The Void - I - Sidestep (Patreon)

2012 - Summer 

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The thoughts won't stay out. Not even if you try. Ever since the Nanosurge, things have been weird. You hardly need to dig anymore. The minds around you open up and vomit their thoughts at you without invitation. Except Charge.

More of a relief than before. Closer than before. Trust. 

Dangerous. 

They all are. But you trust them now. The Rangers. Proven again and again that you're useful enough to help. Powerful enough to be kept around. Human enough to be befriended.

You've gotten so good at pretending that the mask sometimes doesn't even chafe. 

"Are you okay?" Your words. Spoken by reflex because Anathema has that odd look on their face. The one where you shouldn't touch them. Because sometimes accidents happen, and a fingerprint gets lost, and then ice cream as apologies. You know how it is.

You never planned to scan their thoughts either. Hard. Like looking through opaque plastic. Not clear. No details. But you don't need that to smell the fear. A deep, visceral terror that hurts deep in the roots of your teeth. And yet you keep worrying it.

"No," Anathema admits, just between the two of you. The smile wavers, then get pasted back on. You do your best to keep your distance not to get pulled in. "But I'll manage."

"Why didn't you tell Charge?" Ortega is still too personal. Not when it's mission time. You can separate work and leisure even if others can't.

"Because it needs to be done," they say, scanning the horizon as they lead you along the almost imperceptible path. The sun is setting, it will be dark before you get there. "And because I'm the only one who knows this way in."

"And I'm the only one who can ensure we're not spotted." Not just you. Anathema as well. You keep your senses open for any sign of recognition from the surroundings. Thoughts. Humans. You wish keeping your mind open didn't mean Anathema was spilling over as well.

"Exactly." A pause as Anathema leads you up a rocky crevice that needs your full attention in the dim light. The shadows are growing longer, sending a shiver down your spine. The Void's allies. Shadows. Darkness. This is stupid, but it is the plan you agreed on.

"I can't spot cameras. You'd better be sure about this route," you say once you've reached level ground once more. Hidden from sight, below the horizon, shadows among shadows.

"There won't be any." Anathema sounds too sure, feels too sure. Willing it to be true. "They don't work well with..."

"With the Void's powers." You say the name and catch the flinch again. History there, that's evident. And yet nobody asked. Are you the only one that spotted it? 

"Yeah." Anathema sighs, and you can't keep your distance. Can't stay focused on the mission. This is your friend feeling bad. Feeling worse than you've felt before.

"You don't have to enter the compound," you say, surprising yourself. Deviating from the plan. Increasing the risk. Making decisions you shouldn't, but Charge would. "I can handle it," you lie.

"We need to destroy the generator first. They might not have cameras, but they have other defensive systems. The radar would pick up Sentinel. Hopefully, they don't have any fliers around." Small words filled with truth and careful hope.

"I can handle the generator," you say, and this time it doesn't feel like a lie. "You get me close enough and tell me where to find it. I can sabotage it. I don't need your acid." You know that's not why Anathema is here. Knowing the way. Knowing how to get in unseen. Get out... "You signal the others once you see the lights go out."

"Are you sure?" Almost breathless, and not from the climb.

"It will be easier to stay hidden if it's just me." Logic. You have a point, and you both know it. "You can be the backup."

"That wasn't the plan..."

"The plan was made with faulty intel. Marshal Charge doesn't know how you feel because you never told anybody." Stones in glasshouses much? Doesn't make it less true. "The important thing is that the generator goes down so Sentinel can approach unnoticed." Charge and Ashfall will move in at the same time. As sneaky as you two. Steel in heavy armor, ready for when the shit hits the fan.

"I never told them because it shouldn't matter." Anathema pauses, looking back at you, eyes wet. Dust in the wind. Both of you pretend that it's true.

"But it does." When did you start to sound like you're in charge? "Trust me to take care of this." 

"Thank you." Not a smile, but a sigh of relief. 

You know all too well how they feel.

----

The Tesseract looks too familiar. You hadn't expected the Void's base to look so unassuming through your night-vision lenses. Adobe walls surround the compound. Several large buildings within. Looking innocent. Looking like a farm. No fields, though, and the only livestock is the coyotes you can hear in the distance. How often do they get fed? 

