Chapter 8: Voice from the Grave
Part 1 – Recognition
(Some echoes don’t fade. Some voices become the shape of your nightmares. And sometimes… they speak again.)
Interior – Bunker, Audio Lab – Morning
The room was sealed tight. Soundproofed. Lit by the dull blue of audio spectrograph monitors lining the wall.
Layla sat hunched at her station, sleeves rolled up, eyes bloodshot from hours of scrubbing sound data.
Ø LAYLA (muttering): “Modulator’s too good. Too clean. But everyone slips… somewhere.”
She scrubbed the audio again.
The voice from the broadcast—the one that hijacked their bunker, that played Tom’s torture over and over—looped through the speakers, digitally slowed, deepened, filtered.
Ø MASKED MAN (distorted): “You left us. But I didn’t die.”
Ø LAYLA (whispers): “There…”
She zoomed in on the waveform. A microscopic glitch. A crack in the modulator.
She isolated it. Re-ran the sample.
Ø MASKED MAN (unfiltered, brief): “…didn’t die…”
It was just a whisper. Raw. Human.
But familiar.
She amplified the wave. Sent it through her identification software.
The computer paused.
And spat out no match. Again.
Ø LAYLA (to herself): “You’re not in the system… but you’re in his system.”
She reached for her comm.
Interior – Training Room, Tom’s Wing
Tom was mid-strike, blade in hand, practicing calculated swings against holographic projections. Sweat dripped from his brow, muscles taut with discipline and rage.
Ø LAYLA (comm): “Tom. I need you. Audio lab. Now.”
He didn’t answer, but the simulation paused.
Minutes later, he stood behind her, chest rising and falling under his grey training shirt.
Ø TOM: “You found something?”
Ø LAYLA: “A crack in the voice modulator. It’s only a second, but…”
She played it.
Ø MASKED MAN (bare voice): “…didn’t die…”
Tom froze.
The air shifted. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Ø TOM (slowly): “Play it again.”
She did.
Ø MASKED MAN (bare voice): “…didn’t die…”
Tom’s jaw tightened.
He wasn’t in the bunker anymore.
He was back there. In the darkness. The hunger. The pain.
And a voice beside him. In the cell next to his. Whispering words through cracked lips.
“You think they’ll ever let us go?”
He never saw the man’s face. Just heard him. Every day. Every night.
Starved. Beaten. Burned. Together.
Ø TOM (hoarse): “It’s him.”
Ø LAYLA: “Who?”
Ø TOM: “I never knew his name. But he was with me. In the cage. One cell over. We made it through… together.”
Layla leaned in.
Ø LAYLA: “You said he died.”
Ø TOM: “I thought he did.”
He stared at the speaker. Voice looping.
Ø TOM (low): “But that voice... it never left my head.”
Ø LAYLA (carefully): “What did he sound like before?”
Ø TOM: “Scared. Quiet. Smart. He once saved me from a guard beating by setting a fire two cells down.”
Ø LAYLA: “He was fighting back even then.”
Tom’s fists clenched.
Ø TOM: “He used to whisper through the walls. Said we’d get out. Together.”
Layla sat back slowly.
Ø LAYLA: “He’s not whispering anymore.”
Interior – Caleb’s Hideout – Same Time
Caleb stood alone in a cold concrete room.
A half-dozen speaker systems were dismantled on the table in front of him. The footage from the broadcast was playing on a loop—Tom screaming, chained, bleeding.
Caleb didn’t flinch.
He just watched.
Then deleted the file.
He picked up a handheld voice modulator, pulled the casing off, and began rewiring it—his fingers burned from hours of tweaking.
Ø CALEB (to himself): “He’ll recognize me soon.”
Tammy walked in, arms folded, posture feline.
Ø TAMMY: “Planning your next little horror show?”
Ø CALEB (without looking): “He forgot me.”
Ø TAMMY (leans against the wall): “And now he remembers.”
Caleb stared at the wall, at a photo of a broken prison cell—burned, wrecked, abandoned.
Ø CALEB (cold): “Now he knows what I became.”
Tammy tilted her head, lips curling.
Ø TAMMY: “My father will want to hear about this.”
Ø CALEB: “Then tell him. But don’t get in the way.”
She sauntered off.
Ø TAMMY (over her shoulder): “Hope he remembers what I look like too.”
Interior – Bunker, Audio Lab – Evening
Tom sat alone in front of the waveform.
The voice looped again.
Ø MASKED MAN (bare voice): “…didn’t die…”
Tom whispered to himself.
