The Lady of Chains

Its been there for as long as anyone can remember. The tower.

It stands like an ice-pick, pushing through vines and shrivelled leaves, giving way to an arrow-head roof patched with moss, resting upon the outskirts of Greylock. Its shadow is cast on the City, like an elongated clock-hand, chipping away the hours, the days. The years. Indeed, the other buildings seem to peel away from it, wheezing clouds of steam as they cower against the grim backdrop.

If you look closely, you can see the students filter through the rain-drenched alleyways of Greylock, feet sloshing through the puddles as they whisper stories and theories. You can see the Officers trudging through the wasteland, their brass bodies flecked with grime and blood. And, if you’re brave enough, and very, very quiet, you can hear the wind whistle through that tower, and the unmistakeable shuddering of chains.

**********

Karen gets the chance that many don’t.

She’s following Mrs Beckett up the staircase. The old maid is all arms and legs, and moves with the speed of a large cat. Karen struggles to catch up. Her skirts are bunched tightly in her fists, while her flat shoes slap against the concrete. The echo is alive, growing fainter, like the whisper of spectres.

It shouldn’t be like this; Karen’s the young one. But Mrs Beckett has seen it all – three times over, I’ll add. She knows how to play this game, but damn if it doesn’t get weary.

“You’ll have to watch this one.” Mrs Beckett holds up a freckled hand, frail with age. The index finger is missing, “She bites.”

The young maid averts her eyes, turning to the winding staircase above them; the spine of the tower. They’ve been walking for twenty minutes and pain has settled in her legs now, making her lungs burn and gasp, sputtering like an old engine. “It’s a long way up.” She grunts.

Mrs Beckett giggles, an ugly sound not dissimilar to a rat snuffling amongst the Cities garbage. She thinks Karen is discomforted by her missing finger and the notion doesn’t displease her. “No shit. Think how you’d feel running up here while it wails.”

“I’ve never heard her make a peep.” Karen replies sullenly.

Mrs Beckett’s been good to her; like she’s been good to all the girls she’s rescued from the slums, and given jobs to. She knows it won’t last. But the old woman holds back her anger, gulps it back like cold tea. Her face even contorts a little. “Course you don’t! But you kids talk, don’t you?” She smiles, savouring her next retort, “Ooh, but that’s right; they don’t talk to yooooou!”

Karen says nothing. In her eyes, there’s no comeback for the truth. But she doesn’t blame the other kids. She can’t blame the ideas that have been forced into their heads; they’ve been the foundations of Greylock since the City was conceived, since it was founded on the fragmented land. Since the Master of Greylock arrived.

**********

Karen gets further than most. She reaches the landing, tripping over her skirts. She’s disoriented, having run to keep up with the desperate, hungry strides of Mrs Beckett.

Karen’s always been a thinker, and while she’s been running up these stairs, her minds been going at a faster pace, faster than the old woman realises. She knows now, in her gut, that something isn’t right. Even in the dull, flickering light, Karen can tell that what Mrs Beckett says, will not match what she does. Karen’s always been good at reading people. Regardless, she needs Mrs Beckett. And that need is what’s sent her panting up this tower, spiralling into a situation which may very well get her killed. She has to take this chance. She has to finish this job, and leave Greylock. She has to go home.

**********

They arrive at a landing; a long desk outlines the far away wall. At first Karen’s heart jolts; it looks like a coffin. But that isn’t what her attention falls upon. The walls are filled with an array of wicked-looking contraptions. Karen thinks they’re torture devices at first, and her heartbeat quickens again at the thought of what Mrs Beckett wants her to do.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Mrs Beckett strides forward, bony hands on bony hips.

They’re puzzles, the kind that would torment Karen’s head – she hates puzzles, not that she’ll divulge that fact to Mrs Beckett. They must’ve come from across the water – Karen certainly hasn’t seen any in Greylock, or the Void.

