"You garbage!" someone bellowed, their shout cutting right through all the noise.
"Rot in the abyss, you lowlife!" someone else yelled, their voice thick with malice.
A brutal sound slammed into the stage - a swell of pure spite. Faces twisted in anger filled everything you could see, eyes glowing hot enough to scorch the very air. All that bitterness landed on him, the youth lashed tightly to a crude post at center stage.
A shiver racked Clive. Ropes - rough, heavy things - held him fast to the post, yet felt less like bonds than deliberate pain, digging deeper each time he shifted. Ropes bit deep, staining the cloth a gruesome red. Though the restraints hurt, the stares felt worse - a burning ache beyond physical pain.
"No, I swear… just stop," he rasped, sound lost amidst the roaring people. A feeble request, like trying to quiet a storm.
Spit!
Something slick, tepid landed on his face - a slow slide down skin. He looked up into the scowl of the person who'd just secured the bindings.
"Pathetic," the man sneered. "Do you think lying can save you now, scum? Go to hell where you belong." To punctuate his sentence, he drove a fist hard into Clive's stomach.
Clive gasped, air ripped from him. Copper flooded his tongue just as blood bloomed on the floorboards. Everything spun; agony blazed everywhere.
"All set," the man declared to a hidden listener, "he's bound secure. It concludes here." With that, he walked off, finished with whatever needed doing.
A powerful voice erupted, fueled by the throng's excitement – a soldier in immaculate dress blues rose on horseback. He scanned the faces until his burning stare locked onto Clive. Those eyes weren't just angry; they glowed with chilling conviction.
"Clive Peterson!" the man's voice rang out, and the crowd fell into an eager, anticipatory hush. "You have committed a great crime by attempting to forcefully sleep with the Princess of Oxforth Kingdom! And on this day, your judgment has come!"
The crowd roared - a strange mix of happiness alongside what should have been sorrow. They were thrilled he was about to die.
"You shall be shot to death!"
Words flooded Clive, yet a quiet settled within him; he stilled. Panic gave way to grim acceptance - he wouldn't get out of this. He'd been worn away by the system until only this remained - the bitter end. What truly haunted him wasn't the situation itself, but its honesty: he didn't do it. Instead of scheming within palace walls, he battled in the fighting pits, striving simply to survive. Regret felt hollow at this point. Truth didn't matter; falsehood had claimed victory.
"Fire!" barked the soldier.
Pa! Pa! Pa!
Rifle shots split the silence - crisp, unwavering.
He was slammed - again, then again. Pain exploded everywhere, swallowing what little he could see until there wasn't even darkness, just nothing. Rope burn faded, so did the stomach pain from the blow - even the shame of being spat upon. It just stopped. All the hardship since they took him? Finished.
A strange peace settled over him. It felt…like slipping away. Unexpectedly, he noted this with a quiet curiosity. It wasn't hurting. Instead, a deep lightness took over - a feeling like floating away.
The good feeling didn't last.
<
What?... What's this? Before Clive could understand what was before him, his thoughts suddenly dispersed. One moment he floated, unburdened; the next, a dreadful plummet into endless dark swallowed everything.
A murmur followed - barely there, remote as sounds traveling across immense waters.
"Dave… Dave… Dave..."
Eyes flying open, Clive sat bolt upright. A desperate hand searched his chest - bullets there, yet he sucked in air, believing he'd never breathe again. The coolness felt good filling him up.
I'm not dead?
A jolt - pure astonishment - ran through him. His fingers explored his shirt, finding smooth cloth where he expected rips, wounds.
"Hey... you okay, Dave?" someone asked, close by.
His world tilted as he whirled about. Not far off, a teenaged girl - seventeen, give or take - was simply sitting there. Her hair was black as night, shaping her features. Initially, her green eyes seemed unreadable - however, observing closely revealed concern beneath a calm exterior.
He blinked at her, utterly thrown by the name - Dave. Whose Dave? His gaze dropped; these weren't quite his hands. They resembled what he once knew, yet bore a history etched into their skin – scarred lines telling tales of hardship. He was wearing simple, unfamiliar clothes. The wooden floor felt foreign beneath him; the room, completely new.
It struck him - a blow far heavier than gunfire.
Where the hell am I?