The main compound is underground. Anathema told you. Described rooms and corridors they shouldn't be aware of. Neither of you commented on it. Some secrets are best left unshared. You've approached unseen. No cameras on the walls. Just guards. You're betting your life on that. 

You've bet it on worse odds.

You crawled the last of the way. Prickly bushes. Uneven ground. Stones and boulders. A scenic area, you suppose, the single gravel road private property for miles. Guards paying attention.

Not focused. Even from here, you can feel them if you focus. If you close your eyes and listen hard. When did you become this strong? Would They be proud? An owl screeches in the distance, and you take that opportunity to run closer. Their attention is caught, both of them. A distant cry, a change of pace. Boredom. Maybe it would get close enough to take a shot at? The moon is out; a silhouette would be easy to spot.

You sprint to the wall as they scan the skies. It's not too tall, and the adobe is rough and uneven. You wait until their attention has drifted away once more, and then you take two steps back and run, up the wall, trusting speed and friction to get you within grabbing distance of the top. Gloved fingers digging in, you heave yourself up and over, dropping down behind a shed before anybody can notice. Don't listen. Don't hear. They seem to heed your wish. Your command.

Ortega couldn't have done it smoother. No. Charge. Stop.

Two more breaths through your mask, and nothing stirs. One of the men on the wall lights a cigarette. A little pinprick of a star. You sprint towards what looks like a storm cellar as he sucks in that first warm breath and holds it. The doors are locked, and you don't have Anathema to open the padlock. But you lived on your own for too long before you met the Rangers, and not always on the straight and narrow. Your lockpick makes fast work of the lock, and you pull the door open quicker than you should. Someone could have been down there, but this time, you're lucky.

This time.

The ladder is old, but the door in the storm cellar is newer. Also locked. The old entrance, Anathema called it. Before the Cult of the Green Sky expanded. Before they started digging. Digging for what? You didn't ask that question. You doubt you would have got an answer.

Behind the door is a corridor, just like Anathema said. Straight forward, then left. Stop and listen. Nothing. You should close your eyes and feel for minds, but something here makes you clamp up like a dried-out slug. Close yourself down and rely on the lenses in your mask instead of your increasingly anxious mind. The night vision helps; the corridor lights are out, but there is a light strip under one door. Enough to help you see.

The night vision turns everything green.

What are you going to do when you kill the generator? You can hear it now, muffled behind a door. Will you dare to turn on your flashlight, or should you run by memory? It would be easy to get lost down here. Distance is weird, and the light from under the door flickers. The other door, your hand is on the handle. The generator growls like a primal beast. Someone is thinking about you, and you're trying not to think about them.

About the fact that your heart beats. One. Two. Two hearts. You step inside, and the room is cramped and hot. Smelling of diesel fuel. You pull the lever, and the generator coughs and dies. Dark. No more light. 

But everything is green.

You breathe. Hard. Your mask clings against your mouth. Warm. Wet. Can't get enough air. You should break something on the generator, but something is moving. You can't sense it. No static. Just green. Something is coming. You can feel it. Behind the wall. In the wall. Behind you.

"Welcome." A whisper. A chorus of whispers distorted by your ears.

You strike, of course. Training trumps terror, and you make contact. A hard blow. A gasp of surprise. No armor. Soft.

And then the world turns to sludge. Heavy. Breathing through a plastic bag, in your mouth, in your throat, no panic, no panic, just act. React. But you can't MOVE.

You do it anyway.

No focus. Dropped in a barrel underwater. Hold your breath. No up. No down. Darkness. Distortion. Don't panic. Don't breathe. Don't move until you know which way is up. They'll let you drown before they pull you out. You can't afford to swim toward the bottom.

It doesn't matter that everything is wrong. It doesn't matter that you don't understand because you have never understood. All you need to know is...

know is...

know...

no...

This time you can't breathe because there are hands around your throat. This time you can't move because your limbs work wrong. Time does. Too. Does Time? Wrong?

Black.

----

Black.

Wrong time. Right place. Can't move. Mask still on. Relief. Wet. Hard breathe. No.