“I like to play games.” Mrs Beckett licks her lips, pulling back a straggly strand of hair, “Helps pass the time, so it does. You can guess what it’s like up here, everyday, looking after her. It gets monotonous.”

“Have you finished them?”

“Yes, my girlie. All of them.”

Karen sees the weariness crease the old woman’s face, making her skin look like aged-leather.

“Just remember to keep your hands to yourself. Don’t get her angry or get too close. She’s a trickster, a liar and a murderer. And it just so happens that the Master’s in love with her.”

**********

Mrs Beckett pulls back her sleeves, revealing arms knotted with muscle. Long scars trail down the olive skin, branching out like dead-veins. Karen gulps. This woman has been more than a Lady’s maid. These are battle-scars.

Mrs Beckett coughs and hacks a glob of spit into her hands, and rubs them together. She struts towards a large wheel, hidden at the end of the study. Karen winches as it issues a horrendous squeal, Mrs Beckett twisting it, threading the metal through those long, bony fingers of hers.

There’s a bang as the door slides open.

“Now remember, the wheels are important.” The old woman grunts, “They unlock the doors and lock them. Anti-clockwise opens them, clock-wise closes them. Remember, in her chamber, they work for something more important, and you must remember. Otherwise, my girlie, the Master will have your pretty little head on his mantelpiece.”

Karen chews on her lip.

“We can’t have her loose in Greylock. Not again.” Mrs Beckett rubs her scars lightly, making Karen wish she could turn right back. But the old woman would surely catch her and throw her into the Master’s dungeon.

Mrs Beckett seems to sense the apprehension, and pulls Karen towards her. She hisses through yellowed teeth and licks her blue lips, “Now remember what I told you, my pet; watch her like a hawk. Do not get too close and above all; do not get her angry. Here.” She shoves something in Karen’s palm, wrapped in a blood-stained cloth. The old woman smiles.

“I’ve -- I’ve never used a weapon before.” Karen confesses. The dagger is old; it gleams in the dull, flickering light. There are bright scratches in the blade and the handle smells thickly of sweat.

“You might need to befriend her first.” Mrs Beckett confesses, “But that won’t be difficult, pretty little thing like you. She’ll think you’re harmless, like a little gnat!”

“But--”

“Come along, my itty-bitty gnat.” Mrs Beckett beckons forward, giggling as she dissolves into the darkness.

**********

Light brushes against the heavy wooden doors, illuminating the engravings. Karen hasn’t seen anything like it before. She trails her fingertips down the wood, marking out the shapes and textures. There are trees rising from grassy plains, and clutches of flowers blossoming under a sunny sky, broken by a couple of clouds. In the centre lie two figures. They’re dancing, bodies intertwined like wire. They look like they belong together. It’s an image from a world far away. There are few grassy plains in Greylock, and the sun rarely emerges from the blankets of cloud. Karen has never seen flowers, and the trees in Greylock look like dried-out husks.

A tongue of firelight flickers, and drags Karen’s attention to the top of the door. Written in large, bold font are the words:

My Lady waits.
This tower is her cage.
And I am her keeper.

Karen notices the dirt and the cobwebs. She knows that this door is old. The wood is chipped and cracking. But the image is like something from a fairy tale.

“The Master did that. Infatuated he was -- or is. Thinks she’s the only one who can rival him, naturally he had her locked away.”

“What is the image based on?”

“Across the water.” Mrs Beckett eyes her uneasily, “You’re not having second thoughts are you? I mean, I can’t get you shipped out there.”

“No.”

Mrs Beckett’s fingernails bite into her skin, yanking her forward as she opens the door, “Good answer.”

**********

In the darkness, Karen’s breath is ragged, and her heart thumps against her ribcage. But, behind that, she hears the distinct sound of chains clanking against the stone floor.

The room is warm and clammy. Over at the far side, there is a strip of light, frayed at the edges as it peeps through long, sweeping curtains. It blurs against the figure of a woman. She sits with her back to them, sitting straight in a high-backed chair, like a Queen. She’s chained.

