DMOS chap 9
Disclaimer: I do not own Fillmore, Ingrid or anyone affiliated with them. But Darkness and his shadows do only my bidding!
So here it is! This is a chapter filled with lots of action, agony and atmosphere! We are also getting pretty near to the end at this point, over halfway, at any rate. There will probably only be about 4 or 5 chapters more. I think. Absolutely nothing about that is definite, although I have most of the story planned out. I know I haven't been updating and I am sorry. I seem to have my inspiration back at last, though. And this chapter is of a decent length to, so that's a plus.
I also must apologize for the swearing in my quote in this one. I don't swear, as you perhaps know, but this quote is from Ghost, one of my favorite movies of all time, and it would, I think, lose some of the impact of the quote to change it so. I do encourage everyone to watch this movie however, as it is simply wonderful; funny, touching, sad and filled with action and mystery as well. (I also apologize for my use of 'God' in this chapter. I felt it was necessary.)
My computer decided to be annoying while I was writing this and froze, and I lost some of the chapter. Sighs. I re-wrote it, but I don't think it's as good as it was.
Do enjoy the chapter everyone, and please remember to review! ;)
"I had a life, God damn you! I had a life!"
Sam Wheat, Ghost
For a moment, Phantom simply stared at Darkness. There he stood; tall, confident and serine between his shadows. He stared at Darkness, but he could not meet the man's eyes. Phantom knew, in some deep instinctual part of him, that if he did so then he would be lost. He would run, through the filth and murk of the alley, run to Darkness and to beg for forgiveness, and gladly take whatever punishment he deserved.
Madness.
But, spare weeks ago, what he was doing now would have seemed madness instead. Perhaps it was. Even now he felt the shock of his betrayal, and the urging within him to go to Darkness where he belonged. To go home. Only his new, fragmented memories kept him rooted to the spot on the dirty concrete, whispering thoughts of escape.
Phantom did not look at the other shadows, (if he was a shadow still.) He knew them all, and perhaps even Mist was there in the group, waiting. But he felt no anger towards them, no betrayal. How could he, when he was the one betraying his comrades, his friends, his…family?
All of this took only a moment, but it was almost a moment too long. Phantom sensed the charge out of some long developed instinct in the last second; almost too late to save him. He ducked and rolled to the side, felt the wind of his attacker cold on his bare head but did not see him, then his left hand skidded on the damp and landed on something sharp, perhaps a bit of rusted metal, and warm blood sprouted from his hand like a black-petaled lily.
But he kept moving, ignoring the pain, ignoring the slippery blood that coated his hand like a slick skin. He leaped for the wall and his fingers found a hold. He climbed. He could hear dark figures hastening behind him, deadly as winded hounds on the scent of his blood, and he knew that where he had gone, they would follow just as easily.
His left hand was sticky with the blood and he could smell it now, almost taste its bitterness on his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and when he reached the rooftop, he realized that he was not the first to finish this climb.
There was no time to even see the figure before it plowed into him, and Phantom felt long fingers feeling for his throat. His hand found the other's face and he dug sharp nails into soft, delicate skin. There was a harsh indrawn breath, but shadows did not show weakness, and Phantom himself grunted softly as a knee thudded into the pit of his stomach.
Then they were no longer fighting alone. Phantom felt the press of many lithe bodies. Countless hands grasped at his thin frame and clutched his clothes like a field of merciless briars. Someone shoved a cloth into his face and he smelled something, a thick, chemical stench. Ah, chloroform. He had never used it himself, but he had smelled it before. It was an ignoble defeat, devoid of honour, and even as his limbs grew heavy and his struggles ceased his mind burned with the shame, until he could think no more, and his consciousness fled like dust on the wind.
Fillmore woke up, and for a moment he didn't know where he was. But he thought that perhaps he was starting to know who he was. Memories. The memories were still nothing close to complete, but…his name was there, was…his. He supposed he had accepted a while ago that this really was his name, but now…he knew it was. He opened his eyes and immediately felt terror skitter down his spine like millions of tiny spiders. He was sitting up in some kind of hard, metal chair. His head was resting against the chair's back, the metal cold against his bare scalp, and directly above his head was suspended, almost floating, a tangle of silvery wires, coiled together like a mass of snakes. They were far too frightening to be pretty, and yet somehow they were.
When had he thought that before?
The thought fled from his mind as he felt his skin prickle uneasily. He wasn't alone, and he knew who it was even before the familiar voice interrupted the pregnant silence.
