Prompt Writing #2

This is the first official instalment, but my earlier prompt writing exercise will function as Prompt Writing #1.

Prompt: [Forward Motion Writers generator]

After a sham trial, your character has been thrown in prison, no chance of parole, less of a chance of survival. It's only a matter of time before an attempt is made on their life. They have to escape and soon. The question is, how?

Randomly Selected Story and Character: Macbay Transportation Services, Max Webb

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That Macbay.

That demon Macbay.

Max could have easily scribbled such thoughts all over the walls of his cell if he'd had a pen. That could have upset the other residents, though, and they seemed upset enough. A man with military tattoos stretched across military muscles sat on his bunk sending death glares through the door of bars. An older man quarreled with a young redheaded woman who already bore a black eye. The rest seemed to think that the plump man with no more than the politically necessary amount of army service was worthy of their attention.

Max wondered briefly if any of them were the magic users he had been so eager to push into the army. Although, after the harsh ridicule he had gotten for even believing in such powers, he may have had more to fear if they didn't. Revenge for unfinished deeds, even delivered by these characters, was nothing compared to being shipped to a madhouse. At least here he could die quickly, of a broken neck or some such thing.

Although if that demon Macbay got him killed here, Max would still not be particularly happy. He would only be particularly dead, and that would hardly be good for anyone. Who could be a better and more effective Manager of Conscription? His sons were far too young, and his nearest brown-nosing underling was far too pathetic. The Empire needed him alive, and in a position of power that only he could wield effectively. 

Of course, even if he made it out of here, there was no guarantee of his restoration. The newspapers already screamed lies of embezzlement, much more than he had ever taken for the magic-user project, and that devil truck driver was undoubtedly frolicking about the mainland scot-free and spreading worse. He'd have to charade as someone else to get his position back—although that would hardly be an issue if he were capable of it. As long as he was back in power, where he deserved to be—where his Empire needed him.

"Yer the crazy conscripter, ain't ye?"

Leaping off the mildewed floor, Max adjusted his hat and composed himself before meeting the speaker's gaze. A wiry man with skin stretched over his muscles like extremely shrunken clothing, he stooped over to view Max and squinted to do a better job of it.

"I," Max began, lifting his chin, "am the Manager of Conscription for The Empire. Undue rumours have been spread about me, and so I must bide my time here until sense returns to the men of justice."

The inquirer stood straight as he laughed. "Yeh, an' I'll bide my time 'til they see me wife jump back ta life."

Max frowned, although in a quite civilized way, as the wiry man wore himself out laughing and retired to another corner of the room, shaking his head.

More jeers than punches hit Max as the days passed, but the grimy, unidentifiable food alone would have been enough to wear him down. Between the derisions, scuffles, and general atmosphere, Max was starting to truly lose hope. If the men of justice could fix their eyes so firmly away from this place, if his entire case was naught but yellowed news to them now, how could they redeem him?

How could anyone? He had already broken ribs, cheekbones, and pride, and it was only a matter of time before things got really dire. If it weren't for new hoodlums coming in, his cellmates would be nearing extinction. He was only a politician, with no real crime to his name, but, among so many true villains, that was more of a disability than a virtue. He doubted he would last long enough for anyone to see the truth and purpose in his actions and come to free him.

Wrapping his fingers around the only decently clean thing in the cell, Max was looking over the dark blotches on the door when it suddenly rattled in his grip. Quickly he withdrew his hands, but this only served to amuse the culprit on the other side of the bar.

"You awake there, crazy old man?"

Max's limbs stiffened to the point of paralysis as he turned his eyes upon the outsider. Baring his disgusting, crooked-toothed grin, Macbay stuffed his hands in his back pockets and leaned in to get a better look of Max's bedraggled face.

"Taking good care of yourself, I see," the trucker commented, straightening back up.

Frowning sharply, Max opened his mouth to make reply but could not determine which insult to throw first.

"I've been doing fine, too; thanks for asking," Macbay continued, thumbing the front of his hat upwards, although it didn't improve his fringe-obstructed view much. "Still at my old business. Just got a big job the other day. This lady by the name of Viola asked me to deliver a special package for her."

At his wife's name, Max's enraged thoughts stuttered to a bewildered stop.

Macbay grinned widely as he fingered the bars that would so easily bend for him if he put his mind to it.

"Think I ought to take the order?" he finished.