Mrs Beckett steps forward, “Good morning, my Lady.” Her voice is different, smooth and polite. Forced.

“Mrs Beckett, what a lovely surprise.” The voice which greets them is confident and articulate. It’s also dripping of sarcasm.

Karen can’t help but smile.

“Oh, it’s so dark in here! Let’s put some lights on.” Mrs Beckett shuffles forward, ducking and taking large strides over the various contraptions embedded in the darkness. There’s a whoosh as the light orbs swirl orange and red flame before emitting a pure, white glow.

“Perfect.”

Fine silver chains erupted from exquisite furniture, and walls, streaming across the room from all angles, like a giant spiders web, wrapping themselves around the woman. And even though the Lady of Chains has her back to them, Karen is certain that she’s smiling.

“Oh, it was so dark in here, my Lady.”

There’s a cawing, and a black shape sweeps down from the rafters. It lands on Mrs Beckett’s shoulder, flapping its wings before settling down.

“I do wish you’d clean up after your pet, Mrs Beckett. The shit on the floor really is unsightly.”

Karen takes a step back. The old crow is looking at her. One of its eyes is bigger than the other, a bulging, gleaming orb with a hooked lid. Her horrified reflection is staring back at her.

“Sear is my eyes and ears when I’m not around. He keeps our Lady safe.” She licks her lips, and grins, scratching the crow on its chest. He arches his head, and issues an ear-splitting squawk.

Karen covers her ears, and stumbles, smacking her arm against a stream of chain. Mrs Beckett draws her a harsh look. It jingles in the air, and the Lady cocks her head.

“What is your name?”

Karen shifts uncomfortably.

“Don’t be shy. Apparently I only bite if you get too close.”

Mrs Beckett turns red. “This is Karen, my--”

“Does your assistant have her tongue?!” Her voice booms, and then it dissolves into a softness that only infuriates the old woman even more so; “Don’t be shy. What’s your name?”

“Karen.”

“Karen.” She repeats as if tasting the name, “Do you have a surname?”

“Karen of Greylock.” She reddens. Anyone without parents is given the City as their surname. They won’t be educated nor given the chance to travel across the waters. Greylock will be their life if they are lucky, if not, they’ll be tossed to the Void. Greylock isn’t just the Lady's cage, Karen thought dully.

“An orphan. The Master was kind enough not to subject her to the Void, like so many. I found her in the slums, thought she was of polite mouth and gentle manner, my Lady. She’ll remain in Greylock now, working with me.”

“You’ll never get the chance to go across the water?”

“No, my Lady.”

The Lady of Chains says nothing else. Karen doesn’t look at her; she’s thinking about another place.

Mrs Beckett feeds the crow a seed. He holds it between two sharp claws, and tears it apart. The dry husks rain upon the floor, joining the shit. “Anyhoooo!” The old maid declares, “It’s time for me to leave and allow you two to get better acquainted.” She pulls Karen closer, jabbing a finger at her, “Remember what I told you. You better do your job well, my pet, if, of course, you wish to go back home. The light orbs are bound to her – they’ll go black if she gets angry, and that’s when you leave. Don’t get her angry. Sear is watching you. She hisses, and let’s her go. The crow flies back to its perch, regarding the young girl cruelly, its eye glimmering, oozing caution.

Mrs Beckett presses Karen’s thigh, pushing the dagger against her skin. She gives a yelp, and Mrs Beckett smiles, “Goodbye, my Lady.”

The tower grows cold. The Lady of Chains seems to draw it about herself, like a well-worn cloak, swirling around about her.

Karen fidgets.

The silence evolves into a life of its own, telling more than words ever can. It whispers of loneliness.

Finally, the Lady speaks; “Could you open the curtains, please? I haven’t seen the outside in days.” Her words are polite, lacking the rough edge which she used on Mrs Beckett.

