Chapter 51: Thinks have a way of happening - Part 2

Miles jumped, twisting toward the sound. A small figure was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the cell. It was a child—a girl who couldn’t have been older than seven. Her white hair gleamed faintly in the dim light, and her eyes were...well, they weren’t eyes. They were pools of pale gray, pupilless and unsettling.

“Who—” Miles started, but the girl cut him off with a soft laugh.

“Trying to figure out where you are won’t help. You won’t be able to escape.”

Miles narrowed his eyes. “Is this a prank? Did Hyperion set this up?”

The girl tilted her head, her expression almost amused. “Hyperion? No, this is far beyond anything he can control.”

Miles didn’t like the sound of that. He rolled for safety.

Roll result: Abysmal. You’re in more danger than you think.

“Oh, wonderful,” he muttered sarcastically.

The girl giggled, her small frame shaking slightly. “You’re funny. Most people just cry when they wake up here. But you? You’ve got jokes.”

“Yeah, that’s me. The funny guy.” He leaned closer to the bars. “Who are you, anyway? And why is someone your age hanging around...whatever this is?”

The girl’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach her eerie eyes. “My age?” She shook her head, almost pityingly. “Oh, you poor little human. You don’t know anything.”

“That’s why I’m asking,” Miles snapped, his nerves fraying. “Why are you here? Why are you helping these people do...bad things?”

The girl paused, her head cocked like a bird’s. Then, to his surprise, she burst out laughing—a high, melodic sound that sent chills down his spine.

“Helping? You think I’m helping?” she said between giggles. “Oh, that’s precious.”

Before Miles could press further, the door at the end of the hallway creaked open. Heavy footsteps echoed, and a tall, burly man in a tailored suit approached the cell.

Miles pressed himself against the back wall, his heart racing.

The man unlocked the cell door with an air of casual authority. “Good morning,” he said, his voice smooth and oily. “I hope you slept well.”

“Not really,” Miles replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.”

The man smirked. “You’ve been brought here as a...guest of the auction house.”

“Auction house?” Miles repeated, dread creeping into his voice.

The man nodded. “Yes. You’ve been selected as one of the goods to be sold. And might I say, you should feel honored. It’s rare for anyone to be visited by one of the founding members.”

Miles’s mind raced. “You mean...the kid?” He gestured toward the girl, who was now sitting on the cell floor with an innocent smile.

The man’s smirk widened. “Ah, Amelia. She is...special, isn’t she?”

Miles frowned. “Wait, you’re telling me a child is one of the founding members of an illegal auction house?”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Child? Oh no, she merely appears that way. Amelia is a Chaou. She’s over a hundred years old, and she’s one of the most formidable beings you’ll ever meet. I’d advise you to mind your tongue around her.”

Miles glanced back at the girl—Amelia—who was now watching him with a look of quiet amusement.

“Of course she is,” Miles muttered under his breath.

Suggestion: Avoid antagonizing the hundred-year-old alien child. It’s unlikely to end well for you.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Miles hissed back mentally.

The man in the suit stepped closer, his gaze cold and calculating. “You’re lucky, you know. Most goods don’t get to meet Amelia. Consider it a privilege.”

“Yeah, I feel super privileged,” Miles said dryly.

The man’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Enjoy your stay,” he said before turning and leaving the cell.

As the door slammed shut behind him, Miles sank to the floor, his mind racing.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“So,” he said aloud, his voice trembling slightly, “I’m going to get sold like some kind of...rare artifact?”

Amelia giggled. “Not rare. Just lucky.”

Miles glared at her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She shrugged, her expression unreadable. “I don’t get many interesting people to talk to. Most of the others just scream or cry. You’re different.”

“Well, thanks, I guess,” he muttered.

Suggestion: Continue building rapport with Amelia. It may improve your chances of survival.

Miles sighed. “Fine. Amelia, is there any way you can, I don’t know, not let them sell me?”

She smiled sweetly, her eerie eyes gleaming. “Why would I do that? You’re so much fun to watch.”

Miles groaned. “Fantastic. Just my luck.”

Correction: Statistically, this is worse than your usual luck.

He dropped his head into his hands, wondering how he was going to get out of this mess.

Miles sat slumped against the cold, damp wall of his cell, muttering under his breath as his thoughts tangled together in a frantic mess. “Auction house… weird alien kid… I’m being sold like an exotic pineapple. Hyperion is going to kill me. If I don’t die here first.”

Correction: Pineapples are not typically sold at illegal auction houses. Your analogy lacks accuracy.

“Not helping, system!” Miles hissed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He realized too late that someone was watching him.

A guard—a large, blocky man with an expression of permanent boredom—stood just outside the bars, squinting at Miles like he was a particularly uninteresting stain on a rug. Miles froze mid-rant, locking eyes with the man.

