Heart’s Last Beat
The walls of solitary confinement were painted in the drab gray of despair, scuffed and dented by decades of inmates who had fought against their isolation. Maxwell Baxter sat on the cold steel cot, his head resting against the wall, his pale hands shackled loosely in his lap. His figure was skeletal under the dim light, his gaunt face framed by a mess of ash-white hair that seemed to gleam unnaturally in the gloom. Dark circles hung beneath his crimson eyes, a testament to sleepless nights spent with thoughts too dark to quiet.
The faint hum of the metallic collar around his neck was constant—a low, irritating buzz that seemed to burrow into his skull. He’d learned to ignore it, much like the chains around his ankles or the distant cries of other inmates from down the long corridor. Ashgate had a way of conditioning its residents, grinding them down to nothing more than reflexes and silence. Maxwell wasn’t entirely there yet, but even he had his limits.
From the narrow, grimy window of his cell, he could just make out the skeleton of the yard below, lit by floodlights that burned away any illusions of privacy. The grated walkways outside were alive with the steady, deliberate movements of guards on patrol. Their boots clanged rhythmically against the steel as they crossed paths, nodding curtly or muttering brief exchanges.
Maxwell’s crimson eyes tracked them methodically, his gaze following each step, each pause, each habitual gesture. One guard paused near the edge of the walkway, lighting a cigarette with the telltale flick of a metal lighter. The brief flare illuminated his face—a patchy beard, sunken cheeks, and a scowl that seemed carved in stone. Another guard rounded the corner, adjusting his belt with a weary sigh. Their movements were predictable, their routine a monotonous loop that Maxwell had cataloged out of sheer necessity.
“Private Baxter,” he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. The title rolled off his tongue like a bitter memory, each syllable laced with contempt. His lips curled into a faint sneer, the kind that didn’t quite reach his hollow eyes. The name wasn’t entirely his anymore, not after what had been done to him.
He shifted on the cot, his shackles clinking softly as he leaned his head back against the wall. The cold steel pressed against his scalp, grounding him in the present. He tried to focus on the noises outside his cell—the hum of the fluorescent lights, the faint echoes of distant conversations, the relentless buzz of his collar. Anything to drown out the memories clawing at the edges of his mind.
The clang of a door further down the corridor shattered the fragile silence. The sharp, metallic sound reverberated through the walls, followed by the muffled shouts of a guard barking orders at another inmate. Maxwell’s jaw tightened instinctively. He didn’t need to see the scene to know what was happening. Someone was resisting, or maybe just moving too slow for the guard’s liking. It was always the same.
The sound of heavy boots grew closer, echoing with a deliberate authority. Maxwell didn’t bother looking up. He already knew who it was before the figure appeared at his cell—a tall guard with a grim face and eyes that seemed permanently narrowed.
“On your feet, Baxter,” the man barked, his tone cold and clipped.
Maxwell didn’t move immediately. He tilted his head lazily, his crimson gaze sliding to the guard with an icy calm that made the man hesitate, if only for a moment. The silence stretched between them, tense and palpable, before Maxwell pushed himself to his feet with deliberate slowness.
His movements were almost mechanical, each step and shift of his weight precise. He extended his hands for the cuffs, his expression unreadable. The guard stepped forward, snapping the restraints tighter than necessary. The steel bit into his wrists, but Maxwell didn’t flinch.
“Yard time,” the guard muttered gruffly, his voice lacking any trace of enthusiasm.
“Can’t wait,” Maxwell replied, his tone as dry as the air in the cell. There was no sarcasm, no humor—just the flat monotony of a man who had long since learned to find amusement in nothing.
The guard grabbed his arm roughly, pulling him toward the door. Maxwell’s bare feet scraped against the cold floor as he was led out into the corridor. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting long shadows against the walls.
As they passed other cells, muffled voices drifted through the narrow gaps in the doors. Some were curses, others whispered prayers, and a few were incoherent mutterings of inmates lost to their own minds. Maxwell didn’t react to any of it. His focus remained on the guard ahead, the clinking of his chains, and the ever-present buzz of his collar.
When they reached the gate leading to the yard, the guard stopped, pressing a button on the panel beside the door. The hiss of hydraulics filled the air as the gate slid open, revealing the sprawling, multi-tiered expanse beyond.
Maxwell stepped forward, his eyes narrowing against the harsh floodlights. The cold air hit his face, carrying with it the familiar stench of sweat, rust, and despair. As the gate clanged shut behind him, he let out a slow breath, his lips twitching into a faint smirk.
“Another day to survive,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the distant roar of inmates in the yard below.
