Miss Kissranada - I'm glad you're still reading and enjoying.
Here we go again...
***
Chapter 8 : Specters of the Past
***
You can never forget your past. Remember that. Learn
from history, otherwise you are doomed to repeat it.
\\Everyone has skeletons in their closets\\
You can never let it go. Not because you don't want
to, not because it would be easier...
\\Some people have just hidden them better.\\
...but because it never lets go of you.
***
The thing in front of him advanced. Quatre backed up.
It wasn't real, it was illusion, but what if the
illusion hid something else.
The only thing he could do was try to get rid of the
illusion. Despite the chill of a brief glimpse, Quatre
knew he had no choice. If his eyes could not see
truly, at least his heart could.
He continued out of reach, dodging and ignoring how
his heart was breaking at the mockery. Dodged, and
then pushed outwards with all his heart, something he
had never tried to do before, but he was lent strength
by necessity and fear.
Ice flowed through his veins, so cold it burned. The
thing did not want him dead, it wanted his pain, his
suffering, but it would not enjoy even that, for it
knew no such thing as happiness.
He pushed harder even as part of him screamed at him
to stop, that he did not want to see or understand,
that death was a better fate. It was like the
nightmare, hands tore at him in the darkness of his
mind, whispering. Black, then red and painful white
that blinded without revealing.
A thousand times worse than the blackness that had
separated him from Trowa, it beat in time, like a
heartbeat, trying to wrench him from himself and he
realized in panic that he couldn't get back to
himself. That his body was as inaccessible as the sun
and as vulnerable as a child. A million voices
screamed at the unfairness of the universe, screamed
without hope of anything but pain, screamed that there
was no hope for anyone or anything. A secret song that
he but glimpsed until now. There was nothing but this.
His happiness had been the illusion, this was the only
reality. The universe was alive and fed on their pain.
This and nothing else.
Through the eyes of the other he could see himself,
collapsed on the ground, waiting like a gift to be
opened. And he couldn't do anything. Hatred he knew he
could never comprehend pressed in from all sides. He
tried to retreat before it could swallow him whole,
before he was lost in it, before it became him.
Something in him snapped, reverberating through his
sense of self, now barely separate from everything
around him. Quatre no longer felt the pain. He merely
was for a moment, before aligning himself to attack.
The death of his body was unacceptable.
Like a knife, cutting through the awareness of the
Other that was approaching his body. Taking away its
sight, its feeling, locking it within himself.
Surrounded, the awareness struggled feebly. Until he
crushed it, tore it into pieces that scattered into
the song of despair, destroyed, for lack of a better
term, its soul.
His sight faded as the Other's body twitched and fell
still. The handicap was noted.
His body was still inaccessible so instead he studied
the minds around him, determining which were
dangerous. Snuffing them out by pulling them out into
the wave of voices, trapping them without physical
form. All tried to fight him, but were too weak to
hurt him.
There was one mind in the center of all this,
directing everything. It would know how to leave this
place, his mission.
He ignored all besides that one, that darkness that
was like a black hole, its mass so great that it could
trap even light making it seem a void of nothing. But
it was there, not the nothing it seemed.
He weighed his options. This mind was more powerful
than he was. He would have to be as nothing,
unnoticeable, unimportant.
He curled himself small and dove for it. But it saw
him anyway, followed him as he tried to hide himself
within all the others.
Floating on the songs of metal and flesh, of pain and
despair. But they could not touch him. And that was
his undoing. One voice that did not cry out, but
waited silent.
And the other mind was angry for the intrusion, that
someone had dared challenge it. And instead, it
reached into him... and pulled. It did not try to
destroy him, for nonexistence was peace, which was
something it would never give anyone. It passed
through him with no consideration for the damage it
caused. The thing that had broken realigned itself.
That was all, he was nothing, worth no more than that.
And he was the screams around him, the voices, all who
he had just destroyed. Quatre came back to himself and
to everything around him. And he tried to escape, to
get away, to find sanctuary. Most did not care, but
some Others followed, clinging to him and the voices
became more personal. They knew him. They hated.
He fled as they tried to rip him apart like he had
done to some of the Others.
And he felt something... something that he had
forgotten in the seeming eternity since he had been
with the voices. It was warm and peaceful and glowed
with hope. And cleared a path for him so he could flee
faster. Flee towards something that would give him
sanctuary.
His memories of happiness and love returned.
"Trowa."
Just a touch, for an instant he could see Trowa, feel
Trowa and everything was alright...
Then, Quatre opened his eyes.
***
Wufei saw Trowa sway unsteadily for a moment and
rushed to his side. One green eye flicked towards him.
"I know where Quatre is."
"What? How?"
"I just do. It was like I was with him for a second."
Trowa pointed. "That way, he's over there."
