Chapter 3: Lea
Waking up screaming, my mind in tatters.
I feel a sob well up in my chest, bursting from me, out into the air. I clap a hand over my mouth. My body is shaking, trembling with fear.
I had the same dream; the one that always comes back.
It starts out with me, walking through a gray world, peaceful. I call my master's name into the emptiness. Three times in all, always three.
Then he appears out of the strange fog and I run to him. He crouches down and hugs me, which is a display of affection I rarely see from him, and I hug him back. We stay that way for a long time.
Then he pushes me away from him, almost violently, and stands up. I can't speak and can't run as he bursts into flames, or is ripped open, or explodes, and always, always, his head falls off. The featureless head, falling off the shoulders.
The shock lasts only a moment, and then I feel bonds around my wrists and ankles and forehead. I'm strapped to a chair in a spot of blinding white, surrounded by pitch blackness. A figure steps forwards, their face hidden in shadow. In its hands are a knife, a needle, and a whip.
Then the torture begins.
Oh god, the torture. Ripping me apart from the soul outwards. Psychological and physical, all condensed. And I feel every ounce of the pain,
And then I wake up.
I let my head fall onto my knees and wait to be yanked from the peace, to be thrown back in the lab. Nothing happens.
I wait, and wait, and wait. I sigh at last. That's right; it's over.
It's not happening anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut, saying that to myself over and over. "Not happening anymore, not happening anymore, not happening anymore,"
I get up, rubbing my eyes. I walk down the hall, not even bothering to grab something to put over my pajamas.
I enter the bathroom and take a shower, washing and rewashing my body. It feels as though I'll never be clean. My own blood burns ever warmer, my body temperature climbs slowly. I let the freezing water cool my skin, slowing the reaction.
Cold is better than hot. Ice is better than fire. I already have so much fire. Ice is pacient. But both burn.
I close my eyes, forcing my thoughts down again. The memory must be dealt with. I'm to experience it until it loses its potency. This is the only way to overcome the nightmares, I know. So I live hell again, standing in the water.
I cough again, this time because remembering almost makes me sick.
But I can feel the memory burning out a little, becoming a little fainter. The feeling means I'm stronger than the experiences; they're losing their power over me.
I open my eyes, turn off the water, step out of the shower.
The towel is soft and warm when I wrap myself in it, but the feeling is a small comfort. I rub the inside of my wrist, feeling the single long scar there.
I remember that cut, and I always will. That cut was my rebellion in the face of a worse-than-death situation. It has remained after all the others faded. It's the one time the careful knife slipped.
I push my damp hair back from my face, holding the towel with my other hand. Control is everything, I remind myself, control.
I step out of the bathroom and cross to the room I'm sleeping in. I glare at the empty air above the stairs. I don't trust seemingly-empty spaces. Often times there's something there.
I go into the room, scanning for intruders, then lock the door behind me. There's no harm in being cautious.
I dress quickly, uncovering myself for less than half a minute. It's something I've done all my life, and it comes from the constant feeling of being watches. And from more recent fear and paranoia.
Without missing a beat I begin gathering my weapons. It's almost three o'clock anyway. You always, always, want to be awake at 3:00. That, and it's the best time to work.
I primarily use knives, but am proficient with most weapons. Blades are the easiest weapons for me, and can be concealed without difficulty. I strap the two daggers at my waist and a hidden blade on my wrist.
Then I reach out, flexing my fingers over the mask. It's stained with black eyes and lips, the basic design, but is scarred with a red X which takes up the entire face, and two small black lines extending from either corner of the mouth.
This part always make me pause. It's not the mask itself, it's that the mask indicates I'm one of them; one of the Proxies. I am, but they're all wrong. They did this to me.
I pick it up with a sigh, sliding it on over my face. Now I'm not me anymore. I'm just another slave. But I can think for myself.
I set the stopwatch, wait until I see it start. I'm going for three minutes on this one, max. In reality it might take a minute and a half.
This kind of work is good for clearing my head. When I'm done I won't even remember the dream.
I take a breath, closing my eyes. I step forwards and find myself somewhere else when I open my eyes.
Specifically I find myself in another bedroom, with wood paneled walls and fancy end tables.
There's someone in the room. Asleep, as is every other sane person at three in the morning.
I don't waste time observing, striding up beside him. This guy is a witness. He saw something, more than likely Rake slipped up. Again. The Proxies don't want The Organization taking interest. They almost learned that lesson the hard way.
