Flashback The Lockbox Room

[Latch]

64th of Summer, 502 A.V.

Do not speak unless spoken to.

Latch knew the rules that the Languis' had for him when guests were over. He knew he was lucky to have been taken as their ward instead of sold into slavery. He knew that they were the only ones that cared for him, that his parents had abandoned him as a babe and that he would be alone in the world were it not for them.

Do not speak unless spoken to.

Tonight was supposed to be a good night for the Languis household. The family had finally courted enough Dynasty members and kissed the feet of enough heads of households to get an expensive commission. All that the family had to do was wine and dine the representative that was sent over to the house and iron out the fine print of the contract. All Latch had to do was look presentable, refill their drinks, and sit quietly with the slaves when he wasn't needed.

Do not speak.

The mood of the room shifted slightly when the representative asked about Latch. Mrs. Languis tried to deflect the question, to divert attention back to the loveliness of the silverware that would be made for the Dynasty. Mr. Languis had drank too many glasses of fine wine and missed his wife's desperate attempts to change the topic. He motioned for Latch to step forward, placing a sturdy, rough hand on the top of his head when he approached.

"This is Latch. He's the luckiest little bastard boy in Kenash. Found 'im swaddled in cloth and crying on our doorstep, and my bleeding 'eart wife said we had to take 'im in."

Latch had never seen Mr. Languis drunk. He had never been in the same room as Mr. Languis when was trying to impress someone of a higher class. He was confused about why he had called him a 'bastard' and why he sounded so irritated talking about raising him.

"What kind of bitch abandons a kid, huh? Doesn't even leave anything for the family she's dumping him on. Just some stupid, petching key! It'd be hilarious if it wasn't so sad."

Donotspeakdonotspeakdonotspeakdonotspeakdonotspeak.

"Actually makes me feel better about being a parent. Least we won't ever be as shyke as that bitch is, huh honey?"

He smiled at his wife, tousling the tresses of the boy's chesnut hair as if it was all some inside joke among the Languis'. Mrs. Languis smiled back in support of her husbanding, hiding the discomfort in her eyes. The representative laughed, enjoying the show that Mr. Languis has made of Latch. The Languis children either pretended not to notice the events boiling around them or didn't care enough to participate in adult conversation.

Latch was shaking.

His face burned bright red. Hot, angry tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He gnashed his teeth in a futile attempt to keep his mouth closed.

He spoke.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" Latch screamed, swatting his foster father's hand off his head and staring down the man's wrathful eyes.

Mr. Languis and Mrs. Languis looked a mixture between shocked and furious. The representative merely appeared amused. The Languis children suddenly found their meals very interesting and keep their heads turned downward.

"You don't know my mother. You don't how or when or why she had to give me up. All you know is what you pretend to know, Mr. Languis. That's all you ever know, and that's you ever will be. A pretender."

Mr. Languis lost his shocked expression, settling simply for fury. He stood up from the table, towering over Latch's small form, and in one fluid motion smacked the boy with the back of his right hand. Latch stumbled backward from the force of the blow, arms flailing about for something solid to steady himself on. His hands found purchase, gripping onto the white linen of the table cloth and pulling it downward with him.

Glasses and dishes went flying from the Languis' table. Mrs. Languis was covered with red wine and the children's food was splattered across the room. The room went quiet, even the representative's soft chuckling was crushed by the weight of the silence. Latch found himself surrounded by silverware, still staring up into the furious face of Mr. Languis.

He opened his mouth to talk, but found his voice snuffed by Mr. Languis' relentless glare.

"Do. Not. Speak."

[Latch]

Three.

Seconds seemed to slow moments before the blow landed on Latch. The dinning room was a perfect picture of chaos, and as the boy turned his head he saw fully the repercussions of his actions. A perfect night ruined by the little foundling boy who couldn't keep his mouth shut. A contract lost for the Languis', and he the only one to blame.

Two.

Silverware came crashing down around him, and shower of shinning metal which refracted the room's firelight in an almost beautiful way. The clatter of forks and knives hitting the hard oak floor filled the air. Mr. Languis' growling and Mrs. Languis' surprised scream joined the chorus of sound, and Latch found himself distracted by the unusual harmony that the trio of silverware, screaming, and shouting formed.

One.

