"How many does that make it?  You break the thousands yet, eh?  Why the fuck the Wardens even keep you here, I'll never know."<br/><br/>Upon reaching the upper tiers of the prison, Flayer had been immediately accosted by another Enforcer.  "Brass" Reynolds, aptly named for the bits of metal that had been fused directly into the flesh covering his knuckles.  He was a well-built man with skin tainted red by too many prolonged stays in the baths, completely lacking any sort of body hair from the sulfur eating away at him over the years.  He bore stern features for someone so young, twisted into an expression that seemed halfway between irritated and amused as he looked at the so-called "Beast".<br/><br/><em>"We all have a purpose.  All tools.  I happen to be a useful one,"</em>he wheezed, the dull red LED in his mask focusing carefully.<br/><br/>Brass sneered.  "What good is a tool that goes off and does whatever it fucking feels like, whenever it feels like it?  Vasquez wasn't cleared for execution.  At least the others make their marks look like accidents.  Ain't like the fucking trash in that pitt don't kill 'emselves all the damn time anyway.  But you just sneak on down there like a fucking shadow, brutalize or hypnotize or whatever the fuck that wordplay is that you use to make the fuckers kill 'emselves for ya.  Like you're acting on your own damn authority.  You ain't the boss of this place Flayer, and a freak like you never will be.  Hell, none of us up top are god damn flower pickers, but out of all of us you're the one stain that should be down there with the rest of the garbage, permanently."<br/><br/>Flayer made some sort of metallic choking noise that made Brass flinch somewhat; it was rare that the Beast laughed, and the sound was always terribly unnerving.  It was a gross approximation of amusement, made by someone whose found humor in places that sent most men into madness.<br/><br/><em>"I will take your concerns under advisement.  By the way, how is that girlfriend of yours?"</em><br/><br/>Brass stiffened.  "What the fuck are you-"<br/><br/><em>"One eye, looks to be stabbed out.  Lovely black locks.  Pristine beauty marred by the pain of an uncaring existence.  Calls herself Stiletto, sentenced for murdering an entire enclave of slavers that just happened to be under the protection of a local Monarch.  What an unjust civilization humanity has spread across the stars.  It's good that she has found comfort here.  In your arms."</em><br/><br/>The other man looked absolutely livid; clearly the relationship was not a matter of public knowledge.  But despite his seething rage, he said nothing.  Even his red skin seemed pale now as he choked back some angry retort.<br/><br/><em>"Yes.  Very good,"</em>Flayer continued solemnly.<em>"But we all lead such short, sorry existences.  Some shorter than others.  I will see you later, Mister Reynolds."</em><br/><br/>He left without another word, leaving the other Enforcer to stare after him hatefully.  There was nothing else he could do.  He doubted his ability to kill the Beast, and any failed attempt would at best leave Brass crippled and at worst make off with his life and the life of the only woman dear to him.  The damnable creature known as Flayer seemed to know everything, see everything, hear everything.  He wasn't a Warden, but he may as well have been.  He didn't work for Crematoria.  He<em>was</em>Crematoria, body and soul.<br/><br/>