Several hours had passed since Fyren finally left. Leaving Voltrick with only the cold dark and the distant cries of those in other parts of the dungeon. In the past, when Voltrick was in this dungeon before, he wondered what those other cries were from. Who was being tortured, what their crimes were. Or even if those individuals deserved the punishment given to them.

Just like Voltrick, he knew, those people were most likely sent down here by Fyren. Someone else to be controlled and manipulated, someone who stood in his way or tried to fight against him or this god forsaken ministry.

But what did Voltrick know? He couldn't see anyone else, let alone know what they've done. It was hard to tell, even to himself, what Voltrick knew. He knew how to murder, how to kill a man who fights against him. Voltrick knows how to barge into a ministry compound... only to be captured and thrown into the dungeon.

If that's all he knew how to do, then fate has put him in his deserved place. His place of comeuppance for everything he'd done wrong his entire life. A sinner. A murderer. A stupid fool, who thought he could put an end to his own suffering and that of those he cared about.

But he couldn't put an end to it, he never could. No matter how hard he tried, the one's he loved would always suffer. Fyren said it, himself. The one's Voltrick cared about will suffer the most because of what Voltrick took away from Fyren. An eye for an eye, one life for many lives.

And Aidan... Voltrick's head hung low, unwilling to give himself the strength to lift it. Aidan has suffered so much already. Now he'll suffer even more because of Voltrick. Sorrow left Voltrick empty, Aidan was coming here for him. Why would Aidan come after him, of all people? The cat was so weak when Voltrick left him, if Aidan is coming that would only mean he didn't give himself the time to recover or heal.

Voltrick's brow raised sadly, tilting his head to lean it against his raised arms which were still shackled to the ceiling above. Why would Aidan sacrifice so much for him? He doesn't have a chance against Fyren, not after what he's been through. Not with Fyren already knowing where he is.

"Ah, welcome back, Mr. Mundegard..." A voice before Voltrick's cell said kindly. "Glad to see you're in high spirits." Waiting for Voltrick to finally look up at him, the weasel gave a cheery smile.

Voltrick's brow lowered before looking away with frustration. He didn't recognize the spectacle wearing weasel, nor the large individual next to him. But Voltrick knew why they were here and what they were assigned to do. The scenario was all too familiar.

"Aww, cheer up, Mr. Mundegard." The weasel said as he rose the lever next to him, allowing the chains holding Voltrick to rise just enough to keep the balls of the black tiger's feet on the floor. "You should be glad, " he said with a smile. "Once we're done here, you'll be able to help me in my studies!" The weasel quickly raised a finger excitedly. "What am I studying, you may ask?” he asked as the gate to Voltrick’s cell was opened. “Advanced healing! Be proud, what we do to you will greatly benefit others and science.”

Voltrick was silent the entire time this weasel spoke. He kept his head turned and gaze lowered to the floor. The less he did the better. No point in arguing or begging, it’ll only postpone what they came here to do… or prolong it.

“Straight to business, eh?” The weasel stated almost disappointedly. “Very well, I’d like to introduce you to my assistant Morldon…”

“Just do what you came here to do.” Voltrick snapped before finally looking over toward the two at the front of his cell.

The weasel gave a displeased grunt with a frown before motioning Morldon into the cell. Morldon was a well built, orange tiger clothed in Ministry uniform. His muscled size nearly matched that of Voltrick when compared, but Voltrick was obviously larger in height and muscle. A long whip was at his belt, which was unlatched after the tiger stepped behind Voltrick and snapped behind himself.

Morldon snarled spitefully, eyeing Voltrick’s back hatefully.

“No need to hold yourself back, Morldon.” The weasel stated before turning to walk toward the dungeon doors.

A quiet growl was heard behind Voltrick with the sound of a fist tightening itself around the leather handle of the whip.

Voltrick's gaze set forward, his eyes heavy and his features stoic. A heavy breath was released before a loud snap cracked along his back. The crack echoed down the halls against the walls, quickly being following by another. Voltrick's body would only stiffen and teeth grit as the whip cut through the flesh at his back again and again.

As the tiger tirelessly cracked the whip against Voltrick's back, more pain began to dig against Voltrick's spine and muscles. Even though the pain was excruciating, Voltrick was glad he didn't have to see it; knowing full well a grotesque crosshatch of gashes completely covered his back.

The last of the tiger's whip snaps against Voltrick's back finally made Voltrick's legs weakly buckle beneath him, the pain finally unable to be tolerated. Fortunately for the tiger, the shackles above Voltrick's head kept him upright.

