The Void 5 - Sidestep revisited (Patreon)

The funny thing with pain is that they think it gets to you. Think you fear the bruises or the damage. Sure, it's not nice, and your body does its reflexive twitching like always. Tries to turn. Tries to yank away. Tries to mitigate the damage. Breathing is an issue, your lungs do what they want, and that feral imperative touches even you.

But pain? Not so much. 

You scream anyway, because it's expected, because being silent invites more, more brutal means. They don't want to destroy you. They want to break you. 

Instead, you watch them.

The tall one, not putting all the weight on their left leg. The kicker with the poor balance. The one who stands back and looks unsure, still new, you guess. None of them are professionals. All of them too sure of themselves. They removed your mask so they could see your tears, but that's just another reflex easily ignored. It's better even; no snot to clog the mask. That's the worst.

This you can handle.

There's a timer ticking, you know the plan, and there's only a matter of time before people come for you. You did your part before things turned south, and the power went out, and the Rangers went in. Void might be sure of themselves, but overconfidence is a killer, and their time is running out. The people hurting you are not fighters. You suppose that's why they aren't on the first line of defense, but you'll still do your best to keep them busy.

You wish you didn't have to feel their thoughts.

They have done this before. Broken people. Brought them back to Void, who would do something to their remains. To the shards of people. Show them the light. Most died. Some turned. The one standing back had been in your position not long ago, and you can feel the fear. Stronger than your own. If you could influence him, that would have been useful, but there are no cracks, and you need that to work. Fear is as big a shield as faith.

What had he seen?

He doesn't understand it. Doesn't want to remember it. Hopes you'll die rather than share his knowledge. There, that might be a crack worth exploiting if you can focus if they could give you a moment to...

"We need to scram. We're under attack!" You can't see the door with your face pressed against the floor by a heavy boot, but you can hear the urgency in her voice. Is this your opening?

Hands bound. Body bruised but functional. Not great odds.

"Fuck. What's happening?"

"It's the Rangers!"

And for a moment, nobody is looking at you.

Without moving your head, you push a feeling of vertigo and unease into the one keeping you down. As expected, the weak leg wavers and the boot comes off your head as he has to readjust.

"Shi--" your feet hits his chin, slamming teeth together around his tongue, and you roll aside before the other grabs you.

"Get them!" 

You grit your teeth and tense your muscles, leaping to your feet more gracefully than you should be able to with your injuries. You can't do much damage without your hands, but you can still run. All you need to do is get through the door.

Feel them. Avoid the blow to your head, down, and to the left when they're thinking right. Jump back, pull them out of balance, a kick to a knee, and yes, the door is clear and...

And...

The intrusion is like a cloud of acid, not in you, but in the new guy. His eyes widen in fear before they go green and endless. Somewhere far off, he screams, and you are the only one that hears it.

His body reaches out, and you scamper back like a snail before the salt, reacting by reflex, but this time that is what ends you. A fist to your head, unseen.

And everything is darkness.

...

It's the scream that awakes you from your dreams of grabbing hands. Not yours, but familiar. Ortega.

You force your eyes open. They are stuck together with dried tears and blood, and it takes a moment for you to take in the scene. A concrete room, a different smell than where you fell unconscious. You've been moved. You're chained upright against a wall, your wrists burning from your weight. You ignore the pain but tense your aching legs to relieve some pressure. You need them functional.

Across the room is Ortega, stripped to the waist, wires tangled from their spine. The wires snake across the room to you. Oh, So that's what the pressure around your ankles is. Removed your boots. Hooked you up. Insurance. If Ortega unleashes their electricity, you're dead. You have to admire their restraint, looking at the bruises and cuts they've put them through, something similar that was done to you.

No pain-gate to take the brunt. Just stubborn self-control.

You close your eyes again, keeping as still as the grave as you hear another scream. Then silence.

"Huh. Thought the famous Charge could handle more." The soft sound of a blow against limp meat.

"We've got time. Nobody's going to come after us here. Let's check with the Choir if it's ready yet."

You keep still as they leave. The heaviness of the door that shuts behind them tells you this is probably at least as secure as a jail cell. You've escaped from worse.

Right.

You open your eyes, and since you don't see any obvious cameras or guards, you straighten your legs and let the blood run back into your abused hands. You've lost a few nails. They'll grow back. You're just grateful they didn't strip you further like they did with Ortega. Probably needed access to their spine; at least you hope that was the only reason.

"Oh, you're awake." Ortega's whisper is quiet, and one eye is nearly swollen shut. "I was afraid they had brained you."

"I've got a thick skull," you mumble. "You should know that."

"Guess this got royally fucked up." Ortega is scanning the room, same as you. "Ashfall bolted, and then I heard you and... I guess I miscalculated."

"Void got me," you admit, instead of calling Ortega for the idiot that they are. Not the time. "No idea how they snuck up."

"And Anathema?"

"Had hung back." You don't say how far. "I'm quieter alone."

"Damnit," Ortega curses, still so quiet between bruised lips. "I told you to stick together."

"Tell that to Ashfall."