"Do you remember where you are Phantom?" Darkness asked. His voice was calm and pensive, almost curious, but it was affected, of course it was. This seemed to be Darkness' way. Phantom knew this, and yet it didn't make a bit of difference. But the reaction Darkness provoked was unexpected.
"You monster!" Fillmore snarled.
He was shaking, but it wasn't from fear. He should be afraid, had been afraid, but now he felt nothing but a kind of loathsome hatred shuddering through him to his very core. He did not remember everything yet, but he remembered enough. His parents, oh God, his parents. They would not have known where he was, if he was alright, if he was even alive. He could see them in his mind, could feel their pain. They would try to comfort each other, to give each other hope of his return and, in the end, they would help to consol each other over his inevitable death. The pain was ripping through him and he had no room left for fear. If he had been free he would have flown at the calmly smiling man in front of him and ripped at him with all he had. Tears formed in his eyes but they didn't fall.
"Ah, I see you do remember, Phantom," Darkness said. He seemed mildly surprised now, but not displeased, and Fillmore felt the loathing and hatred rise until he ached with it.
He drew a deep breath. "That's not my name," he said, knowing his voice shook with emotion.
"Oh, but it is, Phantom," Darkness said with a kind of relish. "And do you know why? Because you are mine. Completely. You've just…forgotten."
He's playing with me, Fillmore realized, the thought bringing the fear back with a rush. Darkness moved closer and walked slowly around the chair like a tiger circling its prey. That's what Fillmore felt like, and he had an idea it was exactly what he was. All he was. He didn't speak. He was trying to keep his anger, to stop the fear from mastering him. He didn't know what good it would do, nothing, most likely. But he wouldn't give in. He never had.
"You know, Phantom," Darkness said after a moment. He spoke from behind the chair, where Fillmore couldn't see him. "This isn't the first time someone has fought my little machine." He chuckled softly. "It's happened a couple of times before. Perhaps you will have heard of them. The most recent, I believe, was called Gloom. He remembered, but, unlike you, he came to me to find out what it meant. He was always a little slow, but very loyal." He came around to the front of the chair again, and smiled at Fillmore ironically.
Fillmore had listened to the story with growing dread. He had heard of Gloom before. He had made a mistake on a mission and been caught and killed by the police, or at least this was what he had been told, what he had believed.
"What did you do to him?" Fillmore asked. He managed to keep his voice steady this time, but he felt the ice closing around his heart.
Darkness' smile softened, and he spoke as one would to a child. "He wasn't worth saving," he said. He didn't have to say anything more. Fillmore could guess, easily, what had happened to the faithful Gloom. He only wondered who had killed him. Had it been Reaper? And he had no illusions about what was likely to happen to him.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
"That is an excellent question," Darkness said. He seemed to consider it for a moment, and then continued. "It gets…lonely sometimes, I suppose. All the lies. It is…pleasant for me to talk to someone who knows who I am for once. It's not as though you will remember anything soon."
"Than why don't you just kill me?" Fillmore spat. He wasn't sure why he had said it. It wasn't as though he was eager for his life-thread to be cut, but he couldn't take this game anymore. All the waiting, and knowing what was coming, it was intolerable. He would rather make an end of it at once. At least he had finally found the answers to his questions, grim as they were. Oddly, he did not regret the discovery.
But Darkness laughed. "That's what I like about you Phantom," He said. "But you misunderstand; I'm not going to kill you."
Fillmore didn't say anything. He was relieved, and he hated himself for it. But then, did that mean…?
Darkness leaned forward and patted the back of the chair, next to Fillmore's head. "You remember this room, I'm certain Phantom. It's much harder than simply erasing memories, but I can make you believe that everything you're 'rediscovered' is nothing but a trick. It should make you more loyal than ever." Another gentle smile. Fillmore recognized that look. It was a smile of entitlement; of…ownership. He shivered. "Very soon," Darkness continued, "that annoying former life of yours will be nothing more than a very bad dream. And so will your little girlfriend."
Ingrid. Fillmore felt his heart leap into his throat. Oh no. He had been sure she was safe. How had Darkness found her? Darkness was staring at him as though he knew exactly what was passing through the panicked boy's mind.
"Don't look so surprised Phantom," he said then. "How do you think I found out about you? Your friend Mist was worried about you and she followed you on one of your solo training missions." She then came to me and told me everything. Your friend isn't dead yet but…" He raised one eyebrow as if to say 'that is only temporary.'