As much damage as the whip did, the tiger's sneer suddenly grew to an angered snarl. Voltrick's injuries already began to heal. He knew the pain affected Voltrick, but all that effort seemed to be wasted since he healed so rapidly.

A quiet growl escaped as Morldon walked around Voltrick, his grip on the whip barely loosening and tightening again. A hateful glare was made towards him before cracking his whip to his right threateningly.

Voltrick gave no response, but kept his winced gaze lowered as he tried to tolerate the pain to his back.

Morldon groaned loudly before quickly stepping back; swinging the whip to his left and across Voltrick's chest.

The black tiger couldn't restrain himself as he groaned sharply, the gash in his chest bleeding significantly. His breathing wavered after losing his breath through the impact and sudden pain. His mouth parted, trying to regain his breath, but was met with another slash across his chest from the whip. He groaned more loudly before another strike made him yell sharply.

The tiger in front of him smirked maliciously; pleased he finally got this tiger beast to yell in pain. Fueled by Voltrick’s yells, the tiger continued; striking the whip as hard as he could to tear apart Voltrick’s chest and abdomen.

As Morldon continued, the weasel’s voice soon made itself known from behind him. “That’s enough of that, Morldon. The whip can only handle so much.” The spectacle wearing weasel said as he approached from the dungeon door. Two soldiers followed behind him, both carrying a large crate holding a smoking pot.

The tiger sneered back before looking back to Voltrick. Voltrick’s arms trembled to keep himself up with the shackles, his entire body filled with agonizing pain. Blood soaked fur covered his chest and back, puddles of blood surrounding his feet. But even through his pain, Voltrick managed to weakly turn his head to scowl towards the tiger.

Morldon gave a sharp growl before throwing the whip up again and snapping it down to his left. He watched with a sneering smirk as Voltrick’s face was knocked to his right. A light chuckle escaped as he stepped out of the way of the cell gate.

Voltrick’s face tightened after his head forcefully turned from the whip. Blood dripped down his face from the long slash that crossed from his forehead down to his lower right cheek.

Voltrick groaned painfully, keeping his head lowered as he tried to endure the slash across his face. "You're lucky I'm chained up like this..." Voltrick growled, turning his blood covered face toward the tiger. "..or I'd..." He attempted to continue, but was suddenly interrupted by the weasel.

"Oh relax. You take this too personally." he said cheerfully, ignoring Voltrick's growl. "You'll heal all that..." he motioned a hand around toward Voltrick. "In a matter of moments. "Besides, YOU'RE the one who broke into this place. YOU'RE the one who killed all of those soldiers and broke into Lord Fyren's room." The weasel paused to approach and look up to Voltrick. "You basically asked for this." He laughed and turned around. "Did you really think you would succeed? My boy, you truly are an arrogant fool."

Voltrick snarled and turned his head away. Torture and humiliation, what else could Voltrick ask for?

The weasel returned with a red hot pike from the large pot of smoldering coals the two soldiers carried in. "But, I'm glad you came back to us, Mr. Mundegard." He motioned the red, glowing tip toward Voltrick. "You get thrown in here and get your deserved punishment for being what you are and I get another research subject. See... the fast healers here have been given that ability. But you, you're cursed with it and its so much faster!" His tone grew louder as he became excited. "Now, today, I get to see how fast you heal." He said before quickly lowering the pike and forcing its tip into Voltrick's lower abdomen.

Voltrick suddenly groaned loudly with widened eyes as pain burst into his abdomen. Unable to desperately hold the pain in, Voltrick's groans suddenly poured out into a horrific yell. The tiger desperately tried to struggle against it, pulling his arms against the shackles in panic while his feet scrapped against the floor. "ssssStop! Geeaahh!" He pleaded, tightening his eyes shut.

Morldon, taking Voltrick's pleas as an act of defiance, quickly made his way back to Voltrick before striking the back of his hand against Voltrick's cheek as hard as he could. An angered snarl was given as he watched Voltrick's features contort to the side painfully.

The weasel finally pulled the hot pike from Voltrick's abdomen and quickly handed it to one of the soldiers behind himself. Pausing only to allow Voltrick's struggles to slow down, the weasel approached Voltrick again and closely examined the newly created wound there. Frustrated with Voltrick continually struggling against the pain, the weasel protested. "Hold still, will you?!"

After giving a short moment, the weasel looked at the wound closer; pressing two fingers against each side of the wound. The hole remained open for a short time, the edges burned and unable to bleed. But after giving it a moment, the burns began to heal and the hole slowly sealed up.

"Interesting, indeed. Much faster than I've seen." the weasel stated before standing up and exiting the cell. "Morldon, we're leaving." After allowing the soldiers to walk past, carrying the crate with the smoldiering pot, the weasel quickly followed toward the door.