Wufei nodded. It was as good as any other direction
and those two did have an uncanny sense of each other.
***
Jack Hadley waited. Anticipation was almost worse than
the pain. He was sure They knew that. They came to
torment him sometimes, but mostly he was left alone to
think. To wonder what his hell would be like. There
were others, like him, in this parody of a waiting
room. He'd never liked those either, but he wouldn't
have minded a chance to sit down. His wrists chaffed
in their bonds and he glanced at the door. Soon his
number would come up.
It was difficult to tell time here, so difficult, but
he had been here for a few weeks at least. He was
dead, he knew that now. At first he hoped it was a
hallucination, or a dream, but he'd felt his life
bleed away.
That boy, that boy he'd found. Pretty, no, more than
that. He'd been perfect. Long hair pulled back, a
cherub's face. Older than he usually went for, but
something had drawn him on. He couldn't resist trying
to take him home. And had been surprised at how easy
it had been. He should have known, then, that
something wasn't right. Something like that shouldn't
have fallen into his arms so quickly. But he'd been
blinded by what he wanted, the urge to bleed the boy
dry. Beautiful, it would have been, perfect. Jack had
never even gotten to taste him.
It was *her* fault, it was always her fault. She had
been gone on another of her 'business trips'. Jack
knew that for the lie it was. He wondered who it was
she was seeing, but it didn't make any difference to
him. Did she think he was any happier than her now
that she couldn't do anything for him? Not that he
really wanted to, that was the problem. She'd been a
pretty little young thing once, but not any more. But
they could, couldn't they? And it was as much their
fault as his, that they were so pretty when they
bleed, when they died under him. So pretty, so *good*.
Good, no, they weren't good little girls and boys.
Good little girls and boys wouldn't do such things.
//"We'll have no rotten little fags in this family,
boy. You understand me?"
His father's face was red with anger, his eyes bulging
outwards and his nostrils flared. He raised his belt
again.
"I said, you understand me, boy?"
Jack's voice shook. "Yes, sir." He bowed his head.
"I... I won't do it again."
His mother didn't help him. She was hiding in the
kitchen, pretending not to hear, pretending to make
supper.
"Little faggot, kissing another boy."//
They deserved what they got. All of them, they
deserved it. So why was he here, waiting and waiting.
He counted in his head. One... two... three...
..ninety-nine... one-hundred...
And counted back again. And forward. And backwards. It
was something to do.
Except, except, now it was his turn. No one came back
out through that door again, and he was going in. Not
coming back. He cursed his wife again and cursed that
brat that had sent him here.
He collapsed, but They dragged him through anyway.
They were like zombies, Frankenstein's monsters,
pieced together from limbs and torsos with no minds of
their own. They weren't the ones running things, he
knew. They took their orders from someone else. Jack
didn't have the will or strength to struggle.
The thing sat behind a desk, strangely enough. It
tapped a pencil to paper, considering. It, like the
zombies, was a retched once-human, but there was
intelligence when it spoke, training eyes on him. They
had been sowed shut. He wondered, for a minute, how it
could do its job at all with that, but from the
considering look on what remained of the face, it
didn't seem to notice the handicap.
"Jack Hadley."
Tap. Tap. The pencil hit the paper.
"We have your place ready, now. I'm very sorry for the
long wait. Things are so hectic these days." Dismissed
with a gesture, they dragged him onwards, shoving him
through an open doorway roughly. There was a place
waiting for him. Chained up again, restrained. It
hurt. He didn't like it. The door was still open, but
he couldn't get too it.
"Hey, let me out!"
And laughter answered him.
There were so many pretty people. Laughing at him,
calling him names, saying so many *bad* things.
He wanted to show them, teach them not to do that.
Show them what happened to bad little boys and girls.
But he couldn't reach them. Couldn't reach any of
them. There was hate in their eyes. They burned
without touching.
One boy came up and hit him. His lip bled. Then a girl
came up. She wrapped her hand around him at the base
of his prick. He sucked in a breath raggedly. Would
she...
But then she laughed as she clawed his dick instead,
making it bleed. He screamed, but that just make her
laugh harder.
They scattered at something he couldn't see. Jack
turned his head. Someone was watching them, leaning
against the one wall casually. Just out of the corner
of his eye, if he could turn just a bit more...
"So much enthusiasm, don't you agree? I guess it's
true what they say; one man's hell is another's
heaven."
"Who are you?" he asked. There was something familiar,
but he couldn't quite see. But the white face, the
lack of blood, the black clothes. He was one of those
things. One of the ones who ran this place. A demon.
It was right behind him now, trailing a cold finger
down his spine.
"Jack, don't you remember me? I'm disappointed. I
thought we had something memorable."
The thing stepped into view.
Jack shuddered. "No, it can't be you. No, no, no..."
