359 pushed the wheel. The massive and ancient structure shrieked and resisted his movements, but his flesh was resilient and his will tenacious. Therefore, against its wishes, the giant cog turned. And in so doing it begun a sequence of reactions that creaked and groaned throughout the enormous chamber he dwelled within. His thoughts were muddled at best. Ever since the masters had awoken him to the truth of his identity. Ever since their beautiful and cruel combination of torture and mental abuse weakened his resolve, he had come to believe their claims.

And so, he had been forcibly stripped of the name he’d grown so attached. His identity being that of a slave, he had been given a number. That number being 359 of 600. He had once questioned the number 600. But the answer had been so convoluted and so perplexing to his battered mind, that he didn’t understand the concept of him being number three hundred and fifty nine. That he was one of a hundred others like him. The only surviving/functional members of six hundred clones. He had looked quizzically at his master, the bleak faced Ventrue that his progenitor, Gideon had brought to him that first day, and the query was washed from his mind as sand from a beach.

359 stopped briefly. His head hurt. He thought it exhaustion from being fed so little blood. But there was a creeping quality to it that dissuaded that belief. The name he had been forced to repress, no forget, that was the masters’ wish, was skulking backstage, like some great Pantomime villain. And as he stopped pushing the wheel it crept to centre stage and screamed in his face with the bellow of a lion.

The sting of a whip across his back did nothing to keep the lion at bay. If anything, it simply fuelled the great villainous cat’s fury. The roar shook 359 to his knees as another crack echoed over his broad, blood-sweated shoulders. He felt the tremble of rage run over his drawn but still impressive frame. Sighing defeated as it left him as it had so many times before.

[i:3a2b4e500e]“You! 359! Get on your feet or the masters will find other things for you to do other than pushing the wheel! Move it I say! Or the grinder it’ll be!”[/i:3a2b4e500e]

The speaker punctuated his threat with another whipping. The blow made 359 arc his back and yowl. What else was there to do, but do as his masters instructed.

He was a slave. Delusional true. But nothing more than a beast of burden. And somehow, terribly, he found comfort in that. He had purpose.

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

Each night, 359 would be taken still bound, from the wheel. He would be taken to a small alcove in full view of the grinder his monitor had spoken of. There he would sit until he slumbered, watching the bodies of the masters’ failed experiments being ground into paste. The nourishing mulch would be fed to 359 and his 100 brethren. It wasn’t blood, no. But it was enough to survive on. And if nothing else, his DNA [b:3a2b4e500e]was[/b:3a2b4e500e] the DNA of a survivor.

He would watch the process with a childish awe. A curious feeling of pride swelling in him that he had been able to avoid such a fate thus far. Then after he drank his fill of his bloody soup, he would sleep, restless and pained.

His dreams were always the same. In them he was the very name he feared would bring whips to his flesh. He would stand fighting his masters. Defying them to the last. Then he would awaken, bound in the very chains that held him now. But with each night, the dream grew stronger.

359 moaned in his sleep. He rolled to his feet and stood, green eyes blazing. In this dream, he stood strong. In this dream he was a survivor. An ancient that could destroy the fetters that held him and destroy the fiend that had brought him here.

Gideon.

The masters sensed something was wrong and they reinforced the psychic restraints they had in place.

In time cages crumble.

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

359 was led into the fields. His retainer had to drag him at times when his curiosity froze his feet, his face pressed against the cylinders of glass that filled the field chamber. He was intrigued by the stunning likeness each cylinder’s inhabitants bore to himself. Or was he the one bearing likeness? Either way, his battered mind was fascinated, and that annoyed the guards.

The technicians that attended the glass wombs would look at him with an unnaturally patronly manner. They would sometimes smile as he met their eyes. At other times they would look away.

His world remained small. Confined until the night the sky fell upon him.

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

The explosion brought plumes of earth-dust down into the sprawling chambers. There were deafening cracks, like the heavens themselves bore whips. Guards were torn apart by these unseen cracks. Rock was pulverised. A great shadow, cloaked and theatrical, cut through the remaining guards with terrible ease. A flashing single eye grinning out from under a large black tricorn hat. 359 recoiled in fear and confusion as the shadow advanced upon him, the massive blade it wielded smashing the chains that bound him.

[i:3a2b4e500e]“Porter, lad! It be I! Get off yer barnacles and follow me!”[/i:3a2b4e500e]

359 looked blankly. Tattersail twisted his lip in thought.

[i:3a2b4e500e]“Are ye deaf man? Ye be free! Now away with ye! Orion’s Favour awaits!”[/i:3a2b4e500e]

He stood, strangely drawn to the increasingly familiar shadow.

[i:3a2b4e500e]“You called me by the name I fear the most. Who are you that bears me so closely to my terror?”

“What’s this bilge talk Porter my man? We’ve been searching for you for weeks. We haven’t got much time before the guards’ reinforcements arrive. Now get up and come on!”[/i:3a2b4e500e]

359 nodded warily, fearing this to be a test created by his masters. Standing he winced expecting some punishment that didn’t come.

[i:3a2b4e500e]“That’s more like it! Now come on! There’ll be plenty of time to get revenge!”[/i:3a2b4e500e]

Tattersail slapped his arm around his shoulder. The smoke of heavy machine gunfire shrouded their retreat. 359 didn’t know how his brethren fared. But the thought troubled him as the man called Tattersail led him aboard the ship.

Orion’s Favour seemed to sigh as it rose. Unburdened to some extent by the expulsion of much ammunition. But now burdened by a far greater weight. The presence of a man who did not know himself.