Fillmore felt sick. He was pressed back into the chair so hard he felt as though he was trying to push himself through the metal. Perhaps he was. His entire body was made of ice, except for his heart which was burning up inside his chest. He pulled at his restraints futilely, uselessly. He knew it was useless, but he pulled anyway. The metal dug painfully into his bare wrists.
Darkness' expression turned to one of satisfaction, then he turned and walked easily over to the control panel across the room. He touched several buttons and the wire headdress descended slowly onto Fillmore's head for the second time, sparkling with a fell light as it did so. Fillmore gave a helpless kind of sob, the only sound of defeat he had ever uttered.
"Don't worry Phantom," Darkness said as Fillmore's mind began to darken. "I can guarantee that you will not miss her."
Ingrid…
Ingrid was certain that this was a nightmare. It had to be. At any moment she would wake up and find herself safe in bed. This kind of thing never happened to you, only to other people. It always happened to someone else.
Of course, you would always be someone else to someone else.
If she wasn't in the middle of a nightmare she might laugh.
She kicked the wall with one black boot and winced inwardly at the pain in her toes. She shouldn't have done that. She should have been trying to think of a way to escape; only it was so easy to panic. She took a moment to lean against the cold metal wall and simply to breathe. That was better. She was calmer now.
It had all happened so fast.
She had been in her room waiting for Fillmore. She didn't know whether he would come, of course, but she waited for him every night anyway, just in case.
The mystery of Fillmore had only deepened in the weeks which passed since their first…meeting. She told him a great deal, but found out next to nothing about him. He was so shy, and her questions frightened him, or brought about a kind of rage and disgust, which she thought she had surprised in his face sometimes. She had asked his name once, and he had almost disappeared forever. And she didn't want to scare him away. She didn't…she couldn't lose him again. Not when she had barely begun to find him.
Because it was still him. He was still Fillmore, under all these new changes. His personality was still the same. She watched him, and she saw the same motions and small inflections that belonged to no one else. He had the same way of speaking and of listening. He had that same curiosity which she had marked from the first time they had met. It was his drive for discovery that had convinced her to stay at X, and not bale out when her ship began to sink. He had saved her then, and many times afterward, and she had done the same for him.
Oh, she had wanted to tell people. She had still been living with her grandparents, or she might not have been able to stop herself. She wanted to call his parents especially. She wanted to see their listless sorrow turn into enraptured joy. She wanted his family to know that he was alive. But she had known that if she did that, she would never see him again. He would disappear into the darkness and her chance to help him would be gone forever. He would be gone.
And it had been working. She could see his memories coming back, at first in trickles, then quickening slowly, swelling into a stream. He still hadn't said much, but she could see that he remembered her face, and that he finally knew she was telling the truth, whereas before he had merely believed her. Why had he believed her, she wondered, when there was no memory to back it up? Regardless, he had been coming back.
She had been so excited, waiting for him, wondering if this would be the day when he would talk to her as well, and tell her who had done this to him. And so, of course, the window had been wide open. She had looked away from it for a moment, and then when she looked back there was a dark figure crouching on the sill. It was just that it was the wrong one.
She had had only a moment to observe the boy, to register his thinness and pale skin, his jet black hair and his eyes. His dead eyes.
Then, even as she opened her mouth to scream he had flung something into her room which struck the wall with a clang of metal, and gas started filling the air. She inhaled and choked and coughed, and she felt herself fading even as she saw the boy approaching her.
Ingrid shivered again, remembering.
She didn't know where she was. It was dark here. There were no windows anywhere, and although the door had a small grill inset in its top half, no light filtered in through it. She didn't know where she was, but she wasn't stupid, and she had a pretty good idea.
She had to assume that Fillmore had been found out. If that was the case…what was happening to him? And…what was going to happen to her? She felt the fear wrench at her gut and fought it down. She approached the invisible door once again and tried to feel for the hinges. Maybe she could find something she could use to pry them off. However, even as she began groping over the smooth, cold metal a light came on in the corridor outside, not bright, but blinding compared to the absolute darkness which had pervaded before. Ingrid blinked and raised one hand to shield her reeling eyes, then peered through the grating.
There was a girl outside in the corridor. She looked about Ingrid's age, but taller. She was dressed in the black pants and shirt combo that Fillmore always wore now, and her hair was long and fine, and a peculiar shade, being almost gray in colour. She moved one slender hand, and manipulated something on the wall beside the door that Ingrid couldn't see. Immediately, there was a whirring, and the slats that formed the grating retracted into the door, leaving an open space. Through this opening, Ingrid's eyes met the girl's large, dark ones.
