuries, all he felt was a sea of exhaustion. Sleep was a luxury that was rarely granted to him. However, sleeping was its own type of torture. All the memories he'd locked away resurfaced in the form of nightmares. The memories plagued him so mercilessly that his mind had completely shoved his consciousness into hibernation deep within himself. It was the only way to keep the shreds of sanity together.

drip. drip. drip. 

The sound of water dripping somewhere in the mess of caves grated on the man's mind. In this place where his body was completely unresponsive, all he can do is wait. Wait until his captors decided to play with him again. But he didn't know when they'd come. He didn't even know how often they came. He'd been here so long that time was a vague concept that meant nothing inside this hell. 

Heavy footsteps echoed off the walls and the heavy cell door screeched as it was slammed open by one of the overenthusiastic captors. The man cracked his sea-green eyes open ever so slightly and watched emotionlessly as two muscle-bound brutes, rightfully named Brutus and Maximus, stalked menacingly towards him. A malicious grin was plastered against Brutus' face.

Brutus and Maximus were miniature cyclopes twins, a subspecies of cyclopes that came to be through genetic mutation and natural selection. Instead of having only one large eye, they had three average-sized, burnt orange eyes. The third eye is plastered right in the middle of their foreheads. They were called "miniature" because the tallest of them clocked out at seven feet compared to the normal cyclopes' height of twelve to fifteen feet.

However, to make up for their decreased size, they tended to be more intelligent than other cyclopes and generally specialized in things other than blacksmithing. Brutus and Maximus' specialty was torture. Because the world definitely needed expert torturers. 

Brutus straightened his spiked leather jacket (without a shirt underneath because he was an "alpha male." Or so he called himself) before choosing a crowbar from a table full of torture instruments and inspecting it through his guyliner. The guy looked like a blonde punk rock groupie. Unfortunately, this guy was a maniacal genius when it comes to torture. As much as he enjoys his job, it's more than a game to him. Every punishment was a piece of art in his mind. However, he was almost as ADHD as any demigod. He was easily distracted and often acted unpredictably. 

Maximus, on the other hand, would have looked normal if it wasn't for his third eye or the giant scar going from the left side of his forehead all the way down to the right side of his face, effectively blinding his center and right eyes. He wore a white t-shirt underneath a red flannel, jeans, and work boots. His short strawberry blonde hair slightly obscured his third, scarred eye. His mannerism was cool and collected. He was analytical, serious, and thorough with everything he did. He never smiled and didn't speak very often.

Brutus stalked towards his unfortunate victim, smiling and swinging his crowbar, while Maximus leaned against the wall and observed.

"Is a third session in two days really necessary?" Maximus dully asked his brother. Brutus chuckles in response.

"Of course it is, brother," he says while roughly grabbing the prisoner by the hair and lifting his head up so he was forced to look into his eyes. A cruel smile on his face. "We are the caretakers for the oh-so-great Perseus Jackson. He deserves special attention."

 Every word grated on Percy's battered mind and caused a chill to shoot down his spine. He knew what was coming, but he could never prepare himself for Brutus' first hit. The muscle density of miniature cyclopses was no joke. The crowbar whistled through the air before hitting Percy in the ribs with a sickening crack. Percy winced and groaned quietly before falling silent once more. Brutus hit Percy over, and over, and over again until Percy began coughing up blood. His vision was fuzzy and he could feel himself fading into unconsciousness. 

"Brutus, if you continue like this your toy will break. You're not allowed to kill him for another little while anyway so lay off," Maximus's gruff voice brushed at the edge of Percy's consciousness. 

Brutus grumbled something and laid an especially heavy hit across Percy's back, reopening some wounds gruesome wounds, before reluctantly following Maximus's advice. At long last, the brothers left the cell, leaving the half-dead demigod hanging over a much larger pool of his own blood.

Percy sagged against his restraints, both due to relief and his consciousness slipping away. His entire body was on fire and his ribs shrieked in agony.

Hope didn't exist here, and not even death could save him from this hell.