Karen scurries across the room. She doesn’t want to look at the Lady. But even so, she can imagine those cold, murderous eyes pressing against her back, and the mind behind them, trying to dissect her, searching for a way to overpower her and escape.

She throws the curtains back and the Lady stirs, letting out a hushed breath. “Wonderful.” She’s like a flower, bristling in the sun, “Isn’t it horrendous when such a sight can be considered ‘wonderful’?”

Karen glances at the sight, of the old, crumbling buildings, of spires and sweeping hallways. The Master’s castle lurks on the hillside, but beyond that is the divide, a large gate with larger teeth. It protects the City from those who are expelled and tossed to the Void. It’ll tear the legs off anyone who dares climb it.

Karen sighs and raises her head; the sun is little more than a red orb bleeding across a grey sky, looking like a grim watercolour painting. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Why do you not look at me?”

Karen bites her lip. Mrs Beckett’s warnings flash in her mind. She takes a deep breath and turns round.

Her dark-as-ebony hair is piled high on her head, showcasing a slender neck where a silver necklace lies. Her face is pale, having not felt sunshine in years, and her high check bones are elaborated by the fact that she has deprived herself of food. Karen half expects her to be wearing a crown of some sorts. Maybe that’s what she is, she muses, a Princess stolen from across the waters. She certainly looks like something plucked from the pages of a fairy tale.

Karen leaves her fear behind her, and steps closer.

The Lady of Chains is wearing a black, old-fashioned dress, expensive yes, and beautiful, but something isn’t right. It doesn’t suit her style or manner – it’s like a shell, something she’ll grow into overtime, something she’ll become – or rather, something she’ll be reduced to. Karen glances at the sleeves; thin white scars snake under the fabric, extending down a toned left arm. Someone has also attempted to put make-up on the Lady; a line of blood-red lipstick trails down her face.

“Now, don’t mince words, Karen. I only ask that you give me the truth, so please, answer my one-and-only-most-important-question.” The Lady of Chains pauses, catching her breath, “I look like hell, don’t I?”

On the contrary, she is beautiful, striking – all the words you’d associate with a Lady, but, she’s also so much more – as Karen is going to learn.

Karen shakes her head.

“Good. Can you wipe it off?” The corner of her mouth flickers into a smile, as she gestures to the lipstick.

But the young girl doesn’t move. She glances to the Lady’s hands, and sees that they’re so tightly bound that the chains cut brilliant red marks across her skin.

“You wouldn’t believe how horrendous it is when you’ve got an itchy nose.”

Karen smiles, and the Lady returns it.

“Would you care for a seat?”

Karen nods, and slumps by the railing, placing her head in her hands. She knows she should feel weary of the Lady, after all, she’s heard the stories. But she feels oddly relaxed.

“How old are you, Karen”?

“Seventeen. How long have you been up here?” She asks. The Lady doesn’t look older than her early twenties.

“Too long. You’ll have to enquire with the lovely Mrs Beckett; she’s as old as this tower, perhaps more. I don’t know. Time looses meaning when you’re imprisoned without a sentence. Do I scare you?” There is a sadness to her eyes that Karen can neither know about nor understand.

Karen hesitates, “Yes.”

“Why?”

She turns her attention to the cracked titles, and the bird shit, but finally utters, “It’s the stories, my Lady.”

“Everybody tells stories.”

Karen slumps forward, digesting the answer. What the Lady said was true; when she’d came to the City, the kids had all whispered stories about her, a girl from the slums. Greylock’s bastard daughter, that’s what they called her. Those words stung.

The dagger feels cold against her skin, and for a moment, Karen fights the urge to throw it out the window.

“I won’t harm you.” The Lady’s voice cuts through her thoughts, “I promise you.” Her blue eyes, although behind an adult’s face, are bright, like a child’s and speak of sincerity. “I have another request, if I may? Can you loosen the chains? I wish to stand and feel the air on my face.”