Time came rushing back into existence and Latch scrambled backwards to get away from the wrathful form of Mr. Languis. His hands grasped at the knives and forks scattered across the floor, taking hold of them in some desperate attempt at defense. Slowly did Mr. Languis approach, heavy stomps from heavy feet sending heavy echoes which filled the room. Latch held the knife in front of him, fear guiding his hands outward against his foster father. He opened his mouth to plead, to beg forgiveness, but found his voice caught and choking in his throat.

"Do. Not. Speak," Mr. Languis growled out. Not a request nor a threat, but a command which silenced the rest of the room. Even the quiet chittering from the representative slowed to a stop as the words from the head of this household hung in the air.

Latch still had the knife pointed towards his foster father. He had no real intention to use it. No malicious or violent emotion could persuade his arm to sink that weapon into the man who took him in when none else would. He was just scared, just so scare and so angry. He wanted everyone to just leave, to just stop saying such mean and vile things about a person that he would never get to know. He wanted to apologize, to tell the representative that the Languis' would do such great work and that he was to blame for everything. It was far too late for that though. No one, not even as persistent a child as Latch, could force words he gave life back into nothingness.

Mr. Languis didn't even pause to consider the knife that the boy held in his hand. He reached down and grabbed the child by his wrist, tearing him up form the floor and letting him dangle in the air. He had a wild look in his eyes, one that he could barely temper as he turned his head to the rest of the dinner party.

"Excuse me, I have to deal with...this. Please accept out sincerest apologies, and allow my wife to lead you to living room while we sort this out."

The representative simply nodded with a feline smile on his face, either too far in his cups to care about the mess or knowing that he could exploit what happened tonight to angle the contract more in favor of his Dynasty. The slaves moved without command, cleaning up the disaster Latch had caused while everyone else began to filter out towards the living room.

Latch knew where he was heading before Mr. Languis had even began to move towards it. He had been punished before, given more chores here or a belting if it was severe enough, but there was only one place that Latch was forced to go when he had done something this severe.

He struggled against his foster father's vice grip, trying to use the fork he had in his other hand to pry his wrist free. He kicked weekly against the man's chest, wriggled and writhed, twisted and turned, tried everything in a frenzied attempt to break himself free. To wrest himself free and break away before he found himself trapped in that dark, dreary room he knew lay open only for him.

It took one, viscous shake from Mr. Languis to stop Latch's attempts to escape by force. He didn't know what he was thinking, he was letting fear drive his actions, but there was no way he would be able to fight his way out of a grip by a man more than twice his size. Latch was practical, even as a child, and when one solution wouldn't work he knew there was no point in trying that same tactic over and over again. His mind raced with potential solutions, but he couldn't find focus long enough to implement them.

Latch turned his head, and realized it was too late. It only took the sight of it to send the boy into a frantic state. One, small closet with the door ajar, revealing one small safe with the door locked. An old, rusted, far too small safe whose only source of relief was the tiny hole on top to let the air in. With barely a pause, Mr. Languis took out the key with his free hand, unlocked the safe, and tossed Latch inside. The boy barely had time to grunt as his head collided with grey-green metal of safe's inside wall.

With a slam, the door shut. A lonely darkness filled his vision, and no matter how hard Latch screamed no one would be coming to let him out of the lockbox.

[Latch]

Latch cried and screamed for what felt like hours, but his voice grew hoarse and he eyes had no tears left to cry and still no one came. He pounded and raged against the walls of the safe, but they would not give and still no one came. He sat in silence and quietly begged whatever gods would listen to let him out of the lockbox, but his prayers fell on deaf ears and still no one came.

The boy went through this process every time he was trapped within the rusting confines of this damnable box. He would cry, then beat his fists bloody, and then beg, until he finally settled for silence. Deep down, he knew that no matter how much sound he made, it wouldn't change his situation. In the farthest reaches of his mind, he already knew he would contained in this grey-green monstrosity until his 'father' came and let him out. He knew that, in the end, whatever he did would be useless. His small fists couldn't break through iron.

But that doesn't he would stop trying.

Blood seeping around the skinned knuckles of his fists, Latch took a moment to tear a bit of his shirt free. He wrapped the cloth tightly around both hands, trying to stem the bleeding and focus his mind on something other than the terror of the walls around him and the pain of failure. With a deep, cleansing sigh, Latch closed his eyes and tried to breathe out his fear.

