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The pitter-patter of the rain cascading across his skin did nothing to ease the burning sensation in his veins, the fire in his lungs - but he refused to collapse. Brows furrowed, he forced himself onwards through the rain, drenched, carrying the weight of his soaked clothes, and all he was aware of was the dull roar of the thunderstorm and his own breathing, forced into regularity. So this was Taqnateh - at the end of an endless seeming slope, desolate, empty, barren, inhabited by only two houses and one bizarre modern work of art resembling a castle in tatters, the gym itself.

His breath fogged the glass to the door of the PokéCenter, left shoulder aching dully as he impacted with it, softly - apparently, his coordination was lacking. He allowed a tremble to run through him, a hint of weakness, before raising his hands to the glass and staring into the darkness of the building, palms clasped loosely against the smooth surface of the door. Somewhere within him, a curse sought to surface, but he was too numb all over to find the fury needed to hurl it out against the wind. Closed.

Willing himself to keep moving against the whipping wind, rain driven into his face, he grimaced, and pushed the pain aside as though it were easily dismissed, pretending himself oblivious to it, though knowing full well that the more he pushed himself towards the point of utter exhaustion, the harder it would be to avoid it hitting him full force in a moment of inattentiveness.

'Think, Dakarai, think.'

The sole of his right foot slipped against the moist ground and he caught himself, barely, before letting himself thump against the heavy, gate-like doors of the gym. “Open!” Was that his voice? It was ridiculously hoarse, worn from his ascent all the way up from Vale, his climb without pause, slaving himself through this thunderstorm for the second half of the same. He made note to use it again unless it was necessary, instead gasping in idle surprise of his own state. Burning, all over, despite the stinging cold. Burning.

The right wing of the set of doors slowly gave way under his weight, accelerating at snail's pace, though enough to make him stagger slightly from one moment to the next, the motion yanking another gasp from him.

Pushing from the wind into stillness, he became promptly aware of the torture he'd been subjecting himself to, as the absence of daggers in his flesh became apparent. A hoarse groan later, he found himself pushing against the inside of the heavy door with aim to shut it, his arms pushing against the carved wood in loose sprawl.

His concentration slipped - and he fell with it, collapsing on the ground in the darkness of the gym, on his right side, retaining his grip on the rhythm of his breath. Inhaling, exhaling. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones, a pleasant pain, trying to coax him into closing his eyes and drifting to sleep, to give his body a rest. But his mind refused. There was still much to be done. He'd already slacked enough on his journey, residing in villages and towns for entire days, allowing himself a night's sleep, allowing himself the luxury of slow pace.

Helpless - soaked in water, collapsed, with the last remnants of energy trying to escape his control, that's what he was. Helpless - and it tried to wring a whimper from him, his clothes invading his senses as rough heaviness, feeling as though they wanted to skin him with their very weight.

What bliss it would be to close those eyes and just sleep…

He allowed himself the luxury of yearning for it, but merely took the inner plea as a prompt to push slowly to a sit, his hair matted to his forehead, brows heavy from rain, silver droplets scattered across them. His voice wanted to leap out and call for someone, but it wasn't necessary enough to override his want to wield it only once it had gotten over itself and was no longer hoarse.

~Do you seek shelter?~

The voice, in all its neutrally, and devoid of inflection, was too perfect, too clear, too -

It was in his head. With a brief burst of fear, he pushed his left shoulder backward, nuzzling it against the wood of the door he'd gotten in by, and cast his gaze, wide-eyed, into the depths of the darkness around him.It was a pokémon, of course, that much was clear, even if it took him the fraction of a second to identify it as such by logical conclusions - and shed his fear like old skin. Fear - of a pokémon? It wasn't going to happen.

Instead, he concentrated on the sensation of his breath being pulled in and pushed out of his nose, the subtle feeling, letting it soothe him. No doubt it wouldn't be able to read his mind as long his thoughts were naturally cluttered. If this was a messenger pokémon for the gymleader, then he ought to answer its question - think clearly.