“Who’re you talking to, kid?” the guard grunted, his voice like rocks being shoved through a meat grinder.

Miles blinked, momentarily stunned. “Uhh... no one?” he tried, but of course, the system wouldn’t let him go unnoticed.

You are currently talking to me. Denial of my existence is futile.

“Stop outing me!” Miles snapped in a harsh whisper, only to realize that the guard had taken a step back. A very noticeable step back.

The guard tilted his head, staring at Miles like he’d just grown two more. “You... you’re talking to yourself?” He frowned. “You’ve been here, what, half a day? Already gone cracked in the head?”

Miles stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Then, deciding to lean into it, he smiled widely. “Oh, you hear the voices too? Isn’t that neat?”

The guard visibly shuddered, pulling back further. “What is wrong with you?”

Miles clutched his temple for dramatic effect, widening his eyes. “You ever hear them whisper? The ones in the walls? They tell me secrets.”

“Right,” the guard muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as though deciding how much of this nonsense he was willing to endure. “This one’s definitely defective.” He turned on his heel and left, muttering under his breath, “Waste of time.”

Miles let his grin drop the moment the guard was out of earshot, exhaling sharply. “Okay, okay, I think that worked,” he mumbled, slouching back against the wall.

Assessment: Your performance as a deranged individual is alarmingly effective. Should I be concerned?

“Don’t encourage me,” Miles shot back.

Over the next few hours—maybe longer, since time in a prison cell loses all meaning—Miles started to notice something strange. Whenever someone approached his cell to bring him food or a change of water, they no longer made eye contact. They didn’t speak, they didn’t linger, and they moved like he was some untouchable, volatile creature.

Once, when a scrawny attendant placed a wooden tray through the slot in the bars, he actually flinched when Miles looked up and smiled.

“Thanks for the snacks, pal,” Miles said cheerily, waving two fingers at the man.

The attendant bolted out of the hallway like a squirrel escaping a predator.

Miles frowned. “Well, that’s… new.”

Observation: It appears they now regard you as mentally unsound and, therefore, less of a concern.

“I mean, I don’t love that conclusion, but I’ll take what I can get,” Miles muttered. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Actually… maybe this is good. Maybe this is the edge I need to get out of here.”

The system, predictably, was unimpressed.

Clarify: You are proposing to exploit their incorrect assumption of your sanity to facilitate escape?

“Exactly!” Miles said, snapping his fingers. “If they think I’m too loopy to be dangerous or even worth selling, then maybe—just maybe—they’ll start leaving me alone. And when they do…”

...You will attempt escape.

“Bingo.” Miles grinned to himself, already feeling smarter than usual.

The next opportunity came sooner than he expected. Two workers—one older man with a pronounced limp and a younger, jittery guy who kept glancing nervously at his shoes—arrived outside his cell with what looked like an inventory sheet. They whispered back and forth, clearly unaware that Miles could hear them.

“You sure this one’s worth putting on the docket?” the younger guy asked, sounding nervous. “I heard the guards say he’s got voices in his head. Y’know… nuts.”

The older man sighed through his nose. “We’ve seen weirder, kid. But still… boss doesn’t like defective goods. Says it’s bad for business. Maybe we pull him, sell him quietly to the smugglers for cheap.”

Miles almost laughed at that. I’m defective now, huh? Perfect.

The younger man snuck a glance into the cell, his eyes darting nervously to Miles, who was now staring blankly at the wall with a wide, unblinking smile.

“What’s he doing?” the younger worker whispered.

“Hell if I know,” the older one grumbled. “Just don’t look him in the eyes. People like that’ll hex you or something.”

Miles snickered softly to himself. He felt like an actor nailing the role of a lifetime. Best Actor in a Prison Cell—Miles Daniels. He mentally prepped his acceptance speech.

Hours passed with Miles playing the part. He muttered to the walls. He giggled to himself. He hummed off-key lullabies while sitting crisscrossed in the middle of the cell. He even invented “friends” in his cell—a rock he named Rocky and a bit of straw he called Sir Flufferton.

At one point, when another guard came to check on him, Miles greeted the man by waving Rocky in his face. “Say hello, Rocky!”

The guard visibly paled. “Nope. I’m out,” he muttered and turned right back around.

As soon as the footsteps faded, Miles grinned triumphantly. “I’m a genius.”

Self-assessment: Dubious. However, progress is being made.

Miles clapped his hands together. “Now all I need is for them to slip up. A door left open. A distraction. Something. Then I’m out of here faster than a squirrel on espresso.”

He just had to keep up the act a little longer. And if there was one thing Miles had learned in life, it was how to act like a complete fool.