They had been waiting for him. He was one of Them.
They had brought him here, had laid a trap for him. No
wonder he'd been so easy. Demon, that's what he'd been
all along. That's why he'd failed. Jack tried to push
himself as far away as possible, but the chain was
just long enough that he could stand, not move.
"Anyway, they're all so eager so I thought I'd give
them a few pointers about what you like best. I hope
you don't mind too much."
Violet eyes burned into his soul as well, or what was
left of it.
***
"Quatre!" He turned at the voice. Trowa, it was Trowa!
He sent a fervent prayer of thanks upwards. Voices
whispered that it was another trap, but he knew
better. They only wanted him to fail, clinging to his
soul even now.
"Trowa."
Warm arms encircled him. "I was so worried, little
one."
"I was worried too." He burrowed more deeply into the
embrace.
**Don't tell him what you did. He'd hate you then.**
**No, he wouldn't. Trowa would forgive me.** They had
followed him back to his body, but he could ignore
them. They did not control him and everything was
alright. Trowa had found him again. Now they just had
to get out of here.
"What happened?" Wufei asked as he looked around
warily.
"I felt something, then fell. Everything went black
except there was a thing that said it was my mother."
Trowa hugged him tighter momentarily. He knew how
important that claim would have been to Quatre.
Quatre continued. "Except, she wasn't real, it was
just trying to hide its real appearance from me. I..."
He stopped, he didn't know how to describe what had
happened. "I looked into its head and killed it."
Such a small sentence for what had happened.
**See. You couldn't tell him. But we know better.**
**Shut up. You know nothing.**
Trowa just stroked his hair. **Love, I'll tell you
when we get out of this. I promise.**
**Liar. Liar.**
He ignored the voice.
"I hate to interrupt, but I don't think we should stay
here too long." Wufei sounded genuinely remorseful and
had no way of knowing the Quatre had made this
possibly the safest place for them earlier.
**Safe, you'll never be safe. No, no, not you. You
killed us and now we'll return the favor.**
**Here! Here! They're over here.**
Quatre pushed the voice back into oblivion. But it was
right, they weren't truly safe.
"You're right. We have to find a way out."
Wufei nodded, but his expression was grim. "How? This
maze goes on forever as far as we can see. It's like
we're trapped in some other dimension."
Trowa motioned his agreement and Quatre bit his lip.
It was something he didn't want to do, but there was
no other choice.
"The problem is you've been looking with your eyes."
***
If he hadn't already gone numb, Zechs knew he would
have retched at the sight. It was a detached thought,
separating him from the things he was seeing,
something he knew he should be grateful for.
The room was huge, larger than anything he had seen so
far. A complete symphony orchestra with an audience of
one. Well, two, but he wasn't supposed to be here.
Each player using instruments that were part of his
own body, or had been at some point. When they were
human. Before this had happened. Strings whined out of
tune, strings of gut and hair that he was sure were
human. At least the rest of the instruments were.
Despite this, he recognized what the members were
playing. He'd been to the symphony with Treize many
times. The man had loved classical music. That thought
penetrated the numbness slightly and he knew he had to
get out of here.
Zechs fell back through the entranceway and leaned
against the wall. He wished he didn't have to look.
But how else was he to find the way out. Some of these
door lead to other halls, some lead to things like he
had just found. He thanked his good memory that he
knew he could find where he had been already.
Hopefully that would let him find where he had to go.
If only he could get his bearings. If only...
He worked his way down to the next door. He winced
inwardly as he moved. His cuts were stinging still and
he really wished he could wash them out. Instead, he'd
let them bleed, hoping it would wash whatever it was
out of his system.
He paused, breathing deeply before the entrance and
let the numbness overtake him once again. Clutching
anger at the situation close, he could face anything.
This place was trying to hurt Duo, probably trying to
hurt Wufei and it had certainly tried to hurt him. The
last could be discounted, but for the others he could
feel the anger he needed to distance himself.
Zechs stepped through the door.
It was a room, another one, much smaller than the
last. In places the stone was black and scorched from
fire. Moans of pleasure, all female, echoed through
the room which smelled of sex. Beds of stone slid out
of rectangular holes in the walls. Women, hidden and
shrouded by white cloth, writhed seductively on them.
It was they who made the noise. They slid back into
their hiding place.
He moved to leave.
"Wait. Don't leave me here."
Zechs turned to the voice. The dark shape that had
been hidden at the back of the room.
"Who are you?" he asked, wary.
The figure came forward so he could see it. It was a
man, or had been. Not like Angelique, with her mockery
of beauty. This one was like an accident victim,
burned beyond recognition. But its eyes were alive,
and it spoke.
"Frank. My name is Frank."