Think, Dakarai.

'I do,' he thought, trying to make it as clear as possible. And, to himself: 'Wait, you do? No, that can't be, you want to battle the gym leader. You can get shelter and warmth later. First things first. Today it ends. Today, the last battle, the Astral Badge. Even if the fools in Njoty continued to be derisive, you'll know better, Dakarai - providing you win. You have to win this. It is of utmost importance.'

~All right. Please wait he-~

'My apologies,' he corrected himself, swallowing to test if his throat was still aflame, shifting against the wood, subtly, quietly, anything to keep moving. Once more continuing his inner debate, he thought to himself: 'You can sleep later. Much later. Now, you fight.' Addressing the voice in his head, he completed his statement: 'I seem to be… a little exhausted, and it is overriding what I came here for. I would like to speak to the gymleader.'

Silence, for a moment, long enough to instill doubts - was the creature still here?

In the darkness, two strange blue-edged glows surface, their core fuchsia, bright to his eyes, almond-shaped, slightly slanted - eyes? With the darkness absolute to his eyes, it didn't help him - there was no reference to compare them to, no perspective. Was it a large creature with large eyes, or waist-high, close by, normal in its proportions? His subconscious mind immediately began to page through his inner encyclopedia - pink eyes, blue edges. No doubt he'd know what this was in a moment.

A moment? A moment was too long a time if this thing decided to leap at him. His left hand's fingers brushed clumsily against his left pocket, pondering guesses. Was luck going to be on his side if he'd have to use his whip?

His lips felt dry.

~…the effect is the same. You wait here.~

The lights extinguished like a flame.

The silence was oppressive, and with the bizarre, tone-less conversation purged from his conscious mind, he was left alone with his aching bones and the chill that was seeping through his shape. He could feel himself plead to simply pass out - but he was going to be stronger than that. That was, after all, the whole purpose of this exercise. Eight days. Eight days for eight gyms, and not a moment more, and he was stronger than all that - and if he would die trying to push himself that far, then so be it. The alternative was to accept ridicule as valid.

Still, the pain throbbing through him was hard to ignore. He hoped he'd be able to fend off the urge to rest for 'just a few minutes' until the gymleader actually appeared. Of course, if he was just going to sit here, idly, then there was no chance of that fight being won. With his lethargy evident, he shifted to a proper sit, finally paying some attention to his bag, it nestled between his right arm and his hip, just as drenched as the rest of him.

The sound of the velcro peeling off itself echoed through the emptiness around him. His hands trembled slightly as he slid them past the black fabric and into the bag, locking around the cool metal of his notebook. A moment later, it sat on his lap, and his immediate vicinity was bathed in dim light from the monitor. Wincing, he closed his eyes as it lit up. The operating system booted up as he raised his left hand and kneaded into his brows with his fingers, trying to ease the hints of a headache away. His next instinct was to turn down the brightness of the monitor, and with a few keystrokes, the hardware adjusted.

Taqnateh - all he knew with relative certainty was that the gymleader here made heavy use of psychic pokémon. However, most gyms so far were double-typed, and none of them had been stupid about their tactics. Certainly, he'd not had many issues with any of them, but he was of the quietly arrogant type - he felt no urge to pretend they were worse than they were. Truly, his ego didn't need that… it yearned for truths, not for petty verbal wars. And they'd not been stupid. Chances were, this one wouldn't be, either - he might even be a challenge.

He regarded his database almost with suspicion, before opening the results of several queries in the windows. What Psychic pokémon were there? He'd done his homework back in Vale already, but a refreshed memory was never bad. He'd have to be well-informed if the weakness he was counting on was easily countered by any pokémon - but there was no Psychic type pokémon that had any second-type resistance to Dark. Of course, that didn't mean that they wouldn't have moves that were super effective, and knowing Sehto's gyms, in general, they would have them, but an immunity to their primary type was half the battle.

