Noctropolis Underground

 

NOCTROPOLIS

Chapter 1

It was a man-made hellhole where hope came to die.

The midnight air was thick and oppressive in the underground prison called Noctropolis. The cramped space was a labyrinth of tiny, five-by-five prison-like cells, each secured with oversized, grotesque padlocks reminiscent of treasure chest locks. Cobblestone walls dripped with lime and rusty water, the steady drip-drop echoing like a monotonous metronome in the musty, stale air.

The darkness tightens around the bodies huddled within as our view sweeps across the rows of cells. Each woman, clad in tattered clothing barely covering their modesty, bore marks of violence—bloody knees, bruises, and makeshift bandages. In one such cell, a scantily clad woman writhed on the filthy floor, her moans of pain barely audible above the faint cheers resonating from beyond the prison walls.

Denise lay on the cold, damp floor, her face a tapestry of purple bruises. Her arms were scraped and chafed, red abrasions standing out starkly against her pale skin. Blood trickled from her mouth and nose, mingling with the dirt on the ground.

"Somebody... someone helps me... please help me..." she whimpered, her voice a thin thread of desperation.

From a nearby cell, Jackie, a robust black woman with a tough exterior, scrambled up from her makeshift hay bed. Anger flashed in her eyes as she grabbed the cell bars, her grip tight enough to turn her knuckles white.

"Oh, will you shut up already!" she snapped. "For Christ's sake, it's not enough that I had to kick your ass; now I have to listen to you moan and groan like a baby!" Her anger was a mask for the guilt gnawing at her insides, her tough facade cracking as tears welled up in her eyes.

The wooden door at the far end creaked open, cheers growing louder like a boxing match reaching its climax. A guard entered, not the uniformed kind, but a thug—a blonde-haired, blue-eyed giant, his muscles bulging beneath his shirt. He exuded a menace that chilled the already frigid air.

"I'm hurting... just kill me already... just go ahead and kill me... I've been here too long... I want to go..." Denise's voice was a broken plea.

"Shut up! Just shut up! Don't say that!" Jackie cried, tears streaming down her face. Her conscience was tearing her apart, the weight of her actions pressing down on her.

The guard approached, his billy club clanging against the bars, silencing her. "Shut up, you! This ain't no chat room."

The roar of cheers echoed again from beyond the door.

"Please, sir, she needs Doctor Kreggs. She's hurt bad," Jackie pleaded, her voice breaking.

The guard glanced at Denise over his shoulder, twirling the billy club with a smirk. "You ought to know... you did it."

His words hit Jackie like a slap, and she staggered back, lost in guilt. From a nearby cell, Denmark, a woman who seemed more suited to Wall Street than this hellhole, stepped forward, concern etched on her face.

"Jackie? Jackie, pull yourself together. It looks worse than it is. Niecey's going to be alright." Denmark reached through the bars, offering her hand. "Come here, girl, take my hand. It's okay, it's okay. You bought yourself more time. This was Niecey's first; she's got two more, and you don't have any. You had to do it. You had to."

Jackie turned, her teary eyes meeting Denmark's. She reached out, gripping Denmark's hand tightly.

The guard rolled his eyes, flipping the sheets on his flipchart. "Isn't that sweet? Denmark, you're on tomorrow night. Make sure you get some sleep and say your prayers. You're going against Firestorm."

He strolled down the corridor, rows of cells on each side, revealing the sheer number of women held captive. There were hundreds of cells, each one a testament to the cruelty of this place.

"It's just a matter of time before someone gets us the hell out of here, you'll see," Denmark said, her voice trying to inject hope into their bleak reality.

"Denmark, you're going to fight Firestorm?" Jackie's voice trembled.

Denmark looked away, tears returning. She couldn't answer. Jackie moved closer, gripping her hand tightly.

"Dennie? You already have two losses. You can't fight Firestorm."

"Jackie, they told me if I beat her, they'll let me go."

Jackie backed off, her hand slipping from Denmark's grip. She turned her back, leaning against the bars, whispering, "Nobody beats Firestorm."

At the far end of the corridor, a different scene played out. The cell was immaculate, the floor spotless. Blankets were folded neatly in a corner, starkly contrasting the raw hay beds elsewhere.

From within, the sound of grunting filled the air. Firestorm, a woman of freakish musculature and chiseled features, was doing pushups. Her long dark hair was tied in a ponytail, flopping with each heave of her massive body. She dropped to the floor, breathing heavily, her muscles flexing with each breath, the epitome of physical power and endurance.

The clock on Logan’s wall reads seven-thirty A.M. Logan urgently moves around his small apartment, pushing himself almost frantically in his wheelchair. He is dressed immaculately in a suit and tie, his shoes polished to a shine. His hands move swiftly, straightening the room, adjusting books on the shelf, and wiping down surfaces precisely. The air smells faintly of lemon from the Pledge, which he sprays onto the table before wiping it vigorously.

From the bathroom, Max Guerrero emerges, surrounded by a cloud of white steam. She is wrapped in a towel that barely reaches her thighs, using another to dry her wet hair. She pauses in the center of the room, observing Logan as he continues his intense cleaning.

“Hey, thanks for letting me use your shower,” Max says, breaking the silence. “This is the fifth day we haven't had water in my building. You get what you pay for, huh?”

Logan is too absorbed in his task to respond. He sprays more Pledge and wipes the table with even greater enthusiasm. Max watches him, a smile playing on her lips. 