***
His voice worked. The fact was almost surprising. It
had been so long since he had spoken, since he had
anyone to speak to, that he'd feared his words would
be unintelligible. But no, the man had understood him,
even if his speech had sounded strange to his own
ears, rough and hoarse.
Frank could see the wariness, especially since the guy
was armed, and from his condition the man had
obviously had a run in with SOMETHING. His clothing
was torn and stained with blood and other
unidentifiable liquids. The blood was the man's own.
The moans started again. He was used to it. He had
been here a long time. But his visitor wasn't. Blue
eyes flicked sideways momentarily.
"Don't worry about them. They're just here to tease
me. Part of my punishment. Look, but don't touch."
"Punishment? For what?"
For being a womanizing, adultering murderer and user
in life, he supposed. "My life."
The man nodded once, like he understood. Maybe he did,
at least some of it. He was obviously well dressed and
groomed under most other circumstances, perhaps to
attract women that Frank knew would flock to him. Like
they had to Frank's bad-boy and deliberately rugged
appearance.
And the thought struck him. A way to get out of here
and get what he wanted. To fix the damage that that
bitch Julia had caused.
For with the exception of those few cuts, his skin was
perfect. There would never be another chance like
this.
Now he just had to get him within reach. Frank was
already dead, he doubted that the gun would hurt him
much.
**Say something, Frank, anything. Get him
distracted.**
"Why are you here?" Actually, he was rather curious.
"I'm looking for a way out."
"I got out once. Then some stupid bitch sent me back
in exchange for her."
Kirsty, sweet little Kirsty. Bitch. She was the reason
he was here.
"But why are you HERE?" That wasn't what he'd meant at
all. How had he gotten so far unscathed, or nearly so?
"I don't know."
**Yes, think I'm not dangerous. Let me get just a bit
closer.**
The man seemed to have decided he wasn't much of a
threat. Frank moved closer.
"What happened to you with all that?" He made a
gesture with one hand to the injuries.
"Someone who called herself Angelique. One of the
Order of the Gash, I assume."
Order of the Gash? Ah, Cenobites. And he'd survived
it.
"That's all she did to you?" That seemed different
than he remembered. Once they got their hands on you,
there was no escape, no matter how far your thought
you'd run.
"That's all she had the chance to do. I killed her."
Killed a cenobite. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
Well, what did he have to lose.
"How?"
"Shot her in the head twice at close range." Calmly
answered. This man was a killer. Probably a
professional one.
**Nothing to lose, everything to gain. Remember
that.**
Closer. Closer.
It was a blur when he tried for it, going to fast to
really register except for the fact that things didn't
go as planned. He'd managed to get the man off the
stairs, but a kick to the head, directed at one of his
eyes, had made him release his hold. It was one of the
places he could still feel pain. There now appeared to
have some advantage to the lack of nerve endings where
they had been burned away. Instead of falling
completely, however, the man twisted like a cat midair
and landed on his feet. Fortunately, it was without
his weapon. It had landed on one of the women and was
pulled back out of reach.
"No. Damn you! I won't stay here," he practically
growled.
The man crouched in a ready position as Frank closed
in carefully. He didn't want to damage the skin more
than it had been already.
They fought for a moment. He knew had been right. This
was no amateur. But Frank was dead, that gave him an
advantage that the other couldn't match.
"Your skin. I'll have it. You won't stop me."
The other man didn't have a chance to reply.
He would have it, nothing could stop him, no matter
how good this guy was. Nothing.
Nothin...Gack! He reached his hands up to his throat
at the thing that wrapped around it and pulled him
back. Chains. No, not them. They were here.
He could just see the other make a strategic retreat.
Leaving him here. And a voice, one he didn't know,
didn't recognize anything about it at all except the
tone. Angry and possessive. Angry at him.
"Nobody touches what's mine without my say so."
***
"This way."
Wufei followed after Trowa and Quatre, constantly
looking behind them. He hoped Quatre was alright. He
could practically feel Trowa's concern as well as his
own. The tightness around the eyes, the occasional
glaze over of his expression as he fought some inner
demon and the way he kept chewing on his now bleeding
lower lip did not inspire confidence. Something was
very wrong. They had no choice, though. What else
could they do?
There was noise now, there were things ahead of them.
A moan, a scream, the repetitive hammering of some
tools, all were clear against the sound of their feet.
They turned the corner warily, but it was empty. That
did nothing to relieve him, since there was light
flickering from the one visible doorway.
"Are you sure there's no other way?" he whispered.
Quatre nodded in confirmation. His eyes were narrowed
in pain and his hands clenched onto Trowa's arm.
"They should be distracted. Just go quickly and
quietly."
Given the sounds, he didn't need to ask what they
would be distracted by.
***
William Bremand could not scream anymore, nor could he
hope for the release of unconsciousness. If such a
thing were possible here, he would have blacked out
long ago. His eyes rolled back in his head as he
avoided looking at what was left of his legs. The
zombies continued to saw, they were half way through
the bone. The other limb was already missing.
