It's not really a conscious decision. You don't weigh the pros and cons. You're so far beyond that it's not even funny. It's more like watching yourself, like moving in a dream.
The instinctive joy on her face as she sees you hurts. It's like a dagger being driven right between your ribs. Somehow hurts less than the way your name dies on her lips, as she double-takes at the sight of you. Rangy, sick, shaven and scarred. An escaped lab-rat.
"Meg? O-oh God, you're not meant to be out of quarantine yet are you?" She covers her mouth with a gloved hand. She doesn't know. Fuck, they haven't told her yet. "How'd you- nevermind, I'll get someone! Don't worry, everything's going to be alright!"
You want to laugh. You want to cry. You want to do both. Instead you just stretch out your hand, stumble forward like a zombie. "Lakshmi..."
"Hey don't move alright? Find somewhere to sit down- do you need water?" Lakshmi holds up one hand, half-turning back to her friends. Beckoning. "Han, get some water or something! And call someone, he needs medical attention!"
"Lakshmi, don't-" Get closer you just have to get closer
"Get away from him, Lakshmi." The monkey-man isn't smiling any more. He's striding forward, one hand behind his back. Eyes fixed unblinkingly on you. No, no this isn't right. You just have to get to Lakshmi then everything'll be okay.
"Meg, you need to lie down." Lakshmi holds up her hands, warding you away. "You're sick and you need to let us help you-"
please
"Cover your eyes
right now!" the voice in your ear orders. You flinch. You shut your eyes. Your right hand stays outstretched but your left comes up, forearm shielding your eyes.
It's still not enough.
Every single sunstrip on the ceiling overloads at once. The underground cavern is consumed in a white-hot inferno. You hear the screams as unsuspecting onlookers are seared to blindness. You hear the glass shatter all at once. Hot shards rain down like burning, edged hail. You hunch over, cry out as they get fouled up in the folds of your hoodie. Biting, searing. And then darkness. Near-absolute darkness. The only
hint of illumination is the ghostly glow of the ocean beyond the window, and even that isn't enough for your eyes. The people must be blind, so blind you could be an inch from them and they'd have no way of knowing.
You reach out to Lakshmi. Your shaking hand snags hers.
cold, clumsy metal
You snatch your hand away.
A mace swipes down through the space between you and Lakshmi. A telescoping shaft and thick, heavy, segmented head that crackles with electricity. The man with the monkey's tail has his eyes shut, focusing on nothing. Nostrils flaring as he catches your scent. Ears twitching as he hears your breath. Lunging for you. You throw yourself back with a cry. The sparking mace sweeps over your head, trailing bright arcs.
"
Move you miserable cunt! Or do you
want to be a lab-rat for the rest of your life!?" Ichiban shouts into your ear.
The man with the monkey's tail doesn't give you the chance. He holds the mace in two hands, bringing it down on you like a knife. Your hands wrap around his. The ball of steel and lightning stops an inch short of your face, searing your eyes with the light of the plasma, filling your nose with the stink of ozone. You gag on it. You can't breathe. He's too strong for you. Is it going to kill you, or just knock you unconscious? You have to get up you have to get
away.
Your muscles bulge obscenely. Shift beneath the skin. You rip the mace free of the man's grip and smash it across his chin.
He goes down with a scream of pain. The mace springs from your grip. It's dead weight now. You have to run. You have to move. You roll over, scramble on all fours like an animal. Rise to a hunched sprint and
move. Ichiban's voice is in your ear, a deadly-serious bark now. Turn left here, go straight here, climb here, cross the street and
run. You leave the more open space behind, plunge into a hallway lit by emergency lights. You look over your shoulder.
The hallway packed tight with men, shoulder to shoulder, several ranks deep. Men in helmets, faceplates, armour. Dark skeins of artificial muscle fibre and uniform 'CSC' shields. And at the head of them, the man who 'protected' Lakshmi from you. You don't look any harder. You just face forward and keep running.
"There's a surface-access lift just up ahead. I'm unlocking it but it's only going to be for a second and it's going straight up so
move!"