Ø TOM: “Neither did I.”
Chapter 9: The Man in the Pit
Part 2 – Eyes in the Dark
(Sometimes, chasing a ghost means becoming one. But in the city’s broken corners, the past doesn’t wait to be found—it finds you.)
Interior – Bunker, Nightfall
The map was spread across the screen. A web of red markers.
Ø MANNERS (tapping keys): “Military shelters. Veterans’ outreach clinics. Former blacksite contractors. These are all places someone like him might go dark.”
Tom leaned over the map. Jaw locked. Mask in hand.
Ø TOM: “Then I’ll search them all.”
Ø LAYLA (softly): “You’re not going alone.”
Ø TOM (shaking his head): “This isn’t about safety. It’s about what I owe.”
Montage – Rooftop Searches, Back Alleys, Abandoned Clinics
Tom moved like a shadow across the city’s spine.
He checked halfway houses where ex-soldiers lingered. Asked around at run-down shelters. Most people didn’t know the name Caleb. A few flinched when he described him. But none pointed with certainty.
Ø VETERAN (old, coughing): “Lot of us never came home, son. Some just… stayed missing.”
He perched on the edge of a three-story building near the industrial district, breathing heavily.
Ø TOM (to comm): “Still nothing.”
Ø LAYLA (through earpiece): “You’ll find him. He’s watching, remember? He wants you to.”
Tom closed his eyes.
Then—a scream.
Female. Below.
Alleyway – Same Time
Tom dropped fast—three stories down, landing hard on one knee.
A man had a woman pinned against a dumpster. Her cheek bloodied. His fist raised again.
Ø WOMAN (crying): “Please—stop!”
Tom didn’t hesitate.
He launched into the alley.
Ø TOM: “Let her go.”
The man turned—furious, drunk, stupid.
Ø MAN: “Who the hell—?”
CRACK. Tom’s fist smashed the man’s wrist. The next hit dropped him to his knees. A third to the temple—out cold.
Tom turned to the woman. She backed away, trembling.
Ø TOM (softly): “You’re safe now.”
She nodded silently, breath ragged.
Ø WOMAN (whispers): “Thank you.”
Tom stood over the unconscious abuser, then looked up at the fire escape.
Ø LAYLA (in comm): “You okay?”
Ø TOM: “Just reminded why I wear the mask.”
Exterior – Rooftops, Minutes Later
Tom ascended again—using one of Manners’ grapples. But midway up a building—
SNAP.
The hook line was cut.
Tom dropped—slamming through scaffolding, smashing into a lower fire escape, then tumbling hard onto a rooftop garden.
He groaned. Pulled himself up—bleeding, dazed.
And at the top of the building above—
A silhouette.
Holding a staff.
Rooftop – The Confrontation
Tom climbed the fire escape manually—gritting his teeth. Every step burned.
He pulled himself over the ledge.
No one.
Just fog. The night quiet.
Then—
CRACK.
A staff slammed into his ribs. Then another strike to the jaw.
Tom staggered back.
A figure in black. Masked. Agile. Brutal.
Tom drew his katana.
Ø TOM (grimacing): “You’re not running this time.”
They fought.
Steel met steel. Staff vs. Blade.
Caleb was faster. Cleaner. But Tom was stronger—and angry.
Sparks flew. Each strike echoed across the rooftops.
Tom scored a hit—cutting into the staff. Caleb countered—knee to the gut, elbow to the throat.
Tom dropped to one knee.
But as Caleb swung again—
CLANG.
Tom deflected. Spun.
SLICE.
The staff shattered.
Caleb dropped it.
Then raised his fists.
They fought hand-to-hand.
Brutal. No wasted motion.
Tom landed a spinning back kick—knocking the mask free.
And there he was.
Face scarred. One eye blind. Burn marks down his jaw.
Prisoner 10.
Ø TOM (breathing hard): “…Caleb?”
Caleb smiled—just slightly.
Ø CALEB: “Exactly how I imagined you.”
Ø TOM: “You rigged that apartment. You could’ve killed me.”
Ø CALEB (shrugging): “I needed to see what you were capable of.”
Ø TOM: “How did you—”
Ø CALEB (cutting him off): “Escape? Not thanks to you. After you vanished, they broke us worse. Made me do things.”
Ø TOM (voice cracking): “I’m sorry—”
Ø CALEB (cold): “Too late.”
He stabbed a hidden combat knife into Tom’s side—right under the rib, between armor plates.
Tom gasped—fell back.
Ø CALEB: “And all this? The pain? The blood? It’s just the prelude.”