Trying to ignore the haze that was trying to settle on his mind from sheer exhaustion, he began to compose the data in a spreadsheet, musing over it much like others might about a game of chess. His best pokémon would be his Houndoom, that much was clear - especially if the gymleader pulled a Jynx or Exeggcutor on him. Of course, very little he had up his sleeve in regards to Dark types beat the sheer brute force of a Tyranitar, so his setup was clear. He wanted to gather as much information about the pokémon as possible before risking his strongest pokémon - they would go last.

Pure dark seemed like the best bet for first feelers - Yena, his Umbreon, would go out first. No doubt it would faint after a maximum of two pokémon. If by then he'd not been forced into changing pokémon for defense, and information left the situation neutral and in no need to adjusting, Kamaitachi, his Sneasel, would fight next. Having the most type weaknesses, it would either be a pleasant way of levelling the playing field if it prevailed, or lull the opposition into underestimating his team. His Murkrow, given the nickname Strix, would follow if it became necessary, and then he'd either pull Fenrir or Fafnir on them - his Houndoom and Tyranitar, respectively - whichever was more appropriate… again, only if nothing made him veer from his usual plan.

On the other hand, Yena was the best bet against Slowpoke and its evolutions, with its knowledge of Zap Cannon. He didn't like the idea of being stranded with his Dark moves disabled and having no backup plan to wield. Of course, Fenrir could always use Solar Beam, but if it came to that, chances are all would be lost anyway, given he'd be wide open to Water att-

“Hey.” A human voice, male, echoing across what must be a vast room. A moment later, a psychic light expanded from nowhere, hovering in mid-air, illuminating the room dimly and casting it into monochrome colour, hues and variants of a slightly plum-like blue tone. A man in his mid-thirties, much like he himself was, stood near the far end of what was now clearly identifiable as an arena. That particular revelation, their location, was enough to tug his lips to a light smirk, even as his gaze locked onto the man. His fingers scurried across the keyboard in quick strokes, and the laptop made its way into hibernation, even as the man who'd appeared continued with: “…are you all right? You look shattered.”

A nod, plain and simple, determined, and, daring to test out his vocal chords: “Can we battle?” It was no longer exceptionally hoarse, at least, though his subtle motions caused his clothes to squelch in manners he might normally deem humourous.

Briefly, silence, the man visibly taken aback. “…well… certainly… but don't you want to take a rest, first?” He evidently suffered genuine confusion, and inclined his head quizzically, no doubt hoping for his visitor to see sense. Sense? His smile crooked further, before he shook his head. “No. No, please, I'd rather battle now, unless it's a bad time.”

Once more, silence was his immediate response - then followed by the words: “Well, all right,” tone one of heavy concern. Clearly, this man did not wish to sound patronising. “May I ask your name, then?”

The laptop's screen finally shut off, leaving Dakarai to rise to a stand, and he rolled his shoulders to shirk tiredness from them, before uttering a mildly breathy: “Dakarai N'Sehla, from Togi, good sir.” His tone had a bizarre quality to it, a certain aggressive edge, enthusiasm, fire, certainty - perhaps a certain superiority, without it being overbearing or in any way painfully obvious.

“Pleased to meet you, mister N'Sehla,” the man nodded his head once, in the gesture of a bow. Those lips parted as though he wished to speak, before he regarded his visitor quietly, in a certain scrutiny, and finally continued with: “The rules of combat here on Taqnateh are simple. We battle four on four, participants flexible, in one-on-one battles - only knock-outs count as losses, anything less, such as temporary withdrawing, does not, and anything more - that being death - will disqualify you.”

Death, disqualify? Dakarai frowned, not attempting to hide his sentiments.

“Oh, and,” the gymleader remarks, as though in mere idle add-on. “While, if you win, you are granted the Astral Badge, if you lose, you lose everything.”

Dakarai's thought-process, rearranging his pokémon in his mind, was abruptly halted and lurched to tackle this new piece of information, raising his eyebrows quite noticably.

“Define 'everything',” he said, keeping his voice clear and steady, making sure that none of his request would go under by accidental mumbling, secondary sounds, or simply a skewed tone.