He gazed longingly at the door. If only he could still
run, if only he could still run. He didn't deserve
this. So, he had caused a few deaths in the name of
business. That's all it was, business. Not like this
torture. Except, that's what this was to them. He'd
begged and pleaded, to no avail.
Schruch.
One more stoke. One more slice.
Schruch.
And another and another.
That stupid puzzle. He should never have listened,
never have taken it, just dumped it with the body he'd
taken it from. That's what he should have done. But it
was so convenient. Business again, with his hands
clean. He hadn't forced anyone to open it, had he? No,
they'd done it themselves and left him free and clear.
He saw them then. Someone was walking by, ignoring
him. Not even looking in. They were human! Human, not
these demented freaks.
He tried to speak through his scratchy throat with a
voice that was gone.
"Help me."
It was just a breath of air. They didn't hear him.
Didn't stop.
"Help me. Help me. Help me."
The last one turned to him, a young Asian who probably
hadn't even had his last growth spurt yet. The boy's
eyes widened and left his, focusing on something else.
"Run," he heard the boy yell.
Schruch. They kept cutting.
***
Wufei yelled a warning. The thing was something he had
never imagined even in his darkest nightmares. Like a
scorpion with the mouth of a shark and claws that were
too much like human hands. Intelligence glimmered in
its eyes as it dropped its utensils of mutilation from
where it had been sewing something that he didn't even
want to think about.
It came through the doorway before he could follow his
companions, splitting them down the middle. Wufei
jumped backwards as it decided where to attack.
The thing turned and went after Trowa and Quatre. They
retreated, Trowa avoiding the claws and tail using his
acrobatic skill, occasionally getting a shot at it.
Wufei could not abandon them, he could not be so weak
and tried to follow and attack from behind, but it was
not to be.
Other things, these more human and in some way more
horrible for it, poured out of the doorway.
He shot the first one, then the second. They still
came forward, arms outstretched, like those monsters
in all those terrible early horror movies that Maxwell
had forced him to watch.
There were just too many, if they did not react to
anything. Perhaps if he did more damage.
One grabbed his arm and he could not get it loose. It
was too strong. Wufei instead shot it in the throat.
This time it gagged and let him free.
**So, they can be hurt.**
He used the same tactic again, trying to get through
the crowd. There were many, but they weren't bright.
He was almost through. Almost free to help the others.
His gun clicked. It was empty. **Ancestors, not now.**
How could he have forgotten to count his bullets at a
time like this?
But he twisted and dodged and ducked. And the hall was
empty in front of him. Wufei ran, he had to find Trowa
and Quatre.
The things behind him seemed to have thought they'd
done their duty and went back to business.
Wufei ran onwards. He looked down intersections, into
rooms, everywhere. But they were gone.
**Weakling. How could you have lost them too?**
Don't look with your eyes, Quatre had said. Wufei had
never been one for mysticism. The only thing he had
faith in was his ancestors and, at one point, Nataku.
He swallowed. How did one go about seeing without
eyes?
***
Zechs cursed himself under his breath. He should have
been more wary. Now he was unarmed. He would just have
to keep going, he had no choice.
The corridor was long and empty. It seemed to be
lighter at the end, but he knew that for the trick it
was now. A light at the end of the tunnel, just enough
to give hope, but it was false hope. Still, there had
to be something that would let him out, somewhere.
They had gotten in, they had to be able to get out.
Somewhere, the others were in the same predicament as
himself. They wouldn't be caught unawares like he had
been, he had to believe that. Had to have faith in
that, or there was no point. A small voice whispered
to him, asking him why it mattered if he got out or
not. Did he have anything to live for?
He ignored it as he always had since the end of the
war. That voice had plagued him for too long.
He turned a corner.
The hallway came to an abrupt end with another door.
Since there was no choice, he pushed it open.
And was blinded by light of the beyond.
TBC...
NOTES
Jack's first name is taken both from the obvious, and
is the name of the main character in An American
Werewold in London.
The rooms Zechs sees is taken from Songs of Metal and
Flesh, a Hellraiser comic. The transcript can be found
on the Hellbound Web.
Frank is from the first two Hellraiser movies.
Here we go again...
***
Chapter 8 : Specters of the Past
***
You can never forget your past. Remember that. Learn
from history, otherwise you are doomed to repeat it.
\\Everyone has skeletons in their closets\\
You can never let it go. Not because you don't want
to, not because it would be easier...
\\Some people have just hidden them better.\\
...but because it never lets go of you.
***
The thing in front of him advanced. Quatre backed up.
It wasn't real, it was illusion, but what if the
illusion hid something else.