“Looks like ole Logan has got himself a date,” she whispers.

Without breaking his stride, Logan replies, “No, Logan does not have a date. I'm expecting a visit from an old friend.”

Max tosses her hair, letting the towel fall to the floor. She walks towards Logan, leaving a trail of wet footprints. Logan glances at the marks she has left.

“An old friend? Male or female? Or shouldn't I ask?”

Logan’s response is firm. “I'll tell you everything you want to know, but first things first. Pick up the towel and dry the floor. Then we'll talk.”

Max grins. “Anything you say, Mr. Clean.”

She retrieves the towel and uses it to wipe the floor dry with her feet. Logan continues speaking as she works.

“His name is Samaritan Peoples. We grew up together. Sam became the proverbial two-bit con artist. I went on to better things.”

Max finishes drying the floor and flicks the towel onto Logan’s lap. “So the great Logan still has a few shady acquaintances? I guess even a man in your position has to 'keep it real,' huh?”

Logan wheels himself closer to Max. “Sam's mostly harmless. I want to show him you can be and do good simultaneously.”

Max smirks, tossing the towel onto Logan's head. “Famous last words,” she says, disappearing back into the bathroom. Logan holds the towel close as if it were a dear friend.

“Hey, you know something?” he calls out.

“What?” Max's voice comes from the bathroom.

“Even though I have a private life that doesn't concern you, there's no need to be jealous.”

He smiles to himself. The bathroom door opens just a crack, and a towel flies through the air, landing perfectly on Logan's head. Logan laughs.

The Jam Pony Messenger Service was a unique bike messenger service because it employed the undesirable of the world. The eclectic, eccentric, troubled, and socially inept were welcome to bring their bikes and help the company make money. It took a specific type of person to brave the evils of society just to deliver a package. Jam Pony was just what the doctor ordered.

Today, the messenger service was bustling with activity. Bikers and couriers milled about, engaged in various tasks. The original Cindy is on the pay phone, and her voice is urgent. In the center of the floor, Normal and Sketchy are arguing.

“Normal, that's unfair! You said if I made the run in a half hour, I could lay off for the rest of the day—with pay!” Sketchy’s frustration is evident.

Normal, ever deadpan, corrects him. “Correction, you malnourished Cro-Magnon man, I said less than a half hour. That's twenty-nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds or less. You came in at—” he checks his watch, “—thirty minutes, twenty seconds. To me, that's more than thirty minutes.”

Sketchy throws a package down in anger. “Normal, you...you...you bite!”

Normal remains unfazed. “Yeah, and I charge by the tooth mark, so scram. You can't afford me.”

Max enters, walking her bike. Sketchy storms past her, fuming. 

“What's wrong with him?” Max asks Cindy, who shrugs and turns away. Max, feeling slighted, continues, “What's wrong with you?”

Herbal, who has been quietly reading a Bible, looks up. “It's all a sign of the last days, Max. Those who don't know the signs shall become pawns of the evil that will reign—”

Max interrupts him. “Save it, Herbal. I just want to live my life as quietly as possible. Maybe have a few kicks along the way.”

Cindy slams the phone down and approaches Max. “Sorry, Max. I didn't mean to diss you like that.”

Max waves her off. “Hey, I already got dissed this morning. Join in on the fun.”

Cindy’s expression turns somber. “It's just that my friend is missing. Remember Fiona?”

Herbal chimes in, “The gal who liked women who decided that she liked men more?”

“Don't remind me,” Cindy replies. “But even after we split, we were still cool? Then she met this outlaw type, and things changed.”

Sketchy, still angry, storms back into the office. “Okay, Normal, I'm going to give this one to you. But I need Friday off to take my girl to the mountains for our six-month anniversary.”

Normal, behind his desk, barely looks up. “So take off already. I'll take it out of your pay, same as always.”

“You know what he means,” Cindy says. “He needs time off with pay.”

Sketchy nods. “Yeah, give me one of those races against time. If I make it, I get Friday afternoon off. Deal?”

Normal's interest is piqued. “And if you don't?”

Sketchy hesitates. “What do you mean ‘if I don't’?”

Herbal interjects, “Hey, fair is fair. If somebody loses, somebody has to win.”

Normal nods. “Winning usually happens like that.”

“Okay, okay. If I lose, I work all day Friday at half.”

Normal’s eyes gleam. “Half? All day? My quaint little Gremlin, you've got a deal.”

They shake hands. Normal tosses a package to Max, who catches it without looking.

Max turns to Cindy. “So what's this about Fiona?”

Cindy sighs. “Nobody has seen her since last week. Fiona doesn't just disappear off the face of the earth.”

Max parks her bike and sits down. “What about her boyfriend?”

Cindy frowns. “He's a freak. He used to take her to these weird shows.”

Herbal looks curious. “What kind of shows?”

“Don't know. Fiona’s boy toy made her promise that she wouldn't tell. But a friend of a friend told me that the boyfriend skipped town last week –alone.”

Herbal’s brow furrows. “Sounds like you're going to need a detective with underground connections. Hey, what about that rebel, Eyes Only? Think he could help?”

Cindy brightens. “Now that would be awesome. But how do we contact him?”

Max’s eyes twinkle mischievously. “Hmmm, I'm sure if we put our heads together, we might be able to think of something.”