The yard was a vast, multi-tiered expanse of grated steel floors, each level teeming with inmates. The open design made it impossible to escape notice—every movement, every sound seemed amplified in the harsh acoustics of the space. The upper levels offered a glimpse of the dull gray sky, its thick clouds heavy with the promise of rain. On the lower tier, Maxwell Baxter moved silently, his bare feet brushing over the cold, grated metal as he took in the chaos around him.
To his left, a group of inmates sat hunched in a loose circle, their faces grimy and their laughter sharp as they played cards with a deck so worn it was barely recognizable. The air was thick with tension, the stakes whispered low but evident in the intensity of their glares. On his right, two muscular men circled each other in a brutal sparring match, prison renowned Lil Terry Cuts and Diesel Khrist, their knuckles bloodied from repeated blows. Each impact echoed across the yard, drawing a mix of cheers and jeers from the onlookers above.
Maxwell’s crimson eyes scanned the levels above. From his vantage point, he could see inmates leaning over the grated floors, shouting insults, trading banter, or simply watching with predatory interest. The noise was constant—a cacophony of voices, footsteps, and the occasional clang of a fist meeting metal.
One figure on the upper levels caught his attention. The man had long, dark hair that fell loosely around his sharp features. He stood against the railing on one of the catwalks, his posture relaxed but alert. The metallic collar around his neck reflected a brief glint of light, and Maxwell’s unnaturally sharp vision locked onto it. The engraved serial number was clear: DM-0256.
Maxwell tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. The man seemed new, yet something in his stance carried the weight of someone accustomed to chaos. Their gazes met briefly, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. Maxwell turned away, uninterested in dwelling on the moment, as a grating laugh cut through the din.
It came from a mysterious new inmate. A man of dark skin and a small frame, but still towered over most other inmates strutted around level 5, Maxwell’s level, like he owned it. His voice loud and mocking, his presence drew attention—not respect, but the kind of begrudging notice afforded to someone too obnoxious to ignore.
“A’ight, listen up! All you so-called white people!” Xubruse’s voice rang out, dripping with scorn as he gestured broadly to the yard. “Always thinkin’ you own the damn world! But I’m here to tell y’all it’s different in here! Y’all think y’re safe but imma teach you!”
Maxwell barely glanced at him, his attention flicking back to the inmates nearby. A few muttered under their breath, shaking their heads or exchanging amused smirks.
“New fish is tryin’ to make a name for himself,” one inmate murmured to another.
“Yeah, loudmouth like that won’t last long,” his companion replied with a low chuckle.
Xubruse, undeterred, pressed on. He pointed to a group of inmates seated on the far side of the yard. “Look at ya, sittin’ there like ya got a right to relax. Like y’re better than the rest of us. I see you, all smug with your fake-ass toughness.”
From above, a sharp voice cut through the air. “What’s with the Zenzawi act? You sound more like you’re from Sumech!”
Laughter rippled across the tiers of floors, and Xubruse’s jaw tightened. He turned sharply, glaring up at the source of the taunt.
“You think I’m jokin’?” he snarled, his voice growing louder. “I’m from Zenzawi, born and raised! My people built kingdoms while y’all were still crawlin’ in the dirt! My people taught you how to bath!”
The mockery from above continued, but Xubruse ignored it, turning his attention to Maxwell. His gaze locked on the pale man with the unnatural eyes, and his swagger grew more pronounced.
“And you,” he spat, pointing a bony finger. “You sittin’ there like some kinda demon king, with your freak-ass eyes and that dead-man stare. What’s the matter? Too good to talk to me?”
Maxwell’s expression remained impassive, his crimson eyes fixed on Xubruse without a flicker of emotion.
“You think you’re better than me?” Xubruse continued, his voice rising with each word. “You think you can just sit there, lookin’ like death warmed over, and not pay respect? Nah. Not here. Not to me. You bouta learn somethin’”
The yard grew quieter as inmates turned to watch the confrontation. Maxwell’s silence was unnerving, his lack of reaction more damning than any insult.
“What’s the matter, albino colonizer?” Xubruse sneered, stepping closer. “Got nothin’ to say? Or are you just scared? See I was told ’bout you, I was told you the scary motha fucka, but you seem like a bitch to me!”
Maxwell finally spoke, his voice low and even. “I’m just bored.”
Xubruse blinked, caught off guard by the calm reply.
“But,” Maxwell added, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “you’re about to fix that.”
The yard erupted in a mix of cheers and groans, the crowd sensing a fight. Xubruse lunged forward, his fists swinging wildly, but Maxwell was ready. His movements were precise, almost surgical. He sidestepped the clumsy attack, grabbing Xubruse’s wrist with one hand and placing the other on his chest.