Morldon took his time walking toward the cell gate, eyeing Voltrick hatefully. Before exiting, the tiger's fist suddenly moved back and threw itself toward the side of Voltrick's face. After giving his final say, the tiger left and closed the cell gate and followed after the others; leaving the now unconscious Voltrick in silence.

---------------------

Heavy clouds covered the darkening skies, threatening the chance of a downpour across the land. A strong gust shook the trees, the damp air causing the men to take shelter. Fyren stood before the elongated window, overlooking the field from above with his hands held behind his back. The air about him was that of a man in agitated waiting as his stare pierced through the glass, peering at the entrance from the trees.

He was coming. Fyren knew what was to be expected. What Aidan's purpose was in coming here and to what cost. But that was a different matter entirely. His plans were separate from all that; but one little thing did connect them momentarily.

"It seems like it will rain tonight, Nabokov. It's very fitting for your demeanor..." Fyren mentioned, turning himself to look back upon the snow leopard who stood with grimace. There were sure signs of beatings on his body, a few scars running from his chest up to the sides of his face. Pale-yellow eyes kept forward with little expression in them, or it was beaten out.

"...As you say, sir." Kirill replied in a hushed voice, lowering his eyes to the floor.

Fyren hmphed as he came to walk from the window towards the elegant desk within the study. On top there was a box with a small latch. Undoing it, Fyren propped the lid up, studying the contents within.

"For your mission, you will require some practice." Fyren said, causing Kirill's gaze to travel to the Lord. "But it won't be difficult. I have the perfect target for you."

Fyren closed the box, taking it in his hands as he walked towards Kirill, "You understand that the King will be having the annual celebration of Faholgal soon, correct?" he asked as he kept walking to the door, followed by Kirill who followed obediently.

"Yes."

As the two of them traveled through the halls, Fyren continued his explanation.

"Now to get a King, there is no sound way of getting to him through means of stealth and assassination in so short of time and planning. The only way of getting to him is through his royal address to his serfs during the festival. You will be set a distance away, safe from suspicion in the crowd. Only when you use this new device from such a distance, will you not only fulfill your task, but get away safely within the mass confusion."

Kirill listened, his eyes set on the floor for the time being until Fyren finished, looking up to the back of the cat. "...A device?" he asked, pausing to think of what weapons could hit a target from such a range. "...Like a crossbow?"

Fyren smiled patiently as the guards opened the double doors for them allowing passage. "A bit better than that, Nabokov..." he teased as they went down the steps of the darkening corridor, leading to the dungeon.

An eerie silence filled the halls and cells of the dungeon. Even the distant cries of pain and torture had quieted, leaving Voltrick with only the faint clicking of chains above his head whenever he flinched or moved.

Voltrick's head hung low between his raised arms, his feet barely touching the ground. Scattered puddles of blood surrounded him, leaked from the brutal whippings against his back and chest. There was no evidence of injury due to his healing, minus the blood stained fur covering his entire form.

The long slash along his face was still visible. It wasn't bleeding anymore, but a deep scar remained where it attempted to heal. He never knew why his face and neck scarred whereas the rest of his body didn't. Something involving his curse, that was for sure.

But Voltrick wasn't reflecting upon his wounds or the god forsaken curse forced upon him since he was a child. The still tiger was still unconscious from the harsh hit to his face from the orange tiger.

A long while passed before the loud click of the dungeon door finally roused the pained tiger. Barely awake, Voltrick's eyes only opened partially; refusing to move or speak. He knew it was just someone else or that weasel again. No point in giving any acknowledgement.

The doors closed behind them as they continued deeper into the dungeon until they were nearer to Voltrick's cell. Fyren held the box rather preciously under his arm as his eyes trailed to the hanging tiger.

"Someone you recognize, Kirill?" Fyren asked as he stood before the cell bars while behind him Kirill's eyes were widened as he looked at the prisoner.

It couldn't be! Had they tracked him down?! Kirill felt an empty feeling in his stomach as his hopes sank after seeing the unconscious tiger dangle from his chains.

"H-how---?" Kirill stuttered in his shock.

"How did we capture him? Why, he barged in here like a madman. Why, Nabokov?" Fyren turned his head back a little, smiling. "Does it disappoint you to see the one you've sacrificed yourself to rescue back where you met him? It would sadden anyone...but now, now. Cheer up, Nabokov. Through sadness comes anger, and what better way of fulfilling that with this?"