“Of course, my Lady.” Karen clambers over the web of chains, and pushes the wheel in the opposite direction. The chains groan and shudder before sinking to the ground. The Lady stands, the fabric of the dress hissing as she moves forward. She’s tall, and Karen can see the tangle of scars on her left arm more clearly now. She wonders how the Lady got them.

Sear squawks from overhead, sending black feather spiralling around them. Karen frowns, trying to avoid his bulging, grey eye.

The Lady leans forward and her necklace catches the light. It’s an old piece of jewellery, moulded into the shape of a heart. Karen wonders if the Master of Greylock gave it to her.

“Looks like there’s trouble coming our way.” The Lady goes ridged as her grasp tightens on the wall. In an instant, she is alert; eyes narrowing and scanning the ground.

Karen rushes over.

Far below them, there are lines of sturdy figures travelling through the veins of the City, their shovel-sized helmets giving back none of the glances which follow them.

“Officers.” The Lady hisses.

Their barrel-like chests are speckled with mud, and glimmer in the sun. Karen hasn’t seen so many, and watches as they leave large, triangular footprints behind. One of them is trailing behind the others, twitching and coughing up black steam, golden-coloured hooks protrude from his fingers. Nasty.

A piece of rock grumbles in the Lady’s grasp and tumbles off the ledge, striking one of the mechanical monstrosities on the head. It lands with a dull thump and a plume of dust. The Officer whips round, legs still facing the opposite direction, and whips out a gun. Steam escapes from its joints and threads into the air.

“My Lady, you’re going to get us in trouble!” Karen says, but the Lady is fixed. Karen doesn’t know it, but she’s seen many killed by the Master’s army, an army built of blood and metal.

“Someone’s going to die today.” She states. With her arms pressing against the window, Karen can see fine muscle rippling along her arms. It looks as if she’s going to leap from the window!

“My Lady, please! You’re going to get me in trouble!” And then she does the unthinkable; she grabs the Lady of Chains by the arm. She spins round, and Karen stumbles back, tripping over a coil of chains. She knows she’s made a mistake by touching her, but she can’t risk getting on the wrong side of an Officer. They’re known to be temperamental machines. And they won’t pause in ridding Greylock of a lowly maid from the slums.

It looks like venom is bubbling inside the Lady. She stands straight, gripped with a dangerous calm. Karen has to think quickly once again. She has to knock her off her guard, and divert her attention. One question. “Why were you imprisoned?!”

A sigh escapes the Lady, sounding like a deflating balloon as her anger subsides. “For love. Or lack of.”

“You mean the Master?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

She sits by the window, looking every bit the Lady her title grants her, and less like a figure willing to take on an army.

Karen casts her eyes back to the light orbs. They’re still glowing white. “You can control those, can’t you? I mean, Mrs Beckett says they’re connected to you, they show what you’re feeling, but they haven’t changed colour – not once.”

“You want to see how I feel?” She smiles curiously, “Done.”

The light orbs change, elongating into pale fingers of ice. Cold. So very cold. Karen knows she’s out of her depth, but firmly in so much trouble. But right now she can’t help but venture forth.

“Why were you imprisoned, my Lady?”

“Are you happy living in Greylock, Karen?”

Maybe she was going to answer the question with another? “No.”

“Why?”

Karen swallows, tugging the loose strands of brown hair behind her ears. “Because. I-I think, personally that Greylock is a cruel place. You can only travel across the water if you pass selection, if you attend Greylock school and are chosen by the Master. But look at me. I am smart! I’m smarter than most of them down there, but I’m still clinging to the gutter. People like me, well, we’re just tossed to the Void. But, my Lady – that’s fine by me. I want to go back. I have friend’s there. They’re my family.”

The fingers of ice shudder.

“What if you couldn’t just walk away?” The Lady’s voice is a whisper, and Karen once again feels all too aware of the dagger pressing against her thigh. Damn Mrs Beckett. Damn her to the Void. “What if fighting was your only option”? She floats towards Karen, her chains grazing against the floor soundlessly.