“The hell you doin’?” Xubruse hissed, struggling against Maxwell’s steele grip.
Maxwell’s red eyes locked onto his. “Ever see someone’s heart pop like a balloon?” he asked softly, he could feel his opponents heart rate rise in the palm clasped tightly against his chest. “Want to see it?”
Xubruse’s face contorted in confusion, then horror as his chest convulsed violently. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened in panic. Blood sprayed from his mouth in a sudden, grotesque burst, splattering onto the grated floor. The sound of it hitting the metal was wet and final.
Xubruse dropped to his knees, clutching at his chest as his body convulsed one last time. Then he collapsed, motionless.
The yard fell silent. Even the jeers from above had ceased. Maxwell released the lifeless man and stepped back, brushing his hands against his prison jumpsuit as if wiping away invisible dirt.
His crimson eyes scanned the crowd, daring anyone else to step forward. One did, though not to threaten or engage. A young man, no older than eighteen, a Numean with dyed blonde hair.
On one of the upper levels, the man with the long, dark hair—Dean Matroni—leaned against the railing, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Jonathan Stokes broke the silence with a sardonic comment.
“Well, that’s one way to make a first impression.”
Dean didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on Maxwell. Below, Maxwell glanced up, his eyes meeting Dean’s once again, though neither said a word. The tension in the yard lingered, heavy and unbroken, as the guards began to approach.
Back in his cell, Maxwell sat on the edge of his cot, his pale hands resting on his knees, his crimson eyes staring at the solid floor beneath him. The faint hum of his collar buzzed incessantly, a low vibration that seemed to worm its way into his skull, matching the dull ache behind his eyes. His fingers drummed lightly on his legs, the only sound breaking the heavy silence of solitary.
A memory crept into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome—a dimly lit room, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and sterile disinfectant. He could feel the cold steel of the operating table beneath his back, the straps around his wrists and ankles cutting into his skin. Overhead, a single bulb flickered, casting harsh shadows on the faces of the people he had once called friends.
“Come on, Private,” Martin Sanders sneered, his square jaw clenched as he loomed over Maxwell. The man’s military-cut blond hair glinted in the sickly yellow light, his blue eyes devoid of the camaraderie they once held. “Where’s that fight now, huh? Where’s the great Maxwell Baxter?”
Emmanuel Clark, with his athletic tone and perpetual smirk, leaned in closer, his glasses reflecting the dim light. “You were always so damn quiet, Max. Guess we’ll see how loud you can get when we take you apart.”
Terrance Chapman stood further back, his bulk casting an imposing shadow on the far wall. He crossed his massive arms, his dark skin glistening with sweat as he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that felt like nails scraping against Maxwell’s psyche. “We’re just getting started,” he said, his voice a slow drawl laced with anticipation.
And then there was Ella Abbot. She hovered near the corner, her auburn hair tied back into a tight braid, her sharp green eyes glittering with something far worse than malice—curiosity. In her hands, she toyed with a scalpel, its blade catching the flickering light. “Let’s see what makes you tick, Baxter,” she murmured, almost to herself. “For science, of course.”
Their laughter echoed around him, cruel and hollow, as the memory blurred. Maxwell could feel the straps tightening, hear the faint whir of machinery spinning to life. His chest rose and fell rapidly, panic threatening to claw its way through his calm exterior.
He forced himself back to the present, his breath slow and deliberate.
“Pointless luxuries,” he muttered under his breath, his voice steadying as he ran a hand through his white hair. His eyes blinked twice, clearing the ghosts from his vision.
The echo of boots on steel jolted him from his reverie. The sound grew louder, accompanied by the clinking of keys and the sharp bark of a guard’s voice.
“Baxter!” A burly guard appeared at the cell door, his face set in a scowl. Behind him, two more stood ready, their postures stiff and professional. “The warden’s had it with your attitude.”
Maxwell looked up slowly, the faintest smirk curling his lips. He stood with deliberate movements, his hands loosely at his sides. “Took him long enough,” he said, his tone dry.
The guard didn’t reply, stepping forward to grab Maxwell’s arm. The other two moved in to shackle him, the cuffs clicking tightly around his wrists. They yanked him forward, dragging him out of the cell with practiced ease.
As they led him down the dimly lit corridor, the clang of their boots against the grated floor echoed like a funeral march. Maxwell didn’t struggle, didn’t resist. His expression remained impassive, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something darker—an anticipation, a readiness for whatever awaited him in the depths of Ashgate.
The hallway stretched on, each step taking him further into the unknown, the sterile air growing colder with each passing moment. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered—not fear, not regret, but something more primal.
“They think they’ve won… Let them.”