Fyren moved, placing the box on a table set just outside the cell and opened the lid again. Inside Kirill saw over Fyren's shoulder that a strange, metal tube with a handle was placed on a velvet cushion in the box. Lifting it, Fyren examined it a bit closely, taking his time, before he pressed down on a button. Suddenly the tube slip in half, causing Kirill to furrow a brow in curiosity as he watched Fyren place small metal balls inside. Afterward, Fyren snapped the tube back into one, weighing it in his hand.

"The Slaics in the West invented this. They call it a pistol. Crossbows were too big and heavy to carry around, and with their ever growing metal works, they came up with this clever instrument."

Kirill felt the sinking feeling again as his eyes went from the pistol to Voltrick, understanding the general idea of what he was supposed to do. And with the evidence of the blood under Voltrick, Fyren must have thought that practicing with that thing would fulfill two objectives at once.

As Voltrick slowly awakened, the fur on Kirill's neck stood on end as he watched the tiger with a pained expression.

"I--I can't..."

"Of course you can't at first..." Fyren waved off as he suddenly came up to Kirill, pressing the pistol into the leopard's palm. "As I've said. This is practice for when you see the Aromar. Under the circumstances, we have to be sure you'll be....mentally prepared."

Kirill grimaced as he looked at the pistol weighing in his hand, holding it at the handle as Fyren had before his eyes rose back to Voltrick in uncertainty.

Voltrick's features winced as the discomforting pain on his face continued rouse him, but it was the voices in front of him that motivated him to slowly raise his head. When his vision began to clear, Voltrick brow lowered as his vision focused on Fyren.

His entire body quickly, but weakly tensed before the one standing next to him grabbed his attention. The one he saw made his gaze widen before shifting it between him and Fyren.

"You..." His gaze focused on Kirill before shifting it again between the leopard and Fyren. The leopard stood next to Fyren without bonds or pain with Fyren standing casually next to him. Was he... serving Fyren now?

Seeing the expression in Voltrick's gaze caused Kirill to look down in shame, ears pressing back against his head. His eyes looked at the pistol in his hand, which now shook as every fiber of his being was convinced that he couldn't do this. Not when Voltrick looked at him in doubt and even betrayal.

"Good to see you're awake, Voltrick." Fyren said casually, ignoring Kirill for now. "It wouldn't have been the same if you weren't conscious."

Fyren's voice made the fur at the back of Voltrick's neck to stand on end. A quiet growl erupted as Voltrick snarled at Fyren. "What do you want, Fyren?" He snapped, briefly looking to the leopard and the strange thing he held in his hand.

Fyren laughed lightly, "What else would I be in here for? But I have a treat for you. You see, after you escaped, we've captured Kirill under the accusation that he helped you. Now with some...convincing passed, he's come to understand our terms. Or the consequences of not obeying orders..."

Kirill lifted his pained gaze again to Voltrick. He didn't want to do this...he couldn't do this...

"Call it a dark irony, but your friend here will be practicing his aim on the very man he helped escape." Fyren finished with a content smile, taking a few steps away from them, leaving Kirill to fulfill his task.

The leopard shook his head with gritted teeth, shutting his eyes. This was too much. His fist tightened around the handle of the pistol. But there was no going around it. He couldn't escape this, not with what was at stake.

"...Voltrick..." he said in his quiet voice, holding so much defeat in it as he rose his eyes to the tiger. "...They...They'll kill Emily."

Voltrick kept a vicious snarl towards Fyren as he spoke so... mockingly. But that's how Fyren spoke, he always did right before he proved himself right or was about to do something. Voltrick may as well get used to it, he knew he was going to be down here for a long time. Either that or he'll die soon. Regardless, Voltrick's about spent all the hope he had.

But then Fyren ended, basically motioning to Kirill to start whatever he was sent down here to do. Something involving the strange object in his hand, but it was obviously some kind of weapon.

Voltrick's gaze drifted to Kirill with a frustrated gaze. His brow lowered, but allowed his body to calm slightly. The leopard was obviously distraught and overwhelmed by what Fyren was forcing him to do.

Then Kirill finally spoke. His brief words hitting Voltrick like a metal rod. They'll kill Emily... Voltrick didn't know who Emily was or the significance she carried with the leopard, but it was obvious she was someone he cared the most for. If he didn't do as he was told and attack Voltrick now, Emily's life would be murdered. Just like the one's Voltrick cared for. Murdered by the ministry, most of all... Fyren.

Voltrick's scowl soon disappeared as he turned his head away from both Kirill and Fyren. He was going to accept what the leopard had to do, he had to save the one he cared for. "Just do what you came here to do." Voltrick's rumbled voice said quietly.

