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They never did let Makube take care of his arm. After that old kook shot him in the shoulder, he was immediately taken to Mushi Productions and slammed into a chair to be tied up. Now here he was, alone in a dark room and restrained in an uncomfortable position, arm throbbing.
The ropes were knotted haphazardly—Toppei had had no idea what he was doing. If Makube was at full strength, he probably could’ve overwhelmed him and bolted, but with his shoulder flaring up at any slight movements, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. So he was forced to wait there and listen to Toppei fumble his way through knots.
Somehow, through sheer force of will, Toppei secured them tightly enough for Makube to be unable to escape. Oh, Makube had tried. The moment Toppei left the room he shook and pulled and tugged and almost knocked the chair over. For every attempt, his arm erupted in white, hot, flashing pain, but he figured he could suffer temporarily if it meant getting out of this joint. Or, at least he did, until he jolted the wrong way and saw stars.
It would be a very bad idea to pass out now. He needed to be aware and thinking at all times, especially in the aftermath of the revolution. He had to stay on top. Sitting here, taunted by Toppei’s disgusting knotwork, had to do.
Maybe there was another way. Could he cut the rope instead? He thought he saw some mechanical animation equipment behind him when he entered, but he couldn’t verify—the room was pitch black. There wasn’t any moonlight to help him out, as a persistent downpour had settled in about an hour ago.
Nevertheless, he ought to try. Avoiding the shoulder that had given him trouble up to this point, he peered over his left side and squinted.
And there lay another problem: his right arm wasn’t the only injury. In the fight that broke out before that old man showed up, Makube had landed face first into roaring flames. He hadn’t gotten caught in them for long, but it was enough to rekindle the burns when he strained his muscles in this way.
He tried to push through, see through the darkness and the hot prickling sensation, gain any information that could be of use to him. The heat spread throughout his face like a thousand tiny needles poking each and every skin cell.
He gasped and reset to sitting forward, waiting for the burns to dull. Breathe in, breathe out. This was nothing. Try again.
He looked back towards the machine behind him, and the itchy burning returned. This time, however, he got what he wanted before it became too much: a metal pole right near where his hands were tied. If he shimmied in just the right way, he could probably catch an imperfection in the metal sharp enough to cut rope.
Makube’s investigation was cut short by the sound of a door unlocking. Toppei was back. Makube scrambled back to the neutral position he’d been left in, and the hastiness wasn’t even to hide what he was doing—there was no way in hell Toppei was going to see him visibly in pain. Showing pain was weakness, and Makube was not weak.
Toppei may think that he had been subdued, but Makube always had the upper hand. That’s how this partnership worked. That’s how the prophecy foretold it.
He would escape and get back on track, reasserting his power. Makube could not lose.