The only thing he could do was try to get rid of the
illusion. Despite the chill of a brief glimpse, Quatre
knew he had no choice. If his eyes could not see
truly, at least his heart could.
He continued out of reach, dodging and ignoring how
his heart was breaking at the mockery. Dodged, and
then pushed outwards with all his heart, something he
had never tried to do before, but he was lent strength
by necessity and fear.
Ice flowed through his veins, so cold it burned. The
thing did not want him dead, it wanted his pain, his
suffering, but it would not enjoy even that, for it
knew no such thing as happiness.
He pushed harder even as part of him screamed at him
to stop, that he did not want to see or understand,
that death was a better fate. It was like the
nightmare, hands tore at him in the darkness of his
mind, whispering. Black, then red and painful white
that blinded without revealing.
A thousand times worse than the blackness that had
separated him from Trowa, it beat in time, like a
heartbeat, trying to wrench him from himself and he
realized in panic that he couldn't get back to
himself. That his body was as inaccessible as the sun
and as vulnerable as a child. A million voices
screamed at the unfairness of the universe, screamed
without hope of anything but pain, screamed that there
was no hope for anyone or anything. A secret song that
he but glimpsed until now. There was nothing but this.
His happiness had been the illusion, this was the only
reality. The universe was alive and fed on their pain.
This and nothing else.
Through the eyes of the other he could see himself,
collapsed on the ground, waiting like a gift to be
opened. And he couldn't do anything. Hatred he knew he
could never comprehend pressed in from all sides. He
tried to retreat before it could swallow him whole,
before he was lost in it, before it became him.
Something in him snapped, reverberating through his
sense of self, now barely separate from everything
around him. Quatre no longer felt the pain. He merely
was for a moment, before aligning himself to attack.
The death of his body was unacceptable.
Like a knife, cutting through the awareness of the
Other that was approaching his body. Taking away its
sight, its feeling, locking it within himself.
Surrounded, the awareness struggled feebly. Until he
crushed it, tore it into pieces that scattered into
the song of despair, destroyed, for lack of a better
term, its soul.
His sight faded as the Other's body twitched and fell
still. The handicap was noted.
His body was still inaccessible so instead he studied
the minds around him, determining which were
dangerous. Snuffing them out by pulling them out into
the wave of voices, trapping them without physical
form. All tried to fight him, but were too weak to
hurt him.
There was one mind in the center of all this,
directing everything. It would know how to leave this
place, his mission.
He ignored all besides that one, that darkness that
was like a black hole, its mass so great that it could
trap even light making it seem a void of nothing. But
it was there, not the nothing it seemed.
He weighed his options. This mind was more powerful
than he was. He would have to be as nothing,
unnoticeable, unimportant.
He curled himself small and dove for it. But it saw
him anyway, followed him as he tried to hide himself
within all the others.
Floating on the songs of metal and flesh, of pain and
despair. But they could not touch him. And that was
his undoing. One voice that did not cry out, but
waited silent.
And the other mind was angry for the intrusion, that
someone had dared challenge it. And instead, it
reached into him... and pulled. It did not try to
destroy him, for nonexistence was peace, which was
something it would never give anyone. It passed
through him with no consideration for the damage it
caused. The thing that had broken realigned itself.
That was all, he was nothing, worth no more than that.
And he was the screams around him, the voices, all who
he had just destroyed. Quatre came back to himself and
to everything around him. And he tried to escape, to
get away, to find sanctuary. Most did not care, but
some Others followed, clinging to him and the voices
became more personal. They knew him. They hated.
He fled as they tried to rip him apart like he had
done to some of the Others.
And he felt something... something that he had
forgotten in the seeming eternity since he had been
with the voices. It was warm and peaceful and glowed
with hope. And cleared a path for him so he could flee
faster. Flee towards something that would give him
sanctuary.
His memories of happiness and love returned.
"Trowa."
Just a touch, for an instant he could see Trowa, feel
Trowa and everything was alright...
Then, Quatre opened his eyes.
***
Wufei saw Trowa sway unsteadily for a moment and
rushed to his side. One green eye flicked towards him.
"I know where Quatre is."
"What? How?"
"I just do. It was like I was with him for a second."
Trowa pointed. "That way, he's over there."
Wufei nodded. It was as good as any other direction
and those two did have an uncanny sense of each other.
***
Jack Hadley waited. Anticipation was almost worse than
the pain. He was sure They knew that. They came to
torment him sometimes, but mostly he was left alone to
think. To wonder what his hell would be like. There
were others, like him, in this parody of a waiting
room. He'd never liked those either, but he wouldn't
have minded a chance to sit down. His wrists chaffed
in their bonds and he glanced at the door. Soon his
number would come up.
It was difficult to tell time here, so difficult, but
he had been here for a few weeks at least. He was
dead, he knew that now. At first he hoped it was a
hallucination, or a dream, but he'd felt his life
bleed away.