“Then I’d fight.” Karen replies. Of course she would, everybody says they’ll fight, but in reality, most will run. Nobody runs very far in Greylock. Karen’s been running ever since Mrs Beckett picked her up, and unfortunately – or fortunately, she’s run straight into the Lady of Chains. Her run is going to end here.

The answers Karen has given must be the right ones. The light orbs shudder again, and Karen can hear the cracks, can see the soft light filtering through.

“I fought.” The Lady continues, now lost within the threads of her own story. “I was a student, and I was sick to death of seeing my friends killed. It was worse then.” Her voice is like a whisper of death, “And so I took a stand, and as a result of my efforts, I got the most important person in my life killed.

Karen’s own voice is hushed, “A lover?”

The Lady of Chains smiles, her one-corner smile, “A friend.”

The light orbs split, and red light pours into the room, dancing against the Lady’s face. Karen turns around; the light is at its brightest, pulsating like a rapid heartbeat, freed. Unchained. The warmth they give is incredible.

The Lady frowns at the display, “Don’t look at it. Greylock was being torn apart – other people were being killed. I wanted it to stop, and I eventually handed myself over. The Master couldn’t kill me because he loves me, and nobody else could. So, he looked me up here, putting Mrs Beckett as my jailer – she got those scars because of me, you know . . . I got mine trying to save others from the explosions. But it wasn’t enough.”

“What about the chains?”

“They twist and pull and squeeze. They’re knitted by the Master’s Mother herself.” She sighs, “She spends all day, in her chair, rocking back and forth, knitting, making sure I’ll never escape.” Her blue eyes shimmer, and the light orbs tremble, “But that’s not true. I’ll get out of here.”

Karen remembers the doorway, the carvings and the magick used to contain her. “I don’t believe any of that prophecy crap.” She admits.

“It’s got nothing to do with prophecy.” She hisses, pupils dilating. “I’m prepared to challenge the rest of the world for my revenge.”

“Mrs Beckett--”

“She can’t kill me, but she’s determined to break me.”

“She’s--” Karen’s voice wavers as she realises, and everything is beginning to fall into place. But it’s taken too long. And it’s starting to dawn on her that she’s too late.

The Lady of Chains smiles, eyeing Karen carefully before leaning forward, “When were you planning on killing me?”

Karen can feel the colour blossom on her face, “How did you know?”

“Shhhhhh.” She strokes Karen’s face, “There was always someone trying to kill me.” Her eyes turn dark, fixated on Karen, and the light orbs flicker. “But you won’t do it.” It isn’t a command or a question. It’s a reading.

“No. No, of course not, my Lady!” But she has to do something.

“Shhh.”

It’s too quiet in the tower. The Lady of Chains raises her head. Karen follows her direction. Sear’s perch is empty, save a long, black feather which is carefully sweeping through the air. “Shit.”

“What does that mean?” Karen is determined to keep calm, despite the worry in her voice.

“Sear has gone to alert Mrs Beckett. She’ll be up here soon.”

“Please, my Lady! You need to get back in your chair!”

The Lady looks at her sceptically.

“Please!”

“Very well.”

Karen rushes back to the wheel, threading the metal until the chains rise to the air, and the Lady is strapped in her throne once again.

Karen paces the room, the dagger now in her hand. Pearls of sweat are forming on her forehead. She doesn’t know what to do, and all her options are looking grim. “Mrs Beckett told me. She picked me from the slums, said that everyone had to pull their weight in Greylock – even the runts, like me. She told me the only way I’d be pardoned from my duties would be to kill the Lady of Chains.” She mumbles, glancing at the woman, the dagger feeling sweaty in her hands. “I just want to go home, my Lady.”

“You didn’t tell me Mrs Beckett set you up!”

“What? So – you thought I was just going to come here and what, attack you?”

“No, but--”

Karen throws her maid cap away, “What difference does it make now anyway?” She cries, raking her hand through her soft brown hair.

