TOOLS
Written on October 29, 2021 (♏︎︎)
Author's Notes: Written for Whumptober 2021 for prompt No. 21: That's Where the Blood's Supposed to Be (Blood-Matted Hair).
"Tell us where the stone is, and everything is at an end. You get all these back in hand, where you'll no doubt put them to far less clumsy work than I will."
The man gestured broadly at the tools laid out on the table: a file, a claw hammer, a chisel, crimps and shears... Mustadio noticed they'd neglected to put out his pivot broaches—nor the small calipers either. They were no doubt insufficiently menacing.
"Couldn't we just keep on with fists and pistol butts?" he mumbled, slumping against the chair to which he'd been tied. "You don't need to make a wreck of *them* too, poor things."
The lone candle that lit the room wavered dramatically a moment, and Mustadio felt nauseous. His hair, unbound and matted with blood, tickled against his shoulders as he shook his head and closed his eyes a moment.
"Your father's taken, Cameron's already knocked you out once, and your concern is for the tools." The company man clicked his tongue. "That's some uniquely Gougish bravado."
Mustadio tried to smile, and he was not surprised when Cameron cuffed him before he could make a retort. The bullet that had grazed him in the course of their introduction had gotten them off to a very poor start.
"Ajora's sake, man—try to keep him conscious."
Mustadio sank deeper into the chair, trying to push himself into something almost like a swoon.
"They've got the old man, Fulke; we can just ship him back and let Rudvich sort them out."
"Rudvich enjoys paying people to sort things out for him."
"Are you going to get paid more for wasting an afternoon taking him apart? If you're going to be this theatrical with the brat, don't begrudge me a few knocks. I can tell this one won't be talking."
"Well he won't be talking now, you thickwit."
Mustadio's breath was measured; he did not let himself move with the spinning of his head. As the men's voices receded from his hearing, he nearly slipped away from himself and into the dark that surrounded him.
Still, he remained tethered to it: the cold steel of a needle file hidden between his wrists. By the slowest degrees, he was still moving it, shifting it against the edges of the rope that bound him. For all he yet feared he might be dreaming, it was some pleasure to dream a tool still worked in his favor.
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