Focus. Your mask is still on. Why? You're wet because someone has dumped a bucket over you. You're at the right place because you can see well enough to recognize Green Sky iconography. You can't move because you're chained to a pillar. Oh. That's why your hands hurt. You force yourself upright to relieve the pressure.

You'll need your hands to get out of here.

The light is not green, but it is pale. Not electric. Fluorescent? The symbols on the walls glow. Reflective? The candles don't seem enough to light the place up like this.

Huh. The ceiling is tall, like a church, but it smells like damp earth and blood. Still underground. No windows. The walls are smooth earth, rounded as if someone has smoothed out clay. No straight angles and you're grateful. Can't see if anything is wrong if it's just curved. Chandeliers with candles overhead, like an underground cathedral. But the floor is packed dirt, redder than the adobe outside. Wet from the bucket. The blood seems fresher than it is. Cages lining the walls. Empty. Doors open.

Three people are arranging objects on the altar. Stone. Smooth. An odd shape. Shifting if you tilt your head. More candles. Objects. A weird statue. Knives. Oddly shaped metal bars. A pyramid of glass. A golden ball. You blink before the shapes turn weird. 

You can feel their minds, distantly. There's an answer there. They haven't removed your skinsuit because that is your skin. They haven't removed your mask because that is your face. You are Sidestep, not whatever pathetic creature that lies beneath.

Oh, if only they knew.

It takes you a moment to realize that the Void is standing right in front of you.

"You should be scared," they, he, she notes. Vocal distorter like a chorus of whispers. Strangely beautiful. Terrifyingly strange. 

"I am," you lie, because villains relax if they feel secure. You press back against the pillar. It feels smooth. Polished by others' backs. Unyielding.

"No, you're not." Again the chorus. Again the whispers. No mind in front of you. No face in front of you. Just the black, blank helmet and skinsuit. Just the black, heavy robes. Just the single, green light, right where the forehead should be. Third eye? Pineal gland? "You're analyzing."

"Does it matter?" How long has it been since the power went out? You don't know, but judging by the tingling in your hands as the blood returns, not too long. "Or are you mad I'm ruining your fun?"

"I can be patient." Gloved hand touching your chest. Sharp fingertips. Not claws, but the allusion thereof. "We have some time before the main course gets here."

"So what's it gonna be?" Your fingers work again, but the shackles are tight enough that you won't get out unless you risk damage and dislocation. They were stupid enough to keep your skinsuit gloves on, which will help. "Some light torture? A bit of human sacrifice?" Your voice is flippant, but you've heard enough of the Green Sky that neither is off the table. 

"You're one of the Touched. You've survived the emissary." The lighter tones are stronger in this whisper, angelic instead of hellish. "We don't need to initiate you. You've already transcended humanity."

"I..." it's the last word that does it. You can't help yourself. The laughter bubbles up unbidden, not forced but irrepressible. "Humanity." The spell is broken; this is no all-seeing being. They don't know you haven't even managed to crawl up to the level of humanity yet. Not to be tramped under their feet, but far below. In the ground.

"Hhhm." The snort is annoyed, not transformed into whispers. Then the Void turns to the other three, and the distortion is back. "This one is not ready yet. They would ruin the ritual. Lock them up until we have dealt with the Chosen. Feel free to hurt them as long as you leave them intact."

"Of course." Two of the robed figures approach, robed in black, but you can see green underneath. Patterened skinsuits. They reach for you, and the Void steps back.

No. No steps back. The distance increases. You can't see them move. There's a vertiginous feeling as if the floor stretched and twisted under your feet, and you nearly fall sideways before the pillar stops you. Their hands reach out, unaffected by...

unaffected by...

You struggle in their arms for show as they drag you off. Their minds are heavy and hard, opaque. Like frosted glass. Bulletproof? Maybe, but you can still peer through. Try to see what they see...

Different. The world. Different. No. Not the world. The Void.

Short. The Void is short. You didn't realize that before, but the world doesn't twist as much, filtered through another's perceptions. Or perhaps through theirs. Short and thin, and you can see them raise a hand to their helmet, speaking softly. A microphone? Giving orders?

A word. No. A sentence.

"Make sure to bring Charge in alive."