The underground holding block of Facility Fourteen was situated in a stuffy dark rock cave two levels below the luxury tiered arena, forty feet beneath the water table.
Here, the sterile epoxy flooring and polished brass chandeliers of the upper watching galleries were replaced by weeping black stone walls, rusted iron bars, and the choking stench of decaying straw, animal ammonia, and gangrenous tissue. Water dripped continuously from the low-hanging ceiling vault. It formed stale puddles of brown rust-water across the uneven flat stone slabs. everyone could feel the chemical tang of cheap skin-burning bleach, which the work-yard handlers used to hose down the drainage channels between vivisection shifts.
Arthur Vance marched down the central access hall, with Sergeant Corvo and ten commoner infantrymen who had dropped through the drainage shaft with heavy high-pressure bolt-cutters, canvas litter stretchers, and wooden crates of razor-sharp dressings.
Titus led the way, his spade claws clicking rhythmically on the wet stone, his black glass shell streaming a clean, dry warmth that pushed back the underground chill. On Arthur’s shoulder, Pip lit up the dark alcoves with a soft, steady golden radiance from his crest, while Grimm walked with his nose low to the flat stone slabs, pausing at every cell door to sniff the scared animals huddled in the shadows.