Ingrid opened her mouth to speak, although whether it was to ask for help or not, she hardly knew, and then closed it again. The girl was staring at her, simply staring. Her eyes were intense, and she looked…strange. She looked troubled, and her eyes seemed to be searching desperately for something. Instinctively, Ingrid found herself returning the girl's gaze. Ingrid tried to make her eyes reflect what she was feeling; her own confusion and fear. It was hard to open up like that, but somehow she knew that she had to.
Whatever the girl was looking for, she evidently found it, although it did not seem to bring her comfort. If anything, her face looked more troubled. She moved back and broke Ingrid's gaze, and a moment later the slats of the grating sprang into being once again, and Ingrid was once again in near darkness. However, before she had even had a chance to start feeling disappointed, there was a click, loud in the silence, and the door opened. The girl stood there, her eyes cold and almost angry. She held herself tensely, and uneasiness hung about her like a fog. In her arms she held a pile of black cloth which she shoved at Ingrid unceremoniously.
"Put these on," she said, then as Ingrid hesitated, "Quickly! I'm going to help you get out of here, but you have to hurry." She stepped back a little and scanned the corridor anxiously. She muttered something to herself and Ingrid blinked, wondering if she had heard right. She thought the girl had said "Phantom, I hope you're right," but that didn't seem to make a lot of sense.
Ingrid rolled up her dress and slipped on the black pants, and then pulled the shirt of identical colour over her head. The pants were a little long for her, but that only meant that they adequately hid her boots from sight. Once she was dressed Ingrid glanced over at the girl again. The girl met her eyes again for a moment, then nodded, once.
"Follow me," she said, "And don't say anything." She started off along the corridor, and Ingrid followed her. She couldn't help drawing in a nervous breath, but this was her best option for escape, and she knew it. She kept a sharp eye on her surroundings as they walked, and thanked fortune for her photographic memory. It would almost certainly come in handy today.
Many of the hallways that they traveled through looked identical, cold and gray with plain lighting and floors that seemed to absorb the very sound. They saw other people as they walked as well. All children, all dressed in black or gray, and all as silent as themselves. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to be, and although a few halted long enough to greet her companion, no one took any notice of Ingrid, which was perfectly fine with her. The first few of these encounters put her on edge, but it was as though the clothes made her invisible, as though she belonged here. Although she spent most of her thought worrying about whether this was going to work, not to mention wondering why this girl was helping her, she also spared some thoughts towards Fillmore. Please be alright, she prayed. I'll get you out of here, I promise.
At last they reached a ladder which ascended up until it reached a circular trapdoor in the ceiling far above. The whole arrangement made Ingrid think of sewers, but she certainly wasn't going to say anything at this point.
Here the girl paused. "That door," she said, gesturing, "leads to the woods above. You can get away through there if you're quick. It's your only chance, anyway." Ingrid moved forward hesitantly, still unsure whether this was some kind of trick, but the girl did not move. Ingrid placed her hands on the first rungs of the ladder, and then stopped, looking back. She felt that she had to ask.
"Why are you helping me?"
The girl sighed, and it seemed for a moment that she wasn't going to answer. Then she said, softly, "I know you're not malicious and, if you die…" She trailed off, and then murmured, almost to herself, "Phantom wouldn't like it."
There was Phantom again. Ingrid still didn't know what it meant, but it didn't matter. She could see in the girl's face that this was not a trap, but a way out and…a way to get help. Without another word she headed up the ladder, hand over hand on the cold, dark metal, until she reached the trapdoor at the top. It opened surprisingly easily at her touch, and then she was out in the cool, fragrant night which was just starting to rose around the edges with the coming dawn. She didn't know where she was in the mess of dark trees which surrounded her on all sides, but she closed the trapdoor and walked off at a brisk pace, confident that it would lead her somewhere.
She was going to save Fillmore, and she knew what she had to do.
Enough action for you?
I really turned on the creepy factor in this chapter, I think. I attempted to, at any rate, and I think I succeeded. And I got to bring Gloom up again! If you remember from way back when, he was mentioned in the first chapter, poor guy. I made up a whole character for him, and then ended up killing him off before the first chapter. Sigh. Ah well, that's how it goes.
Yay, Ingrid's point of view! You're probably never going to hear it again, but I really felt it needed to make an appearance this chapter. Hopefully you understand her a little better. As for Mist, well, we'll have to see. Let it suffice for now that she has her reasons.
As I've said before, I know exactly what happens next, and so I will try to speed up my update times. I want to get to the finale. ;)