Security doors opening around you, barely in time for you to race through. Closing behind you again, not quickly enough to stop your pursuers. Slowly, almost one by one, the stragglers in the 'CSC' force are picked off by the shutting bulkheads. Flagging men in all-encompassing armour vanish behind steel shutters. The man with the monkey tail keeps pace. Gains on you. Gaining too quickly.
A glass-doored lift opens ahead, the light above flashing green. You dive through, hit the floor hard. Land in a heap on your back.
The doors shut in the man's face. He slams into it hard enough to shake the frame, the whole lift car. You see him through the glass, fangs bared, chin and jaw seared black and scarlet by the wound you gave him. His fist slams into the glass. It buckles inward, cracks spreading out like a spiderweb. But it's too late. The car rises, and all that pursues you is a roar of helpless anger. You rise towards the surface.
Leaving Lakshmi behind.
You draw your knees up to your chest. You lower your face into your hands. You don't even cry. You don't have any tears. You just feel... hollow. So lost that you don't even know what thought to have next. Lights roll past you as the lift ascends the access shaft. You shiver. You hug yourself tight. Compress yourself into a little ball. Try to return some small measure of warmth.
The lift stops. You shakily climb to your feet, move out into a short corridor. A door, light shining around the edges. You tug your hood up over your head and burst through.
And stumble out into a street.
All around you crowds are gathering, a murmur of low-grade shock in the air. Everyone has their phones out, filming or taking pictures, only to smack and shake their phones in confusion when they refuse to work. Every street light is flashing madly, red and yellow and green and back again. Gridlock traffic, bumper-to-bumper or crumpled fenders. People climbing out of their cars, shouting at each other, demanding insurance information. The electronic billboards are going haywire, the screens showing everything from porn to unreleased movies to Australian politicians caught red-handed in corruption. Over the top of it all is a pair of Japanese characters, strobing madly. It's the heart of Sydney, and Ichiban's hacked it all.
"I know my hacks are a work of art but now's not the time to stand around admiring it!" the voice of the man responsible blares in your ear again. "Move! Don't stop for anything or anyone!"
Faces pass. The crowd presses in. You can't breathe. You have to shove people out of the way, make space, make room for air. Ignore the complaints. How can these people be so calm? How can they treat this as just some weird oddity? Don't they know what's really happening? Don't they know what's right under their feet? Don't they know that there's a monster among them?
The people aren't people any more. They're reflections of the life you used to have. You're on the other side of the mirror, pounding weakly on the glass, screaming to be let back in. It's like the world's in monochrome, sight and sound dulled. You hit the side of a stopped car, crawl blindly over the top of it, ignore the driver's shouts of indignation. Plunge into the crowd on the other side of the street. The veil's pulled back from your eyes. Your whole life's been filled with secret watchers. They used to be protecting you. Now?
You bump into a man. He scowls at you as you pass. He could be a robot like Rob. He could turn, crush your throat, rip you in two. You crash into a woman, make her drop her shopping bags. She could be a creature like Ms. Jenkins, could grow that organic plate and come lunging at you. Men in suits and sunglasses look at you as you pass. Were they always there? Are you imagining things? Are you still dreaming. God please let you still be dreaming. The city you used to know so well is as frightening as a nightmare. Alien.
You pass a movie theatre. You see a small boy and his sister coming out with their parents, chattering excitedly about the movie they saw. You see a long-suffering mother emerging from a shopping centre, her son and daughter laden with full shopping bags. You see a man at a street stall, asking if credit's okay, before awkwardly digging out his wallet to look for bills small enough. You see a small boy getting into a car by the curb, a sleek limo with a woman driving. He looks at you. You stretch out your hand. The car drives away.
"C'mon man homestretch." The buzzing in your ear. "Just take a left here and-"
You scoop the earpiece out of your hoodie and throw it on the ground. The plastic shatters, chips and circuits spraying. Whatever he was going to say dies on the ground. You see the bay up ahead, see the birds wheeling overhead and the guard rail that looks up over the water. You see the fish and chips shop you'd go to whenever you were in the area, first went to so long ago. You see four shapes standing silhouetted against the water, looking out across it. You're close. You can almost reach it. You know you can reach it. Your arms pump, your legs beat the ground. Your lungs are sticking and aching, your heart is burning in your chest. You can't breathe but you can make it, you know you can. Run, reach, grasp it before it-
turns to smoke.
