Deterrents
The walls of the Spire's Lower Containment were always damp.
Not from leaking pipes — those had been sealed under sixteen inches of reactor-forged polymer. No, this moisture clung like resentment, a weeping, metallic sweat soaked deep into the concrete bones of the place. It smelled like blood left too long in steel buckets, and it sounded like nothing. Because here… silence was the protocol.
Unless Warden Regulus Vance decided otherwise.
A scream echoed — short, sharp, then snuffed.
Anton Volkov, once known as the "Minsk Mauler," coughed and laughed simultaneously, even as another crack resounded from his bruised ribcage. He sat chained to a titanium chair bolted into the floor. His face was smeared in fresh crimson and older bruises. A small puddle of saliva, blood, and maybe a tooth glistened at his feet.
Regulus stood in front of him, breathing hard.
No — heaving.
Muscles trembling. Jaw clenched so tight it might crack.
"Say it again," the warden whispered, voice raw.
Anton grinned, half his teeth red.
"You're pissed. The little brat got away."
Regulus's eyes twitched.
Anton chuckled, hoarse and broken. "Elijah Marris. Damn, we thought he'd snap before I did. I had a bet running — six guards, two inmates. Guess I owe some credits. Maybe I'll send 'em a postcard when you kill me, yeah?"
Regulus didn't respond.
Not with words.
His boot met Anton's face, the crack echoing like a gunshot.
Anton's head snapped back. His body slumped, unconscious — or pretending well enough.
Didn't matter.
Regulus straightened, blood running from one nostril. He wiped it without care, his fingers shaking.
The rage inside him was like fire encased in bone. Controlled, yes — usually. But today?
Today was a goddamn joke.
He paced the room.
The lights overhead buzzed as if mocking him.
The intercom crackled once before he barked: "Bring in the next inmate."
He didn't wait to see if they answered.
He didn't care.
Because right now, Regulus Vance — Warden of the most secure human prison post-Supernova — was failing. And not just failing. Humiliated. Dismantled. Undermined by a teenager with a broken smile and a power so irritatingly pure that the higher-ups couldn't even torture him properly.
Jaywalk.
His power. One of the strangest in the Spire.
He could walk, and people followed. Not out of respect. Not out of fear. No — out of some forced, twisted mirroring. As long as his target's will was weaker than his, they'd mimic his exact motion.
Walk into a wall? They'd smash into it.
Take a long stroll into a room of active mines? They'd follow, step for step.
He'd used it on riots. Escaping inmates. Hell, once, on a superpower congressman during a "security demo." The poor bastard face-planted right into a reinforced pillar.
The room had clapped.
But the power wasn't without costs.
Emotional stability.
The second Regulus cracked — even a sliver of grief, panic, or doubt — the leash loosened. Targets resisted. Mocked. Broke free.
And Elijah Marris had never followed.
Not once.
Even with diluted powers. Even with nerve shocks, hormone dampeners, and psychic inhibitors. He just smiled. Like he knew the punchline to a joke you hadn't realized was about you.
God, Regulus had wanted to crush that face.
But he couldn't.
War Deterrent.
That's what the government labeled Elijah.
A title more suited for orbital cannons or nuke-fused dragons. Not a skinny kid who could barely hold eye contact unless he was bleeding.
But his ability?
Emotion Induction — though that was the sanitized version.
It wasn't just joy or fear or calm.
It was an onslaught of targeted psychological terror. A cascade of chemicals, electrical signals, hormonal shifts — real biological reactions crafted from Elijah's very presence.
He could make soldiers defect.
He could make generals sob.
He could sit in a war room and make nations beg.
That was why they wanted him.
That was why they locked him in the Spire.
And that was why Regulus had been given a leash so tight it cut into his soul.
He was never allowed to break the boy.
He was supposed to train him.
Or tame him.
But Elijah? Elijah didn't break. He didn't cry. He didn't beg. When they starved him of light and sleep and words for twenty-nine days, he passed out with a smile.
And now?
Now he was gone.
Escaped during the Lights Out incident — a systemwide blackout and cell breach. One body confirmed dead, Silas Kreel — except not really. Only an arm had been found. And that arm could've belonged to any regenerating psycho in the lower wings.
Regulus remembered that night.
The chaos. The screams. The alarm klaxons blaring like war horns. He'd been struck in the leg by falling debris while calling for reinforcements. For a few moments, he'd tasted fear. Actual fear. Enough to snap his power like a twig.
But by the time he'd activated Jaywalk, half the Spire was already lost.
And Elijah?
Just walked out.
The door behind him creaked open.
Another inmate entered, bound and blindfolded. Regulus didn't look.
He was staring into the reflective panel across the room — a one-way mirror.
His reflection looked worse than usual.
Pale. Twitching. Slight crackling behind the pupils. A side effect.
He pulled a small vial from his coat and held it up to the light.
Power Elixir #88-A.
A black-market compound, technically banned, technically distributed by the same government that scolded him.
He uncorked it with his teeth and downed it.
His neck snapped back with the force of it.
For a moment, the world went white — purified pain, then clarity.
His breathing steadied.
He didn't need this. Not really. But it kept him sharp. Kept Jaywalk from slipping when his emotions boiled too close to the surface.
And right now?
He needed steel.
Regulus turned to the new inmate, cracking his knuckles.
"Elijah Marris," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "You think the Academy's safe. You think your handlers are smarter than mine."
He stepped forward, shadows forming from his boots outward like ripples in dark water.
"But I promise you…"
Another step.
"…you can't outrun your walker."
And then, without a word to the guards or the unconscious Anton, he kicked the new inmate's chair, snapping the bindings as if to say:
"Let's dance."