[Checkpointer20: This is a really stupid idea.]
[MasterOfTheFlute: Conflict is the way of the weak.]
[TheConquerer356: Conquer through action, boy.]
In his month of slaving here, he'd been deprived of many things. The outside world and its workings were a mystery to him, so too was the sunlight. Most importantly – despite working for him – Frost had never seen the 'Master' even once. He was an elusive creature, an important man who was apparently only around to check records and sort important papers here and there. The other slaves spoke of him like they spoke of the wyvern, a rare and dangerous creature. This creature was tangible, and could be summoned with the very object Frost now carried.
Frost stepped into the cafeteria, which was essentially just a particularly large clearing in the middle of the mines with a few broken-down picnic tables, not even enough for everyone, leaving more than a few people to stand and eat or sit in the mud. Frost cradled the diamond under his arm, and every single individual in the entire room turned to look at it as he entered like some sort of detector had gone off in their minds. It was exactly like his first day, only now they weren't looking at him, but the object of immense value he was carrying.
This was his ticket to the master. He'd demand his freedom from this injustice, and then he'd kill the bastard if he refused.
Silence. Fourty-two's mouth was wide open. Some – like Hulk and Liz – looked at him with admiration, while others looked at him with hunger. The two factions were split in half right down the middle of the room. The slaves that were insufferable on the right, and the ones he could deal with on the left. Naturally, they didn't like each other either.
It was someone on the right who stood up first. Fifty-seven, the man who'd led the charge to beat the snot out of Frost all of those times. A scrawny little man whose countenance wasn't entirely unlike that of a rat. "Well, well. If it isn't the hard worker, eh boys?" His buck teeth were fighting to escape from his mouth as he spoke. Frost, rather than hearing his words, focused on his face and thought that he'd seen better looks on an actual rat before.
"I have a find for the master," Frost declared to the laughter of the right-side men. "Step aside."
The guards said nothing. One nodded to the other and then went off running, seemingly to seek the master. Frost grinned. This was the hope he'd been holding onto for the last month. The master would come… And then what? What would he say? Even now, he was getting ahead of himself. One problem at a time, he reminded himself again. Indeed, this was all assuming that he still had the diamond when the master arrived.
"Here's how this is gonna go, boy." Fifty-seven got out of his seat and stepped into the middle of the row, cracking his knuckles. "Hand that little find of yours over, and maybe you'll be able to walk tomorrow morning." Despite saying that cartoon villain line, he looked quite proud of himself. Frost wanted to wipe that smug look off of his face.
The men on the left, despite previously being friendly with him, had no willingness to interfere. Fighting would get them nothing but beatings, and fighting so another man could reap the rewards was certainly out of the question. Frost clutched the diamond closer to his chest and watched as Fifty-seven was flanked by ten, eleven, twelve men. His odds were no better than they'd been in the hallway those days.
Frost remembered their vulgar words. "White haired bastard." "Freak." "Bootlicker." They'd kicked him and spit on him. The guards probably would've let them kill him. Going to bed, he considered himself lucky to be alive. While it was happening, though, he wished he was dead. The pain of internal trauma, broken ribs and a concussed head… Teeth going flying as a foot caught him on the chin.
It was different now. He clutched his only hope in his hands. They'd have to pry it from his cold, dead body. And so he proudly declared, "try it, and I'll fucking kill you, rat." If there was any time to bring out all of his potential, it was now. There was no need to spare even a calorie of energy. He wasn't planning on exhausting himself, though. He had a better strategy.
The funny thing about groups was that they tended to disperse when the leader went down.
"Call me that again!" Fifty-seven charged first. He charged straight into the diamond that Frost swung like a brick. It caught him on the side of the head with a crack, and with enough force that his body left the ground like he'd run full speed into a beam that he wasn't quite short enough to clear. He hit the ground with a splash of mud, the well-trodden dirt of the cafeteria wet and soaking through his shabby clothes.
Blood leaked from the side of his head, and he barely managed to turn his gaze to Frost. His lips opened to mumble something, but Frost was quicker than that. This man didn't deserve last words. Frost didn't care where he came from, how he became a slave, or just how miserable his life had been to get to this point. No. No, you wronged me, so you pay for it. He slammed him in the face with the diamond.
No one stopped him. It's funny how the fear of being the next one to die stops even a group of people from moving under advantageous odds. Or perhaps it was just that they'd never seen a slave do such a thing. The twelve men formed a circle around Frost, and they were flanked by the rest of the cafeteria and even the guards. Everyone watched in utter silence. Frost climbed on top of Fifty-seven and started to pound.
"You stupid fucking bastard!" He cried. Each time he lifted the diamond, it carried the pain of the last month. The memory of lifting the pickaxe, the rage he'd been building under the surface for so long all came to the front and unleashed itself upon the poor man beneath him. Tears blanketed his eyes and ran down his face. He screamed viscerally like a wolf under a full moon.
He lifted that diamond and slammed it down again.
All of the times this man had beaten him in the hallway. All of the times the guards had beaten him. All of the times Frost suffered long days searching for a diamond like this one. All of those sleepless nights. The lives of the slaves who'd died. The women who were being tortured elsewhere, missing out on this brutal spectacle. Some of these things had nothing to do with Fifty-seven, but they were taken out on him anyways. Frost didn't care, he pounded and pounded and pounded until the blue hue of the diamond was dyed red.
He lifted that diamond and slammed it down again. Excitement of battle coursed through his veins. His face was blushing red.
When he finally lifted the diamond away and stopped seeing red, there was nothing left but red paste where once was the head of a human. This was the first time Frost had explicitly killed a person. He'd hit people with crowbars hard enough to deal potentially fatal damage, but he'd never watched them die, and he'd always called the ambulance for them. In his mind, he liked to imagine they got better even though he knew that some of them probably didn't. This time was different. He'd killed a man. He'd turned a man's head into a puddle of blood.
Even stranger was that the sight satisfied him. He felt nothing from this. The world was better for it. He'd never been more positive of something in his life. He lifted the diamond and pounded it into the mush one more time with a feral yell. He was breathing heavily like he'd just run a marathon. Everyone else held their breaths. They were probably thinking about the important question. What was the punishment for killing a man in here?
"What in Mira's name is going on!" A voice resounded out through the room.
Frost turned, clutching the bloody diamond to his chest. The crowd parted and created a straight-shot to the man who'd called out. He was wearing a suit, and had a gold-rimmed cane with a tophat and a monocle. A stereotypical slaver if Frost had ever seen one, rich and pampered. He was breathing heavily, probably having rushed here after hearing about the sheer size of the diamond.
The diamond that Frost was now clutching to his chest, covered in blood.
[Checkpointer20: You're fucked.]
[GreatGadfly30: Drinking poison is no fun…]
I'm fucked, Frost agreed. He'd never been a careless criminal, and yet here he was. He'd murdered a man in front of just about everyone who worked in the place, and now the master arrived to see the end of the show. There would be no trial here. His life as a slave was over, one way or another. In a way, it felt like a sweet release.
The master banged his cane on the ground with considerable force. "Grab him!"