“It makes all the difference! Look, she knew you wouldn’t kill me, she knew you couldn’t!”

“I wouldn’t.” Karen emphasises.

“I know that. But, don’t you see!? Mrs Beckett is playing a --“

There’s a loud squawk, and Sear plummets by the window, like a bullet.

“And it’s too late; they’re already here.” Karen slumps by her feet. “I can’t do this, my Lady.”

The light orbs flicker blue, and solidify again.

“You don’t have to.” Karen looks up. The Lady of Chains is holding massive coils of chains under her arms, pulling them tightly so they stream behind her. Karen doesn’t have time to register shock; the Lady leaps forward, and the door to the tower smashes open. Officers come pilling in, their metal bodies squealing against the doorway, wheezing steam as they aim their weapons.

The Lady has Karen by the throat, squeezing her so tightly that it brings tears to the young girl’s eyes. “‘She is a trickster a liar and a murderer. Remember this, Karen.’” Her eyes are shimmering darkness, and the lipstick on her chin looks like a trail of blood.

“Get out of my way, you horrible bucket of rust!” Mrs Beckett pushes her way forward, hands on her hips. She licks her lips, surveying the scene with a trained eye. Sear glides through the air, and lands on her shoulder “What – what’s all this?!”

The Lady of Chains snorts, “You really should be careful who you trust.” And then she brings her lips to Karen’s ear and whispers, “I’m going to save you. Mrs Beckett despises weakness; she knows you can’t kill me, but if she thinks you’ve tried . . .”

She moves away slowly, and Karen feels something warm trickling down her arm. The dagger she is holding – the Lady of Chains lunched forward before Beckett entered the room, stabbing herself in the shoulder. Blood now runs down her arm in wonderful red ribbons, exploding on the floor like fireworks.

A shot rings through the tower, tearing through a small desk.

“Only on my command!” Mrs Beckett hisses, whirling round to strike the Officer on his chest.

“Mrs Beckett, you know Officers aren’t allowed up here.” The Lady’s face is still and expressionless, like a mask. But the light orbs are burning low now, simmering away. Through her tears, Karen sees flickers of black flame. She digs her nails into the Lady’s outstretched hand, trying to reach her. She’s holding on too tightly, and Karen is gasping now, struggling to drag air into her lungs. Her vision is going; she’ll black out and then it’ll be too late – too late to run, too late to fight. Too late for anything, really.

The Lady eases the pressure. She’s clutching Karen with one, steady hand. Her other arm is held up to Mrs Beckett, showcasing the bleeding. “You’re lucky. Oh-so very lucky that this isn’t you.”

The old woman smiles, “You won’t kill her. But maybe she’ll die in the crossfireeee!” She drags the last word out like a song.

Sear shoots across the room; his clawed feet are extending like knives, aimed for the Lady’s eyes. She drops Karen, and grabs the dagger, bringing it up to meet the crow.

Mrs Beckett is screaming. Karen rises to her feet dizzily. The room is in a frenzy; one Officer is thrown through the window, sending shards of glass glittering through the air. The light orbs have risen into full, towers of black flame now, licking the sides of the walls, and arching across the ceiling. More Officers pile in, armed to the teeth, while Mrs Beckett shouts out commands. At the center of it all is the Lady of Chains. She rips an Officer’s head off; the wires stretch before bursting like veins, spluttering out greenish liquid.

Dark twirls of hair droop over her face, but Karen knows that the smile and glow in the Lady’s eyes is unmistakable. For these brief minutes in which it will last, the Lady of Chains is alive, dancing her dance of death. A bullet sinks into her arm, and she grabs the Officer responsible, ripping him to pieces like a rag doll, and letting the remains drop to the floor, discarded and twitching.

I’ll challenge the world for my revenge.

Karen snorted when she’d heard that promise, but now, being here, she has no doubt that the Lady will eventually escape. And, she also understands what the Master sees in her. In these glimpses of operatic carnage, she is his equal. And, this is why Mrs Beckett tries to break her because physically, she cannot.