The definition came promptly: “Everything means everything. Your pokémon, your life, your belongings. Everything - completely and utterly. It's a bit like poker, except with higher stakes.” There was a significant pause, suggesting there might be more to this than the words just spoken, even though this was rationally impossible. But in his current state, his mind did not pick up on the discrepancy, and he waited for the miniature speech to continue. The voice picked up again: “Of course, if you feel the Astral Badge is not worth such a risk -”

Irritation. Dakarai's words cut across the gymleader's speech, abrupt, like a cold blade: “Don't.”

Silence, briefly, contemplative, him pushing aside his annoyance with the sheer weight of the thoughts that followed, gradually but surely - what would this gymleader do if he won, precisely? Giving up the right to all these things did not mean they would all be taken. So what would he do? Truly take his visitor's life in the one absolute way, as the words implied to a pessimist's interpretation? Or would it simply be an eternal 'owing him something', more of a symbolic submission? He was tempted to ask, though equally certain he would get no answer - no, no doubt about it, there would be no answers, only further questions. Dimly aware of the madness he exhibited, but not wanting to let something as trivial as sanity slow him down this crucial evening, he nodded, determinedly: “I will battle.”

“…and you're certain?” the gymleader inquired, double-checking, evidently quite surprised about the absence of questions in the matter, those shoulders subtly slouched, torso leant back slightly, describing a question mark in his demeanour.

“Don't presume to mock me. I know fine well what I've wagered,” Dakarai crossed his arms. Tired - so tired. If he lost, death would be nearly as sweet as sleep, it wasn't as bad as it could be. Certainly not desirable, due to its permanent nature, but if the world was not going to change to acknowledge his capabilities, then he might as well not live on it.

“Touché. I apologise,” the gymleader nodded, though the grimace betrayed that he wasn't sure how to deal with Dakarai N'Sehla. Finger flexed, drifting through the mostly dark air, and shoulders shifted slightly, the man still coming to terms with the unusual simplicity of the scene.

“Shall we, then?” Dakarai asked, feeling his energies still dwindling, his clothes heavy against him, trying to pull him down. If they fought, it would have to be a quick and dirty battle. He could see himself folding and crumpling on the floor in mid-battle if it was any different. Perhaps it was not too late to ask for the rest first…? 'No, Dakarai, stand tall, fight, and attain either victory or loss. If your energies leave you, then victory slips from your fingers, and you lose, plain and simple. All or nothing. If you don't enter the battle, you've already lost.'

Scrutiny slid across Dakarai's shape, before it elicited a nod from the gymleader. “All right,” he confirmed, though he was still reluctant to leave Dakarai to his own accounts, still wearing that incredulous look, half an insult, though at least not meant as such. A single, abrupt shake of the head later, the man casually swirled and strode to the far end of the arena, neither in haste nor lethargy.

[…]

“…Fafnir, return…!” he called out, voice cracking slightly, his eyes widening in idle surprise. He was still standing. He was less surprised about his pokémon, though he resented himself for being surprised at what he felt should be natural.

The gymleader was silent, at the other end of the arena.

The empty space between them had never seemed to span such a distance - he seemed farther away than any effort to walk could bridge at this time. Perhaps it was because of this that he felt compelled to take steps in his direction, determinedly, as though this were yet another battle he had to prove his worth in. His heart seemed to burn as he nudged himself into motion and he nearly fell, misjudging his balance - but he caught himself at the last moment, managing to straighten himself with some grace.

The expression on the gymleader's face was shock.

He felt rebellion rise up from his gut - irritation, locked in battle with a sense of humble pity. Within him, the question arose if he had broken a rule, had disqualified himself without knowing it, and the look was one of outrage - though it was brutally beaten down by the shred of his sense of reality that he still had firm grip on. But it begged the question what that look was about - and if it meant there would be debate about him being the rightful winner, he wanted nothing to do with it. Where was that earlier courtesy now, if he was going to complain about losing? He'd been so concerned about his guest's level of exhaustion earlier, why would he test it now?