You trip. You fall. The ground rushes up to meet you. Your brain rattles in your skull. Your bones shudder. You sprawl on the cold tiles. Bleeding. Weak. Lying sprawled on your side, a fallen ragdoll. You crane your neck, look back. Men in black suits, advancing in a loose line. Coming for you. Of course they are. Of course they wouldn't let you go. Their hands are in their pockets, in their blazers. You're going back in the box. And you're never, ever, getting out. Even now the tears don't come. You just squeeze your eyes shut and gently lower your head to the ground. Wait.
"Where the fuck'd he go?"
"I don't know, he was here just- never mind, he'll be back. We just have to keep a lookout, wait for more orders."
"Shit, we
knew he was capable of Reality Deviance like this."
"We didn't have time to get specialized equipment, either! Now stow the complaints and keep looking!"
You crack your eyes open. It seems so absurd. You want to call out to them. Call them stupid. You're right here. Can't they see you? But they can't. They're standing right over you, one step from being right on top of you. But they can't see you. The three men's heads are on a swivel. The middle one curses, gestures. They turn as one and walk away.
hssssk. hssssk.
You turn your head.
There's a boy standing in front of the railing. Small, can't be more than ten or maybe twelve. A grey hoodie like yours, jeans like yours, faded and worn and washed too many times. Wearing thin. But he's wearing something underneath. Dark grey gloves with ashen-white undersides vanishing up under his sleeves, dark grey boots or socks or something in-between. Half-rigid, half-fabric. And his face is completely hidden by a gas mask. Heavy black rubber, circular filters, eyepieces that shine as if opaque. Looming from within the hood. You only know it's a boy because he speaks to you.
"Where you've gone, they can't follow." He raises one gloved hand and pushes your hood back, resting it on your shaved head almost delicately. "Sleep."
Your eyelids turn to lead. You collapse, too heavy to rise, too heavy to breathe. You don't have the strength to fight it even if you wanted to. Your eyes close. You drift away.
***
Your chariot draws into the courtyard, the horses huffing and blowing with effort. Carrying extra weight. But the ropes lashed to the frame hold firm, the horses don't tire. You imagine that the palace tiles must be far more pleasant to your 'passenger' than the road-dirt he's been suffocating in for the past hours. But either way, his suffering is soon to end. You tug on the reins, urging the horses to slow. They canter, trot, and finally stop level with the stairs to the palace. Your father is already descending, long-since told of your arrival. He takes the steps slowly, unconcerned. Absent-mindedly stroking his moustache.
"And what is it you've brought for me today, my son?"
You leap down from your chariot, draping the reins over the side of the housing. "A great gift, father!" You round the chariot, following the now-slack ropes. Back to the bound and inert golden figure lying by the wheels, in its shadow. You crouch beside your four-armed captive, winding your fingers through his hair and yanking him upright. Turn his face to your father that he might recognise him. His eyelids flutter. Your father pauses mid-stroke.
"The king of heaven himself, eh?" He chuckles. "And here I thought you would pace yourself."
"I longed to see the bite of his thunderbolts for myself," you reply with a grin. "I found them wanting."
He laughs. "I could expect nothing less!" He puts his hands on his hips, cocking his head as he looks down at you. "What do you intend to do with him now?"
"Well..." You glance at the unconscious god. Look back up at your father. "I wished to consult you. What to do with a prize such as him, well, I could scarcely make that decision without consulting my lord and father, could I?"
He waves his hand dismissively. "It was your triumph! Your spoils. Do with him as you wish, for it is your right."
You look at the storm-god again, and grin wickedly. "Then he dies today. I have no need of ransom and I see no pleasure in just letting him go."
Your father smiles and nods in approval. Standing back to let you do as you please. You straighten, reach into your chariot to retrieve your bow and a single arrow. One is all you need. You nock it on the string as you stride away a good distance. You turn, draw, sight down the shaft. Aim for the god's heart.
Another appears in your way.
"Please," says the creator, the face closest to you meeting your gaze. Four arms raised in a silent plea for peace. "Though your victory was fair, the world cannot survive without its god of the skies. Spare him, and I will offer you a boon."
