--Unfinished-- Wrists

He could feel the sweaty, meaty hands squeezing his wrists together, could feel the pressure as the bones therein were forcibly ground into the small of his back.  He could feel the second man’s sturdy grip on his shoulder, guiding him across the room.  He could smell the dusty floor of the warehouse, the sawdust in the air, the reek of sweat and gunpowder from the other ten men in the room.

But he couldn’t see.  He couldn’t see his own feet.

The world swirled in shades of black and grey, spots of color occasionally worming their way into his vision before being chased out again by the edges of the void.  Will stumbled as he was lead; the sting of stubbing his bare toe on something sharp took a few seconds to register through his fogged brain.

The man leading him seized his shoulder, and a ripple of pain spasmed through the boy.  The puncture wound, done hastily, sloppily, and with a dirty needle, was right over the sensitive Ouroborus, right over the center of his body’s leylines, and that careless, meat-handed bastard squeezed the thing again as he pushed Will to his knees.

Garbled sounds drifted around above Will’s head, but he didn’t try to translate them into words—it took all his efforts just to keep his chin from colliding with his chest.

“Hey!  Boy!”  The words registered this time because they blared from about four inches in front of his face.  One of his captors had seized his chin and was yelling at him, close enough that Will could feel the man’s foul breath puffing on his nose.  The noisy one’s face swam in front of the boy’s eyes as a blur of peach, blue, and stubble-brown.  Will didn’t even try to focus.

“Move aside, Carl.”  Another voice sounded, this one not quite as close to his head, but still somewhere inside his personal space.  This voice, however, wasn’t boisterous and obnoxious, but smooth, cool, and controlled.

A pair of long-fingered hands gently took Will’s face between them.  That cool tenor voice spoke to Will now, and the drugged blond found himself able to listen.

“This is very important,” the voice insisted.  Will couldn’t make out this one’s face either, but he could tell from the swirl of colors that this man wasn’t as ruddy or scruffy as the other had been.  He definitely smelled cleaner, at least.  “It’s important that you tell us what we need to know, my boy.”

Will’s gaze listed to the right, staring unfocused past the man’s ear.  He was silent.

“I find it regretful that you forced us to such measures to subdue you.”  The man’s unruffled tone didn’t seem repentant in the least, and neither was the fact that his long fingers suddenly brushed the infected Ouroborus mark.  Will instinctively flinched away from the touch, but those effeminate hands caught his face again, holding him in place.  “But with you tearing through guns like paper and dropping my men like flies, something had to be done, you understand.”

“You see, my boy, we have been seeking an artifact of extraordinary importance.  This artifact’s discovery will not only shake the archeological community to its core, but it will make the whole world tremble.  It will rewrite the history of scientific discovery.  It will rewrite the future of mankind.  And you, my dear boy, are the roadmap to this priceless treasure.  We need you to show us the way.”

Although he was caught somewhere between unconsciousness and stupor, Will heard the man’s words.  He understood.  His body’s motor skills, though, were not on par with the function of his mind.

Will gave a long, slow blink, folds of skin taking their time in the hiding and revealing of his dull, glazed golden orbs.

“Gnt ‘ve ‘stne.”

The man gave pause at Will’s garbled mumblings.  “What was that again?”

“Y’can’t have the Stone.”

The man paused again.  He did not seem happy.  His next response was a little tighter, a little more frigid.  “And what would make you say that?  Surely you understand the value--”

“Can’t.”

“And why not?”

Will was silent for a moment.  Had his head not been clamped between a pair of finely-manicured hands, it probably would have rolled on his neck until it was lolling on his chest.  Slowly, laboriously, the boy’s gaze shifted, his murky eyes moving closer to his captor’s face.

“Cursed.  S’cursed.  ‘Nyone who tries…pain.  S…suff’ring...mis’ry.”

The man gave a lilting, dismissive chuckle, the sort of high-class laughter that rings over a champagne glass, though his ring was a little impatient.  “Of course we’ve heard those ridiculous fairy tales.  ‘Misfortune befalls all those who seek the Philosopher’s Stone.’  But surely you don’t believe in fairy tales, do you, my boy?  Surely you realize the potential, the importance of this find to the whole world?”

“Nn.”  The blond tried to shake his head, but his captor still held it firm, and he still didn’t have the strength or cognizance to manage more than a wiggle.  “True.  Allov’em.  Stone’s not meant fr’humans.  I’know.  Trus’me.”