He was struggling with himself, Dakarai could see that, perhaps trying not to state the obvious and appear ridiculously childish by means of the tone of his voice.

It slipped him despite his efforts.

“You won,” he said, incredulousness evident, though kept in relative control - as though he wasn't sure whether to abhor Dakarai or respect him. Reflexively, he repeated it: “You actually won.”

There it was, the debate. He felt himself unable to mask a frown, it pulling at his brows and turning his face into a grimace, and the moisture clinging to his skin and pulling at it with its weight was suddenly tangible again, stinging him with a chill as though to stress the discomfort. “Yeah, I did.” A pause, the rolling about of his tongue in his mouth, it feeling dry. Then, after briefest pause, forcing his voice into a neutral rather than demanding tone, he continued: “Can I have my badge now, please?”

“…I,” the gymleader eyed him with an array of emotions that seemed too complex to analyse by that tired mind. “…I'm sorry, I don't wish to sound arrogant,” he said, flustered, aghast, but trying to choose his words carefully and precisely - they were heartfelt, at least, that much was clear even to his failing synapses. “I don't have it on me. I'd have to get it. I…” he trailed off, letting his gaze take in Dakarai's shape, those brows quirked upwards.

So much surprise - so much fear, as though he represented something quite horrifying. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to take it as an insult or compliment - and for ease of thought, assumed latter, and thus quietly dropped the subject even before it first verbally arose.

Then, suddenly, the voice attained a firm steadiness, reverting to his regular tone: “Can I offer you a place to sleep?”

Knowing full well he was going to sound ungrateful, and caring not, Dakarai grunted a note, before bundling his energy to saying: “No. Please just get me my badge. I'll sleep on the ground if I have to.” He felt a subtle tremble course through his shape. “It's pivotal that I get my badge.”

First words half a stammer, the gymleader, flustered by this bizarre set of priorities where none were necessary, feeling the argument of mutual exlusion evade him as it did not come naturally in the least, countered: “Don't be silly, you need sleep more than you need a piece of pl-”

Why? Why did it have to be a debate? Couldn't he just do what he'd been asked to do? Was it too much to ask? A simple gesture. “It's pivotal. Please. I can sleep on the floor or any bloody rock,” he explained, voice full of tiredness, but stripped of insult and irritation. “I'll be fine.” His gaze darted disorientedly along the black attire of the Taqnateh inhabitant. What was the magic word? “Please.”

The gaze was returned, containing a certain nervousness, hesitance, even. Then, as though a compromise had been reached: “I'll set it down beside your bed.”

“You will mark down this day as the one when I got it, though,” Dakarai grouched, aware his tone had once more slipped to being far more venomous than he liked to wield it - but now, here, so close to his goal, he could not help but feel mocked, even though he was dimly aware that there was no rational reason to think so. He wished for more control over his tone - it leaping to and fro as it did was ridiculous, desire to sleep notwithstanding.

“Of course!” He sounded affronted, immediately making Dakarai regret his tone, casting his glance aside and letting his shoulders sag forward in quiet wince. Silence, for a moment of indeterminate length, both lasting forever and no time at all. Without much warning, an arm slung around Dakarai's shoulders, fingers curling around his right shoulder, and he felt much of his weight lifted, making it far easier for him to move. “Come on, let's get you to bed.”

He made a noise of confirmation, disappointed that he couldn't find it in himself to respond verbally - but did it really matter now? He'd won. He could return to Togi in the morning, with all eight badges, and a renewed sense of self. He'd deserved himself some rest now, even if it seemed hard to grasp, still.

Voice thick with concern, the gymleader asked: “…why do you push yourself like this?”

'To prove something,' Dakarai thought to himself, and it crooked his frown, but just shook his head, denoting he didn't want to talk about it. Truly, the full answer would require time and energy he didn't have right now, even if he wanted to share it. Maybe he'd be comfortable doing so one day - right now, this was a stranger. A stranger? How true that was - he'd not even asked for his name yet. “…you got a name?” he asked, finding his voice having slipped to a light slur.