That boy, that boy he'd found. Pretty, no, more than
that. He'd been perfect. Long hair pulled back, a
cherub's face. Older than he usually went for, but
something had drawn him on. He couldn't resist trying
to take him home. And had been surprised at how easy
it had been. He should have known, then, that
something wasn't right. Something like that shouldn't
have fallen into his arms so quickly. But he'd been
blinded by what he wanted, the urge to bleed the boy
dry. Beautiful, it would have been, perfect. Jack had
never even gotten to taste him.
It was *her* fault, it was always her fault. She had
been gone on another of her 'business trips'. Jack
knew that for the lie it was. He wondered who it was
she was seeing, but it didn't make any difference to
him. Did she think he was any happier than her now
that she couldn't do anything for him? Not that he
really wanted to, that was the problem. She'd been a
pretty little young thing once, but not any more. But
they could, couldn't they? And it was as much their
fault as his, that they were so pretty when they
bleed, when they died under him. So pretty, so *good*.
Good, no, they weren't good little girls and boys.
Good little girls and boys wouldn't do such things.
//"We'll have no rotten little fags in this family,
boy. You understand me?"
His father's face was red with anger, his eyes bulging
outwards and his nostrils flared. He raised his belt
again.
"I said, you understand me, boy?"
Jack's voice shook. "Yes, sir." He bowed his head.
"I... I won't do it again."
His mother didn't help him. She was hiding in the
kitchen, pretending not to hear, pretending to make
supper.
"Little faggot, kissing another boy."//
They deserved what they got. All of them, they
deserved it. So why was he here, waiting and waiting.
He counted in his head. One... two... three...
..ninety-nine... one-hundred...
And counted back again. And forward. And backwards. It
was something to do.
Except, except, now it was his turn. No one came back
out through that door again, and he was going in. Not
coming back. He cursed his wife again and cursed that
brat that had sent him here.
He collapsed, but They dragged him through anyway.
They were like zombies, Frankenstein's monsters,
pieced together from limbs and torsos with no minds of
their own. They weren't the ones running things, he
knew. They took their orders from someone else. Jack
didn't have the will or strength to struggle.
The thing sat behind a desk, strangely enough. It
tapped a pencil to paper, considering. It, like the
zombies, was a retched once-human, but there was
intelligence when it spoke, training eyes on him. They
had been sowed shut. He wondered, for a minute, how it
could do its job at all with that, but from the
considering look on what remained of the face, it
didn't seem to notice the handicap.
"Jack Hadley."
Tap. Tap. The pencil hit the paper.
"We have your place ready, now. I'm very sorry for the
long wait. Things are so hectic these days." Dismissed
with a gesture, they dragged him onwards, shoving him
through an open doorway roughly. There was a place
waiting for him. Chained up again, restrained. It
hurt. He didn't like it. The door was still open, but
he couldn't get too it.
"Hey, let me out!"
And laughter answered him.
There were so many pretty people. Laughing at him,
calling him names, saying so many *bad* things.
He wanted to show them, teach them not to do that.
Show them what happened to bad little boys and girls.
But he couldn't reach them. Couldn't reach any of
them. There was hate in their eyes. They burned
without touching.
One boy came up and hit him. His lip bled. Then a girl
came up. She wrapped her hand around him at the base
of his prick. He sucked in a breath raggedly. Would
she...
But then she laughed as she clawed his dick instead,
making it bleed. He screamed, but that just make her
laugh harder.
They scattered at something he couldn't see. Jack
turned his head. Someone was watching them, leaning
against the one wall casually. Just out of the corner
of his eye, if he could turn just a bit more...
"So much enthusiasm, don't you agree? I guess it's
true what they say; one man's hell is another's
heaven."
"Who are you?" he asked. There was something familiar,
but he couldn't quite see. But the white face, the
lack of blood, the black clothes. He was one of those
things. One of the ones who ran this place. A demon.
It was right behind him now, trailing a cold finger
down his spine.
"Jack, don't you remember me? I'm disappointed. I
thought we had something memorable."
The thing stepped into view.
Jack shuddered. "No, it can't be you. No, no, no..."
They had been waiting for him. He was one of Them.
They had brought him here, had laid a trap for him. No
wonder he'd been so easy. Demon, that's what he'd been
all along. That's why he'd failed. Jack tried to push
himself as far away as possible, but the chain was
just long enough that he could stand, not move.
"Anyway, they're all so eager so I thought I'd give
them a few pointers about what you like best. I hope
you don't mind too much."
Violet eyes burned into his soul as well, or what was
left of it.
***
"Quatre!" He turned at the voice. Trowa, it was Trowa!