"I will. I think... I think the Void got to him somehow."

"Huh. Thought he might be immune as ash."

"So did I. Turns out we were both wrong. Guess it's not physical then."

"Could they affect you, or are you just a shitty fighter?"

"Hey," Ortega winces as they smile. "I happened to be an excellent fighter, but all of a sudden, the world turned weird."

"Not a telepath either, then." You let out a pained breath, trying to feel if anybody was close. Outside the door, you think. Your head is hurting.

"Oh. Yeah. Because of that thing." Ortega flinches as they move, the cables brushing against the wall behind them. You can see the needles sticking out like spines, half embedded in their mods, the rest connected to the cables running to your feet.

"How badly hurt are you?" You try to judge the sheen of sweat, the deep bruises, and the shallow cuts. It's always hard to gauge how much damage humans can take before they stop functioning. Ortega is more durable than most.

"I'm fine," they lie. "Think they mostly liked to make me scream."

"Adrenaline." You shift, trying to determine if you could slip out of the manacles if you dislocated your thumb. Maybe, but can you get the leverage to do it?

"Adrenaline?" Ortega is busy checking their own restraints.

"Yeah. I think I'm starting to figure out how this works." No way of getting the cables away from your legs either. Not without your hands. No wonder they felt secure leaving you in here. 

"The Void?" A disbelieving frown.

"Yeah. Do you know the stories? How they make people drink Void's blood, and it gives them power? How it turns them into believers?"

"Yeah, shitty ghost stories are a dime a dozen for cults like this."

"I think it's a boosting process." You stop struggling and look over at Ortega, meeting their eyes. "Either with the blood or in the blood."

"Hood was on to the same thing. Never really believed him. Guess I should have. So why the torture?"

"I can't be sure. Maybe they want to push you to the brink? Adrenal fatigue?" You've heard discussions at the Farm. Whether it's the boost drugs or the nascent ReGene's own bodily response to them that kills them. Perhaps making sure the body was already exhausted would make the transition easier.

"And here I thought they just got off on it." A bitter laugh and Ortega stops struggling in their bonds. No more luck than you. 

"Probably that too," you admit. Is it a coping mechanism to try to find reason in this place? Perhaps.

"You think anybody's listening?" Ortega lowers their voice. "I don't think there's any bugs or cameras. They would be afraid I could tap into those systems and use them against them."

"That was once, and you need to touch," you scoff, but you can't feel any attention on you, so maybe.

"They don't know that. Am I right or not?"

"Possibly." You try to focus, but you feel unwatched, and that was the first and most sensitive manifestation of your powers.

"If I get the opportunity, I'm going to try something stupid." Ortega's laugh is soft and desperate. "But I'll be out after that, so I need you to get us out of here."

"Fine that you've got such faith in my abilities."

"I do. But..." there is a pause there, and then Ortega looks you in the eyes. "I'll try not to hurt you, but this could go badly. I could kill us both."

"Do it anyway," you say without hesitation.

"I thought you'd say that," another soft laugh. "That's why I--"

The door opens, and you both fall silent. No use in pretending to be unconscious this time.

Two women enter first, not the tortures from before. They are tall and clean, in pristine white, smelling of chlorine and anticipation. Behind them, the room twists into shadow, and the Void steps through.

Through the door? You wish you could be sure, but the way the world bends, you can't be. You close your eyes and divest yourself of one sense that could confuse you. You hear Ortega make a joke, met with no discernible response. There is a feeling of anticipation in the air, the two women, no the Choir, are looking forward to this. Their minds are synchronous waves, like a chorus going back and forth, rising and falling with their breaths. The Anchor and the Kite. What does it mean?

What will they do?

You open your eyes again because you can't sense the Void without them. It's barely better with vision, the light is bending green and heavy, liquid syrup in your lungs, and you can feel it. Sticky. You can't help but gag, nausea, your body's rebellion against a world that doesn't make sense.

"Sidestep." The Void is standing in front of you now, at least in ways you can understand. Looking up. The voice is ethereal, but you can hear the hollow echo of a vocal modulator in its dulcimer tones. "How fitting that you will be the last sacrament."

"Hey! I thought I was the main course here?" Ortega's voice is loud, but the Void doesn't turn around. 

"We need a filter," one of the Choir women says.

"It is only fitting it should be your best... friend," says the other.

"Perhaps you'll pass through the crucible untouched," the Void says as they reach out for you. "But I doubt."

You press your back against the wall, staring at the gloved hand. Slender. Elegant. Five fingers. So why is it so WRONG? Why do you scream when it touches your skinsuit? 

The world makes a revolting turn, and you are PULLED through the chains, out into the middle of the floor. Floating. Immobile. The cables brush against the floor, a reminder that you are still a physical being. Sound has gone deep and distorted, underwater echoes in your ears moving wrongly. You still hear Ortega.

"No, let them go, you bastards!" 

"If you want to spare them, you have the means to kill them." The Void, you can hear clearly, their words existing in the same space as you are. There is a sense of anticipation as if pushing Ortega to make that decision would be preferable to whatever use they have for you.