Whoever the Lady had loved has moved on, and left her behind. But she will not let go of the pain, and in certain respects that is all that’s left. The pain.

The Lady approaches the last Officer. He’s smaller than the rest, and he’s quivering. She looks at his hands, hooks protrude from his fingertips. The one she saw from the window, trailing behind the rest.

“You’re still alive?” She asks through a curtain of bloodied hair.

The Officer nods.

The Lady of Chains shakes her head. Officers were men the Master made with blood and metal – dead men. This one was an experiment, and aside from his hands, weaponless. “Stay in the corner.” She mumbles, turning to Mrs Beckett.

The old woman’s eyes bulge as she eyes the thick, glistening streams of blood on the Lady’s arms. “And I suppose you’re bloody happy with yourself, are you?”

Karen feels like this scene has played before, perhaps many years ago. There’s a tiredness belonging in each woman’s face that’s reaches beyond today. The Lady of Chains says nothing.

Karen pulls herself from the wreckage, and comes stumbling across. Footsteps are heard, getting louder, and then more Officers pile in, more than before.

A smile crosses Mrs Beckett’s face.

Guns fire and she dodges. Karen isn’t so lucky. She’s hit. Once. Twice. And falls to the floor. The Lady struggles to get to her, but Mrs Beckett and the Officers throw themselves at the wheels, trying desperately to turn it. The Lady startles them all by screaming as she fights to reach Karen.

“Come on!” Mrs Beckett yells.

The Lady fights, but the chains are beginning to grow tight as she crawls along the floor, beside Karen. The girl had been hit in the stomach and shoulder.

“You’ll be alright.” The Lady wheezes, peeling back hair from Karen’s forehead.

She squeezes her hand in return.

A bulky, twitching figure approaches them, knitting his hooked-hands together, looking akward.

“What do you--”

He lifts Karen gently – too gently for an Officer. She groans, reaching out for the Lady.

The Lady nods. “Just get her out of here. Just make sure--”

He nods in return.

“My Lady--”

The Lady of chains grimaces, “It’s all right, Karen! I live for the fight!” she laughs, watching as they dodge the chaos. Karen’s little hand never stops reaching out for her, even as they leave the doorway; it is the last thing she sees. “I’ll be alright.” She whispers.

There’s a rumble, and more chains erupt through the foundations of the tower, splitting apart furniture. These are different chains, ancient and rusty. The Lady can’t fight against them nor can they be broken.

Mrs Beckett strides towards her now, her bony hands resting upon bony hips. A twisted smile spreads across her haggard face.“Well, my lady. You play a good game, a very good game.”

“What?” The rusty chains are snaking around her wrists now.

“That’s right.” She nods, “That’s right, my Lady.” Mrs Beckett licks her lips, “I like to play games. Helps pass the time, so it does. Now, you might consider yourself ‘higher up’ in the food chain, but to me you're a challenge, a puzzle.”

“Karen got away, didn’t she?”

“Karen? No, no, no, it’s got nothing to do with her. It’s all about you. But, truth be told, I was hoping you’d kill her. We both know that you don’t hope with death very well.” She releases the Lady’s head, smiling her twisted grin, “Looks like I win this one.”

**********

They reach the bottom of the stairs, Karen clutching onto the Officer with the hooked-fingers. The night is harsh; the rain is coming down in sheets, but the Officer is warm, holding Karen close. She can see steam rise from him, dissolving into the air. She wants to go back, she even begged him to go back, to help her. But he would not. Instead, she cried all the way down, the pain in her shoulder and stomach leaving her helpless.

His voice is a garble, but the one word he speaks is unmistakable; “Home.”

“Yes.” She nods, rain dripping down her face. She can hear it pinging off the Officer.

A scream resounds from the tower, the light dying down now. She knows that one day the Lady of Chains will escape her tower, and then Greylock will be torn apart once again.

“Home.” Karen breathes. And they disappear into the night.