“Well, plenty of them…” the gymleader said after a contemplative pause, but Dakarai did not let him finish, cutting across the end of the statement with: “Just one will suffice, 'kay?” He hated how drained he sounded, how completely and utterly his exhaustion was visible in his body language, his tone, the expression on his face…

“… Jagannath,” he said. “I guess most people call me Jagannath.”

He committed it to memory in the laziest fashion he'd ever been conscious of. “Ngubani xesh-?” He caught himself. “What's the time, anyway?”

“I reckon it's a few minutes to midnight. I don't wear a watch, sorry.”

It didn't matter. Other than in abstraction, of being lead to a bed and tucked with surprising care into the same, of somehow having managed to peel out of his clothes and into a pleasantly silky black gown, he remembered nothing of the last few minutes of being awake, collapsing into sleep as soon as he lay on his side on that mattress.

He awoke with a start, his breath hissing from him, eyes torn wide open. Where-?

As the silken shadows of his pyjamas fell in cool, gentle touch against his skin, he remembered, and managed to dislodge himself properly from the dream he had. No, that battle was over, he had won it - there was no reason to have nightmares about it. He had won - and that alone was quick to transform his disoriented expression into one of delight.

It did not last long.

'…my… bag, where did I leave my-?' he thought, his eyes focussing on the room and the real world, lethargically, and he brought up his left hand to hastily wipe sleep from his eyes, the salty corn dismissed without second thought, letting his eyes relax. Focus came, settling on a mostly empty room. Comfortable, if oddly spartanic, but empty.

In abrupt motion, he shifted from leaning on his right side to a sit, his legs swinging over the edge of the bed, ankles brushed by the edges of the silk pyjamas. These weren't his - no, he remembered it, vaguely, the gymleader had given him these. A part of his mind demanded he credit the gesture with generosity, but he felt there was more to this than just a missing bag.

As his mind slowly followed his body into the waking world, it clicked.

'…the badge… - my clothes… - my pokémon…?' His eyes widened further, taking in the room. His fingers were curled around the edge of the soft matrass of this bed. It was a bit much all at once - though, to be fair, one could assume the badge had simply yet to be given to him, that one had not wanted to disturb him, despite the agreement made; and the clothes could have been hung up to dry, which in turn would explain the absence of his pokémon and utensiles. As for his bag - he probably'd left it in the arena.

Still, he felt prompted to lean forward exaggeratedly, pushing his head past his knees and off the bed slightly, glancing into the shadows under the bed in hopes he might make out the outlines of its single strap or its otherwise rectangular shape.

Nothing.

Suddenly, an entirely different thought struck him: What time was it? He felt well rested, but that could mean any amount of sleep that left his sleep cycles in tact. It might just have been roughly an hour and half since he lay down to sleep, then the lack of items made sense - or it could be many hours past the time he had hoped to rise and leave for Togi.

He rose to his feet, bewildered.

Had he told the gyml- had he told Jagannath when he sought to leave? He couldn't remember. He'd been so shattered after the battle, so completely exhausted, that those last crucial minutes were nothing but the roughest sketch of a memory of interaction. If he knew himself any, then he would have told the man of his plan, which meant-

No, it implied nothing, though depending on what time it was, he could deduct the answers of the rest of his questions logically. If it was before the agreed time, then everything was fine and as it should be, perhaps with the exception of the gym badge not lying beside the bed on the small table with its bizarrely modern lamp. On the other hand, if it was beyond it, then something had gone horribly wrong, and he had to get out of here as soon as he got the opportunity to do so - though chances were that if this was the case, no such opportunity would grant itself to him.

Time of day - there were no windows in this godforsaken room, so the exercise was not quite so simple. Really, his only choice was to stand up and meander about in this castle, find someone or something, and inquire about it, or stumble across a window, door, or his items. Whichever it was, he'd have to head out the door of his own room, first.