Useful. You were never good at being that.

"Sidestep." The Void's words crawl into your ears like slugs, resting heavily on your spine. "Be honored and blessed to partake in the sacrament of my blood."

The glove is removed, no, it still hangs in the air inside the voidfield, but a slender hand rises out of it like a snake shedding its skin. The other hand, still gloved and alien, holds up a blade and slices a clean cut through the thumb. As the blood starts to bead, the Void reaches up, and you try to pull back, but the thumb is thrust into your screaming mouth, and you feel it hit your tongue.

Two conflicting sensations race up your spine like twin snakes and light up your mind in horrible illumination. On the one hand, you want to curl up. Suck that thumb as if it was your own, and be reborn into something new and better. Trust your mother to make sense of the world for you; you don't need this terrible self-determination. On the other hand, the pain is terrible enough that you want to escape your skin and beg Ortega to kill you to make it stop.

Or that's how it should be. If you had been human.

It hurts, sure, but the pain-gate stands firmly in the way of paralysis. It hurts. You can imagine that it should hurt more. But your scream is half for show, half to get that thumb out of your mouth before it detaches and crawls down your throat to lay eggs inside you. 

Your knees hit the floor, and it hurts; the acid running through your veins makes you enough like the void-field that it can't keep you trapped. It shouldn't matter. You shouldn't be able to move. You should be paralyzed by pain; if not, you should be a babe curled up, awaiting your mother. But you were never a child. You never had a mother. There are no fond memories to trap you. Just the hatred of a disobedient experiment too used to turning on its makers.

Your muscles are tensing up in cramps, and you bang your fists against the floor, but it doesn't stop. You can see the Choir standing close to Ortega, one on each side, but not taking their eyes off you. You can feel their anticipation more strongly than before, longing to devour what you leave behind so they can approach their own aspirations and guide Ortega through their ordeal. You're not important. You don't deserve their guidance.

Perhaps they are right.

The Void sits hunched before you, watching you twitch and turn. You can sense them now; sense her watching. Trapped in her void field, you should be helpless. You should be dying. You should know nothing but your own helplessness and the futility of resistance, but behind her, you can see Ortega.

Still trapped, but moving. Switching positions and then slamming themselves back against the wall. At an angle. An angle sharp enough to snap the needles in their back, the cables falling to the ground.

And the room goes white.

Around you, the strange time-twisting effect of the void field enables you to see in detail what happens next. The twisting arcs of lightning moving jaggedly through the air, one from each emitter, hitting the back of the two women of the Choir. There's a silent scream as their mouths open, smoke and fried flesh, and they are stuck, as frozen in convulsion as you are, as the lightning in a bottle travels on. Sparks fly from the manacles you were pulled out of and through the void field into the shadowy body of the Void.

There is no scream there. Instead, it tightens, and you can feel heaviness weighing upon you as the Void turns towards Ortega, still caught in the moment of discharge.

The heaviness should feel worse, but it feels better. Steadying you. Outlining your body, which is still YOUR body, and filled with power which is HER power. She's not looking at you; she's looking at Ortega, in shock, in awe, in elation. Perfect.

She doesn't notice you standing up.

Or holding up your hand.

You get it now, and you PUSH her, in the right way, at the proper angle, and she falls, elsewhere and wrong, perched on a branch that betrayed her, and she's gone.

Your scream echoes Ortega as you fall to the ground, the world around you real again in ways that hurt. You can't remember, you won't remember, but you need to move. Now.

"Sidestep." Ortega's voice, raw and worried, hanging from their chains. A stupid risk. It's a wonder they didn't electrocute you both.

"Alive." You cough and crawl over to the fallen women. One of them has keys. Neither of them is alive. You are. You hope.

"Be careful when getting me down." There's a giddy tone to Ortega's voice that sounds too much like panic. "Think one of the needles got jammed. I can't move my legs."

"Idiot," you mumble, trying to open the manacles with too few fingers bending the wrong way. You're still hurting, but with the Void gone for now, there's hope it might stop.

"I thought they had killed you. Carefu--ow!" Ortega swears as you help them to the ground, rolling them over on the stomach.

"Hang on," you mumble, searching the ports for remains of the metal needles that had been inserted. They are broken in half, most of them long enough that you can pull them out.

"How does it look?" Ortega tries to keep still.

"There's one in there, let me find those damn pliers." You crawl over to the tool bench in the corner and grab the pair of small pliers they had used earlier. 

"How long do you think we have?"

"No idea. Just try not to electrocute me, okay?" You take a deep breath and reach for the needle; you can't afford to break it further. 

"I don't have much left; I think you're safe. Just ah--!"

"There." You slide out the remains of the needle. There's blood on it, which can't be good. "Anything?"

"Wait..." Ortega stretches, gingerly lifting one leg. "I think that does it."

"Good, not gonna carry you out of here."

"Want to help me up, though?" Not exactly puppy dog eyes, but you fall for them anyway.

"On your feet." You use your own weight as leverage. Neither of you is in the best of shape. But you are alive, and that's what matters. 

Now all you need to do is get out of here.