The head or the chest? The head will be quicker, but the chest is easier. No neck this time; it gets too messy.
I roll up my right sleeve, balling my hand into a fist. The blade slides out for a moment, then I let it slip away. Better use the stiletto.
I draw the long knife, moving it over his chest. I carefully pull the blankets down to expose the ribcage. Between the protective bones is a small weak spot over which I point the blade.
The man stirs in his sleep, opening his eyes a crack.
The knife slips between his ribs. Time slows.
The skin opens, muscle and fat, tendons, veins, all push against the knife's progress. Then the unmistakable vibration of a heartbeat, and that travels through the metal into my hand.
Blood wells up, pouring from the wound.
I wrench the knife out, stepping back. The man is awake, but can't speak. That's normal.
There will be no one to hear his last words.
I disappear again.
Strike quietly, strike quickly, and disappear without a trace.
I step to the bed, checking the stopwatch. Two Minutes thirty-five seconds. Not bad.
?
The girl pauses mid-bite, the pizza hovering before her mouth. She takes a deep breath, almost tasting the air. There's a scent there, underlying the food. It's something she hasn't smelled for months; sharp and bitter and musty and fresh all at once. It's death and fresh pine, blood and rain.
She leaps to her feet, rushing for the stairs. Her charge is asleep, he must be, and that means he's in danger. He has to be protected; more for her than for him. She couldn't care less what happens to him, but if she messes this up there will be no going back; no redemption.
The door is shut. She flings it open without hesitation, knowing she can take anyone and anything that may be behind it.
But there's nothing behind the door.
The girl doubles over, coughing the smell out of her lungs. She swallows back a flood of saliva and animal hunger. Blood. It's the smell of human blood. She looks again, her eyes watering.
There's a neat slit in his chest, sliding between two ribs. Blood is still running out of it, and the man is struggling for breath. Death rattles and shaking limbs. He's dying.
The girls steps forwards, leaning slightly to get a good look. Whoever did this was good. Too good. It almost doesn't look human. They just appeared in here, stabbed him, and vanished. Now that's serious skill and training.
But there's no signs of breaking and entering. The window is firmly latched from the inside, and the only other entrance is the door. So maybe they did just appear and disappear. That narrows down the suspects quite a bit.
Not that the suspects make a difference; she's not going to waste time hunting them down. This guy was a bore and a crybaby. She was going to ditch him anyway.
She examines the wound again. A blade, long and thin. No, this was a human, but no human smells like that. The horrible yet somehow hypnotizing scent. Oh, she's smelled it once before. It's not human.
"Rabbit," She calls.
Soft footsteps announce a dark-gray wolf. He stands beside the girl, looking up at her.
"Smell that?" She sniffs, "that's a Proxy."
The wolf snuffles at the air experimentally, then sneezes violently.
"Well; they found him. He found a creature, and they shut him up before he said a word." She sighs, "Good for them. I'm not cleaning this up."
The wolf sits on its haunches, gazing at the dead man for a moment. Then he speaks, "You know that they're going to do now."
She huffs, "I know. More people hunting, more chances of catching them."
"What're you going to do about it?"
"Nothing"
"The Bane are relentless."
"So am I, and they will not make me go after such prey. I will die first."
The wolf pauses for a moment, looking up at her, "It's because of her, isn't it?"
"Who?"
"You know who I mean."
"Nope."
"Admit it, Raun, it's been a year and you still remember her."
"I knew her for a week."
He almost chuckles, "And you put up with her for that long."
"Well that is an achievement," She snaps.
"Come off it; I've seen your phone."
The girl sighs, "Card form."
The wolf vanishes instantly, and a small purple card settles to the floor in its place. Emblazoned on its back is a black diamond.
The girl stoops to pick it up. She flicks it, then slides it into her pocket.
"So not remembering. Stupid Lea and her stupid secrets. And then she just leaves without a trace. Leaves me all alone out here, with nothing but a damn cell number which always goes straight to voicemail. Useless," She spits on the floor, "I hate her."
AN: The plot thickens! I'm having fun with this. Remember guys: I read every single review you post, so feel free to say anything.
That said: BookLovingPerson. I actually don't know the details. As far as I've been told; it has something to do with the tentacles and the way Slendermen kill people. They've only got their own bodies as weapons, and the victims are usually pretty torn up. Really, you'd have better luck asking Slender than me.