You unbend your bow, a slight smile playing about your lips. "Very well then. Give me immortality."
The four-faced head shakes. "I cannot grant that request. The laws of nature are clear. But I will do what I can; until your worship of Prathyangira is disturbed, you shall never be defeated in battle. But be warned. He who will eventually cause such disturbance will be the one to kill you."
You scoff. "Show me the man who can best Meghanada, even without your boon, and I will show you a dead one."
The creator's four-faced head shakes yet again. " 'Meghanada' is not a name suited to one such as you, whose thunder has eclipsed even the god of storms. I name you before all witnesses as his conqueror; Indrajit."
***
You awaken in another unfamiliar room with a start. Hand on your aching head. Other hand on your aching chest. Your shaved scalp brings back your memories unbidden. The fear, the chaos, the sickening dread. You sit up, groaning. Blinking blearily. You look down.
You've been stripped to the waist. And on your chest, just off-centre to the left, is a rampant lion. Stylised from swirls of scarlet and gold, sharper than any tattoo, surrounded by a circle of strange sigils. It feels warm to the touch. Thrumming in time with your heartbeat.
You swing your legs over the side of your bed. A small single, you don't catch any more details. You're far more concerned by what greets you as you stumble out of the nondescript little room you woke up in and out into the greater space.
It's like an art deco museum gone to seed. Round-edged building-fronts rising high to meet the vaulted ceiling. Gilded columns fusing into every available surface, seashell curves wherever there could be a corner. There's some kind of sigil emblazoned across the floor, far too chipped and faded for you to have any chance of identifying it. Much like everything else, really. Faded, neglected, coming apart at the seams. You're soon distracted, however, by the
massive bronze airlock door occupying the entirety of one wall. It looks like something out of a soft science nightmare, surrounded by bare sparking electrical coils and giant tubes of shimmering fluid. Something like a brass squid in the centre of the door, its cepholopodian limbs twisted and twined around the various knobs and dials and protrusions on the door. The entire contraption is framed by two almost comically normal ladders up into god-knows-where.
And in its shadow is... well it looks kind of like some kind of faux-futuristic drydock. There's a large, rectangular, sunken space in the shadow of the gargantuan airlock. All the landing lights are on, casting an almost flame-orange glow and cross the place. By the side of the 'harbour' are a couple more doorways leading to what you can only assume a more bedrooms. Because there are three people in the grand hall with you.
One of them seems roughly your age, or maybe older. Stripped to the waist as well but for the black gloves on his hands. He's pale, dark-haired, maybe dark-eyed too. You can't tell much from this distance. What you
can tell is that he's inked up quite thoroughly, and you spy familiar swirls of scarlet and gold over his heart. He hasn't noticed you, nor plans to. He's busy running laps of the 'harbour', stopping every now and then for pushups.
Closer sits two couches, both occupied. The furthest by a girl, surprisingly enough. Or, well, a woman. Teenage? You don't know what the proper term is. All you know is she looks like one of Lakshmi's friends, all dolled up in makeup and jewellery and a thousand-dollar dress, her hair expensively curled and styled. One bracelet-wearing arm draped over her eyes as she snoozes, prone, feet up on the opposite armrest. The closer couch is occupied by the boy you saw before, gas mask and all. Quietly thumbing through a book. You start towards him
"H-"
"I brought you here, this is your new home, the other half of the team is in a meeting right now and once they get back they'll answer all your questions and explain things better than I could," the boy in the gas mask rattles off, as if rehearsed, not looking up from his book.
"Th-?"
"You're welcome."
You blink. The boy still doesn't look up. You don't know what to think.
[ ] Try the boy in the gas mask again. Sure he doesn't seem to want to be bothered with questions about where you are and what you're doing, but maybe at least you can find out a little more about
him? He certainly cuts a strange figure.
[ ] Try the girl on the couch. She seems to be napping, but this is important. Like it or not she's the most familiar-looking person around right now, and might be your best chance at getting some answers. Maybe she's in the same boat as you? Similar, at least?
[ ] Try the guy working out. He's got the same tattoo as you, so that's a conversation-starter at least. Maybe he knows what's going on. And, more importantly, is wiling to tell you.