He knew brute force wouldn't help here, his fists were evidence of that already. Fear as well would only hinder his progress, not engender itself to his success. Latch had been in the lockbox before, and every time he surrendered himself to the dread of the iron walls that seemed to close in on him with each fleeting second, he allowed himself to be beaten. Here, fear was the enemy. Latch could break out of the lockbox, but he could not break himself free from terror's grip it took him. Tonight would be different, tonight his anger kept him company and forced him to keep moving.

So he kept his eyes close, found solace in the blackness behind his eyes, and put his mind to work.

"Look for weakness. For tears in the pattern," he ordered himself, sending his hands searching for flaws in the safe.

There was the hole above him, the finger-wide opening that replaced the stale air of the safe with the freshness from outside. Perhaps he could widen that? Latch gave it a few experimental pushes, and found that futile. The safe may have been old and rusting, but it still as solid as every.

His hands skimmed over the corners of the lockbox, but found nothing except for rust which infected the iron. He searched the bottom, finding much of the same and little of it useful. Latch's fingers skimmed the fork and the knife that he had been holding onto when he was tossed into the safe, but quickly brushed those aside. Nothing to eat in here, and the utensils were to fragile to use as make-shift chisels.

Despair began to creep into the back of Latch's mind again, the futility of his search taking a toll on the young boy's morale. He pushed the fear from his mind again, refusing to yield. Giving up would mean letting Mr. Languis win, and letting Mr. Languis win was something that Latch would not even begin to consider as possible. There had to be a flaw somewhere in the safe, there was always a flaw in everything. People, places, objects, everything. One just had to look hard enough, and they would find it plain as day.

Latch's hands stopped moving when they reached the front of the safe. There was...an unevenness there. A small gap between the wall of the lockbox and a strange circle which lay at its center. The boy pried at it with his finger, but found it too sturdy. He didn't know what was behind it, but it was the only flaw he found so far.

One hand still on the circle, Latch used his free hand to search for the fork that he had brought in with him. Finding the fine piece of silver, he placed the teeth of the utensil against the gap as sort of make-shift wedge and desperately tried to pry the circle loose. It stayed steady, mocking the boy with its refusal to move. Keeping the fork stuck in the gap, Latch grabbed for the knife that was also thrown in with him. Forcing the tip of it into gap and placing his feet against the wall of the safe to give him more leverage, the boy pulled and pulled and pulled with all the might that a nine-year old was capable of.

With a sickening, squealing pop, the rusted and loose metal circle came free. Latch opened his eyes, looking into the twisted and tumbling eye of what appeared to be a lock.

[Latch]

The flaw was found, now all Latch needed to was exploit it. There was only one problem. Latch didn't know the first thing about picking locks.

Now Latch had a good eye for patterns, for solving puzzles and problems that required an analytical eye, but this was a different beast entirely. When he looked into the eye of that lock, all he saw were metal parts that didn't quite align and an issue that he didn't quite understand how to solve.

He tried his nails at first. They weren't long like Mrs. Languis', but they just barely managed to bite into the first layer of the lock. Unfortunately, that was about all that they were good for. His nails didn't have enough rigidity or length to access the inner workings of the barrier that refused his freedom.

The knife was next. It took a fair bit of force, but Latch managed to jam the tip of the silverware into copper confines of the safe. He could feel the tumblers begin to turn and twist, but the knife didn't have the right shape to press onward and align the pins into the right order. With a sharp tug, the knife came free; its shape now bent and bearing the scratches of misuse.

All that was left to try was the fork. Latch was beginning to worry that if he tried much more he would damage the lock. It was old, already showing the signs of malfunction that age inflicted on metal, and if it broke then even the occasional compassion of the Languis family might be not enough to set him loose from his cage. Still, Latch found it far more preferable to play odds than to give Mr. Languis the satisfaction of seeing his tear-stained face and his bloodied fists.

He approach the lock with more precision this time. Just like he couldn't brute force his way out of the safe's walls, he couldn't very well expect the lock to behave any differently. Puzzles, patterns, and problems were the grounds where Latch was the most comfortable after all, and though fear encouraged him to lash out frantically against the lock he would have to force himself to learn from what did and didn't work in the lockbox.

Problem one: the fork was too big to fit the lock. Latch could get a couple teeth in at a time, but the whole thing was out of the question unless he wanted to risk breaking either the fork or the metal of the tumbler.