A strange nausea seized him as he pushed to stand, aware of paranoia seizing his synapses, dictating the door had to be shut. It was so preposterous to his rational mind that he spoke his objection aloud: “Good god, Dakarai - you weren't drugged or chained, get over yourself, it's just in your head.”

Thusly motivated, he straightened and thrust forward toward the door, his eyes narrowing determinedly.

His fingers curled around the handle of the door, pushing it down in enthusiastic ritual.

The door did not budge.

He let his hand slip from it, backstepping, feeling the blood drain from his cheeks, leaving him paled, his lips parted slightly to allow a gasp to escape. Amidst the churning sea of thoughts that had been spawned by the revelation, a single question persisted, like a beacon:

Why?

He had never been aware of his capricious nature - but as a moan of despair slipped from him, the last thing he expected himself to do next was to fall towards the door and assault it, snarl escaping him, left elbow battering against the inch of wood like a ram, until the ache became prominent enough to clear his mind.

It felt as though he'd dislocated his shoulder and the skin had reached a level of irritation at which the gentle touch of his right hand's fingertips ached like white-hot fire scalding his skin. A wince, tears beginning to line the outlines of his eyes in a thin necklace of glittering silver - but he kneaded into his skin to warm and flex his muscles, his gaze latched onto that which had not budged an inch, listening to his breathing.

He felt it this time, the urge to throw his weight against the door to break it open, rolling in from some distant part of his mind, and countered it with firm determination, grimacing: 'No, save your strength. You're not getting out of here until he lets you. You last ate several hours ago. You only have so much energy at your disposal, and if you want to get out of here, you'll have to focus it at your captor in a moment wherein his guard is down.'

The badge. He was never going to get that badge, was he? No doubt this was why no one ever returned with it - no one he knew of, anyway. They all suffered the same fate, didn't they? And many of them had probably foolishly - as he had, though not to loss - subscribed to that deal. 'All or nothing,' he thought, bitterly. 'You fucking bastard.' He was angry because the deal had been broken, though. It seemed irregular. It seemed like something was wrong with this setup, even in its danger and underhandedness.

He felt as though he were seeing clearly into the mind of the gymleader, discovering his ethics, and discovering them violated. It burnt in him like a fire, he was that sure of it, even though he had no evidence. It was as though something were telling him about Taqnateh - about his fate - without that he could draw any conclusions out into his conscious mind.

He listened to his breathing. Inhale. Exhale.

He let his eyes drift closed, feeling a mental exhaustion overwhelm him, and he let himself stagger mostly without coordination back to the bed, flopping back onto it unceremonially, a dull, empty stare fixing the wall beside it as though attempting to glean answers from there.

The gym circuit was one big game of Russian Roulette - one had to know when to stop. The bullet of this particular gun had struck him down without that he knew he had been playing. Wagering, betting his life, without being aware of it. No, that wasn't true - he'd consciously wagered his life. But by rights of the game, he hadn't lost it.

'Wait, Dakarai,' he told himself, trying to get himself to calm, his heart thumping eagerly in his chest, as though wishing to leap out and lead him into freedom. 'You don't know much about this game yet. The chance is small, but it may still be a string of innocent oversights. Or this may be more about fear than about anything substantial. Or perhaps he is simply trying to make you look like a fool. Particularly in latter case, you don't want to give him what he wishes, do you? So, calm yourself - close your eyes, gather your energies. And wait.'

Seconds stretched to minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to a tortured eternity. He lost track of time quickly, having nothing to match it against, only the beats of his own heart, by now having settled back down to a semblance of normality, and the sheer level of boredom he found himself confronted with, a horrible and unfamiliar sensation in his mental landscape, as though someone were brutally thumping his synapses, leaving him with a dull but strong ache, it spread across the entirety of his mind.

Boredom.

If the purpose of his incarceration was to torture him, it had already succeeded, depriving him of the one thing he needed more than anything - activity. He itched for something to do, an urge which in itself sapped him of generous amounts of energy, and seemed impossible to halt, worsening his situation by the hour.

[…]