Caleb kicked Tom over the rooftop edge.
Tom slammed through a glass canopy and crashed onto a parked car below—groaning, bloodied.
Minutes Later – Alley Below
Layla and Manners found him moments later—tracking his signal.
Ø LAYLA (panicked): “Tom—!”
Ø MANNERS (kneeling): “Hold still. That wound’s deep—damn it—”
Ø TOM (faint): “It’s him… Prisoner 10…”
Ø LAYLA (soft): “We’ll get him, Tom. We will.”
Tom blacked out.
---
Chapter 9: The Man in the Pit
Part 3 – The Recovery
(Some wounds bleed. Some don’t. But all of them shape what comes next.)
Interior – The Bunker, Medical Bay – Night
Tom lay motionless on the steel table, his breath shallow. The lights above flickered gently, casting sterile shadows across his bruised, bloodied body. The combat knife wound just beneath his ribs still oozed through a hastily wrapped field dressing.
Layla hovered over him, hands trembling slightly as she prepped her stitching kit.
Ø LAYLA (softly): “Hold on, Tom…”
Manners stood at the side, peeling the remains of the armored undersuit off Tom’s torso with careful hands.
Ø MANNERS: “That blade went through your armor like butter. He knew exactly where to hit you.”
Ø LAYLA: “Shut up and hold him steady.”
Ø MANNERS (quiet): “…Sorry.”
She leaned in with needle and thread, using her free hand to gently brush hair from Tom’s forehead.
Ø LAYLA (whispers): “You idiot… what were you thinking going up there alone?”
Flashback – Rooftop Memory (Fragmented)
Ø CALEB (voice, echoing): “You left me… They made me worse.”
Ø TOM (gasping): “I didn’t… I didn’t know…”
Interior – Medical Bay, Minutes Later
Layla’s hands worked in silence. Each stitch came with a wince from Tom, his eyes fluttering open just enough to register the light… and her.
Ø TOM (hoarse): “That... hurt.”
Ø LAYLA (smiling through tears): “Good. Means you’re still alive.”
He tried to move—groaned—and stopped.
Ø TOM: “Caleb…”
Ø LAYLA: “Don’t move. We’ve got you.”
Ø MANNERS (holding tools): “I’ll work on the suit. You just… don’t bleed out.”
Interior – Workshop Bay, Hours Later
Manners laid the torn armor across the worktable. Sparks flew as he carefully disassembled the torso plating.
Ø MANNERS (to himself): “Weak point in the lower seam. That’s on me.”
He pulled a reinforced alloy sheet from the shelf—stronger, more flexible.
Ø MANNERS: “You want something indestructible, you’re gonna have to become it.”
He tapped the helmet once—lightly.
Ø MANNERS: “Don’t worry, big guy. I’ll fix your shell.”
Interior – Medical Bay, Same Time
Tom was stable now. Sweating, exhausted, stitched together.
Layla sat beside him in a rolling chair, head tilted back against the wall. Her voice came low, unguarded.
Ø LAYLA: “You really scared me, Tom.”
Ø TOM (half-asleep): “He was faster. Better trained.”
Ø LAYLA: “He knew your weak spot. And you still fought him.”
She reached out, slowly lacing her fingers with his.
Ø LAYLA: “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Ø TOM (after a pause): “He wants me to. Wants me isolated.”
Ø LAYLA: “Then screw him. We’re stronger than that.”
Interior – Workshop, Later
Manners approached quietly, a fresh core plate in his hands.
Ø MANNERS: “Layla, look. I reworked the rib joints. No more soft spots—well, fewer.”
Ø LAYLA: “Good. He’ll need it.”
Tom opened one eye.
Ø TOM: “How much is it going to weigh?”
Ø MANNERS: “A bit more. But you’re getting stronger. I saw the logs. Every simulation, every run—you’re improving.”
He set the new chestplate down beside the bed.
Ø MANNERS: “But you’ll have to train harder than ever. Because Caleb… he’s not slowing down.”
Tom looked at the armor.
Then at the sword beside it.
Ø TOM: “I don’t want revenge. I want to stop this before it becomes something worse.”
Ø LAYLA: “Then let’s get to work.”
Interior – Gym Wing, The Next Day
Tom limped into the training space. Bandaged. Sore. Barefoot.
Layla followed. She didn’t ask. Just tossed him a pair of training gloves.
He caught them. Barely.
Ø TOM (smirking): “You’re not going easy on me, are you?”
Ø LAYLA (grinning): “Not even close.”
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