Problem two: he was exhausted. Anger and stubbornness could only do so much to keep him awake, and he had been in the lockbox for hours now. He needed to find a way to force himself to keep conscious or Mr. Languis won. He would not allow himself to be found in such a pitiful state as he was now, especially after his foster father revealed the type of man he was at dinner.

Latch raised his right hand and smashed it against the wall of the safe. Sharp pain splintered down his arm. His knuckles began to bleed again, needles of red poking out from the white linen he had bound them in. The boy grit his teeth as tears began to well in his eyes again, forcing himself not cry. The pain would keep up for at least another hour, and that was problem two taken care of.

Placing the first two teeth of the fork into the eye of the lock, Latch twisted the utensil sharply right. The metal of the silverware snapped free, and using the remaining two teeth of the fork he managed to scrape out the slivers of silver. Now problem one was taken care and he had away to finesse the metal pins of the lock into the proper order.

He slid the two splinters of metal into the lock, testing out the the tumblers. Latch's fingers seemed well suited to the work, and it almost felt natural when he heard the first click of pin locking into the correct space. Turning the bottom fork tooth, the boy frowned in frustration. He was quick to pick up lockpicking, but there were still a number of pins that had to push into the right place before he would be free.

There he sat, for the better part of two hours just fiddling with the lock. The crash of his hand smashing against the cold metal of the safe in order to keep him conscious became almost rhythmic to Latch. Blood pooled around his fingers, making them slick and his work harder, but still the boy pushed onward. He would not allow this puzzle to best him, and he would not give anyone the satisfaction of knowing he surrendered.

By the third hour of work, the lockbox echoed a resounding click. Latch's eyes shot wide, any exhaustion that weighted his muscles down vanished with the faintest promise of freedom. He grabbed the mishapen knife and the slivers of metal that he used as picks, sliding the silver into his pocket. Hands still messy with the blood of his effort, Latch pushed the against the heavy safe door.

It swung open.

[Latch]

Steps soft as whisper, Latch moved carefully outside of the safe and into the surrounding closet. Darkness still hung like veil in front of the boys eyes, but nowhere near as black as the shadows which hid the lockbox. His eyes long since adapted to the dark, he shifted towards what looked like a doorknob and sent a quiet prayer to whatever gods might've been listening.

It was unlocked, luckily enough. Pressing the handle down, the door squealed open and revealed the faintly lit hallway that stretched onward and a shadowed staircase stretching upward. Latch guessed that Mr. Languis must have never thought he would be able to break out of the safe, and didn't figure it necessary to lock the closet which held lockbox.

Show's how much he knows about me, the boy thought with a silent smile before moving towards the stairs.

His footsteps weren't quite as quiet as Latch hoped they would be outside of the closet, a wayward foot here or there sending echoes scattering throughout the house. He supposed it was either luck or providence that it took him hours to finally break the safe's lock. Had he picked it earlier, enough of the family might've been awake to hear his novice attempts at stealth.

Still he pushed onward, taking care to move slowly upward the steps that led to his quarters. He kept his body small and pressed against the up-slanted wall, trying to blend in with the shadows that flickered in the firelight. Were he a boy of less patience, a boy that didn't spend the better part of five hours stubbornly rebelling against rusting iron in order to spite a man that pretended to be his father, he might've rushed up the stairs and undone all the work he had put into this night.

If the lockbox had one, hard lesson to teach him, it's that patience was paramount.

So he moved slow and quiet throughout the upper portions of the Languis house, a glacial pace that ensured silence and success. He approached his room, saw his bed, and was half-tempted to just let his aching body rest. The more he thought about it, the more his gaze lingered on the ramshackle frame that he had laid his head against for years. As he stared at the loose bedding and thread-bare sheets, Latch realized something that stirred deep within him. He turned gaze down to the carved, copper key which hung about neck. One sentence sprung to life in his mid, drowning out all other worries or aches.

There has to be a better life than this.

The lockbox might have taught him patience, but the key, the only object he had that tied him to his mother, that screamed at him to strive for something better.

He tore through his bedroom, looking for a satchel or a backpack or anything that he could use for his goal. He gathered up clothes and tools alike, stuffing them together and slinging them onto his back. He could sneak food from the kitchen, all the slaves must have been asleep by now. Latch wished he could get into Mr. Languis' study for a map to guide his way, but he knew he didn't have another three hours to fiddle with locks. He had to move now, before he lost his mettle.

Before he lost the will to run away.