It was weird as Voltrick silently thought to himself; waiting for himself to be 'target practice'. Even though Voltrick barely knew Kirill or this Emily. Voltrick, at this moment, couldn't feel more connected to him. Even feeling protective of the woman he's never seen. Doing this now will protect her for a time, something he couldn't do with his own loved ones.

"Now..." Fyren said, his eyes glowing lightly. Kirill felt his arm raise, widened eyes staring down at it as though a creature had taken over it. His finger moved over the trigger slowly but it didn't go any further.

"...pull it."

Kirill looked up and saw the pistol was aimed at Voltrick's chest. His shoulder shook, the only part of his arm that could as he grit his teeth, furrowing his brows in frustration. He didn't know what was going to happen. Didn't know what this thing would do! What if it kills Voltrick? Kirill would never live that down.

Under the stress, Kirill imagined Emily and pulled the trigger.

A horribly loud bang echoed off the dungeon walls as a small cloud of smoke rose above the pistol. Kirill gasped, eyes widened in alert as he looked to Voltrick to see what was done.

Voltrick didn't know what to expect from a weapon like that. At least not until a loud explosion was heard, but even then... There was no preparing Voltrick to the almost instant pain he felt.

Nothing could describe it. An arrow or blade could be seen, it happened so fast. Like it wasn't even there. But whatever it was, it felt as if a hole in chest had burst open suddenly. Blood splattered around the wound like a puddle of red against his chest. It almost felt as if it was forced right through him, tearing apart his chest and into his lungs.

Whatever it was, it was small and invisible. Capable striking like an arrow but tore far deeper into his chest.

Voltrick shouted in pain suddenly, feeling the destructive thing like a hot sword tearing his chest open. Pained features scrunched and winced terribly before horrific coughs suddenly erupted, blood splattering down his chin.

Seeing the terrible reaction from Voltrick, Kirill instinctively lowered the smoking pistol, fearful eyes staring as he stepped back. The blood dripped from Voltrick's chest and mouth, revealing the effects this thing had. And at such distance!

Kirill looked down at the pistol. There was such a powerful recoil when he pulled the trigger, the aim better than any crossbow. A deathly instrument suiting for an organization as theirs. The leopards eyes marveled at the silver metal before he heard Fyren's subtle voice.

"It's a wonderful instrument, isn't it?"

Snapping his head up, Kirill stared blankly at Fyren before his brow lowered gently, looking away in shame. To think he'd admire such a thing!?

"...This isn't..." he tried, looking back to Voltrick sadly. "...This isn't what it should be like."

"Do away with such ideal thoughts, Kirill. This is where the world is headed. And after Faholgal see's it's power, just think of the potential for the Ministry with these in our hands. But you can already foresee that. Now...raise the pistol and fire again."

A sweat broke on Kirill's brow as his eyes squint in contempt. What could another ball of steel do to Voltrick? How many more would satisfy Fyren?

Narrowed eyes slowly turned to the cat before his arm rose, finger on the trigger in readiness, the barrel aimed at Fyren. Kirill's teeth grit as a frustrated glare took his expression, staring at his captor. His thoughts screamed at him, all those beatings and psychological torture he had to go through. He was throwing away all he had gained for someone else. Again.

"I can't do it!!" he shouted, "Not a second time!!"

He must have been crazy. Out of his mind to point this pistol at the one who could turn his world topsy-turvy without a thought. That powerful man with no regard for anyone or thing. Sacrificing Emily, himself and in a way Voltrick to point this thing at the tyrant.

But Kirill was a believer of principles. The idea...the very frightening idea that this small metal instrument could make the world a very dark place in the wrong hands. And he would be the one to start it all in the assassination of King Aromar. That must have been Fyren's plan all along...

"Are you really sure you should be pointing that at me?" Fyren asked patiently, hands behind his back with a narrowed gaze.

...It wouldn't matter! It didn't matter whether Fyren died or not to stop it! The very existence of it cannot be erased. Kirill was suddenly filled with a deep hopelessness in his role.

Why did he have to be the one...?

"You can't stop it, Nabokov. There's nothing you can do but follow orders. Now resume your mission like a good soldier."

A weight in his arm was felt as Fyren's eyes glowed gently again. Even if he fired...in that second Fyren could have moved his arm. Kirill grimaced deeply at his stupidity after realizing that as his arm rose again, pointing the gun back at Voltrick. This time, Fyren's control ended there.

Kirill was left staring back at Voltrick with the same helpless look.

"Three shots. To his chest and that will be all." Fyren said. Kirill found it sounding merciful.

Wanting to shut his eyes, Kirill squinted as he aimed again with his finger over the trigger. "...Sorry." he whispered, pulling and the same cracking echo sounding off the walls, another shot embedding into Voltrick.