He sent a fervent prayer of thanks upwards. Voices
whispered that it was another trap, but he knew
better. They only wanted him to fail, clinging to his
soul even now.
"Trowa."
Warm arms encircled him. "I was so worried, little
one."
"I was worried too." He burrowed more deeply into the
embrace.
**Don't tell him what you did. He'd hate you then.**
**No, he wouldn't. Trowa would forgive me.** They had
followed him back to his body, but he could ignore
them. They did not control him and everything was
alright. Trowa had found him again. Now they just had
to get out of here.
"What happened?" Wufei asked as he looked around
warily.
"I felt something, then fell. Everything went black
except there was a thing that said it was my mother."
Trowa hugged him tighter momentarily. He knew how
important that claim would have been to Quatre.
Quatre continued. "Except, she wasn't real, it was
just trying to hide its real appearance from me. I..."
He stopped, he didn't know how to describe what had
happened. "I looked into its head and killed it."
Such a small sentence for what had happened.
**See. You couldn't tell him. But we know better.**
**Shut up. You know nothing.**
Trowa just stroked his hair. **Love, I'll tell you
when we get out of this. I promise.**
**Liar. Liar.**
He ignored the voice.
"I hate to interrupt, but I don't think we should stay
here too long." Wufei sounded genuinely remorseful and
had no way of knowing the Quatre had made this
possibly the safest place for them earlier.
**Safe, you'll never be safe. No, no, not you. You
killed us and now we'll return the favor.**
**Here! Here! They're over here.**
Quatre pushed the voice back into oblivion. But it was
right, they weren't truly safe.
"You're right. We have to find a way out."
Wufei nodded, but his expression was grim. "How? This
maze goes on forever as far as we can see. It's like
we're trapped in some other dimension."
Trowa motioned his agreement and Quatre bit his lip.
It was something he didn't want to do, but there was
no other choice.
"The problem is you've been looking with your eyes."
***
If he hadn't already gone numb, Zechs knew he would
have retched at the sight. It was a detached thought,
separating him from the things he was seeing,
something he knew he should be grateful for.
The room was huge, larger than anything he had seen so
far. A complete symphony orchestra with an audience of
one. Well, two, but he wasn't supposed to be here.
Each player using instruments that were part of his
own body, or had been at some point. When they were
human. Before this had happened. Strings whined out of
tune, strings of gut and hair that he was sure were
human. At least the rest of the instruments were.
Despite this, he recognized what the members were
playing. He'd been to the symphony with Treize many
times. The man had loved classical music. That thought
penetrated the numbness slightly and he knew he had to
get out of here.
Zechs fell back through the entranceway and leaned
against the wall. He wished he didn't have to look.
But how else was he to find the way out. Some of these
door lead to other halls, some lead to things like he
had just found. He thanked his good memory that he
knew he could find where he had been already.
Hopefully that would let him find where he had to go.
If only he could get his bearings. If only...
He worked his way down to the next door. He winced
inwardly as he moved. His cuts were stinging still and
he really wished he could wash them out. Instead, he'd
let them bleed, hoping it would wash whatever it was
out of his system.
He paused, breathing deeply before the entrance and
let the numbness overtake him once again. Clutching
anger at the situation close, he could face anything.
This place was trying to hurt Duo, probably trying to
hurt Wufei and it had certainly tried to hurt him. The
last could be discounted, but for the others he could
feel the anger he needed to distance himself.
Zechs stepped through the door.
It was a room, another one, much smaller than the
last. In places the stone was black and scorched from
fire. Moans of pleasure, all female, echoed through
the room which smelled of sex. Beds of stone slid out
of rectangular holes in the walls. Women, hidden and
shrouded by white cloth, writhed seductively on them.
It was they who made the noise. They slid back into
their hiding place.
He moved to leave.
"Wait. Don't leave me here."
Zechs turned to the voice. The dark shape that had
been hidden at the back of the room.
"Who are you?" he asked, wary.
The figure came forward so he could see it. It was a
man, or had been. Not like Angelique, with her mockery
of beauty. This one was like an accident victim,
burned beyond recognition. But its eyes were alive,
and it spoke.
"Frank. My name is Frank."
***
His voice worked. The fact was almost surprising. It
had been so long since he had spoken, since he had
anyone to speak to, that he'd feared his words would
be unintelligible. But no, the man had understood him,
even if his speech had sounded strange to his own
ears, rough and hoarse.
Frank could see the wariness, especially since the guy
was armed, and from his condition the man had
obviously had a run in with SOMETHING. His clothing
was torn and stained with blood and other
unidentifiable liquids. The blood was the man's own.
The moans started again. He was used to it. He had
been here a long time. But his visitor wasn't. Blue
eyes flicked sideways momentarily.
"Don't worry about them. They're just here to tease
me. Part of my punishment. Look, but don't touch."
"Punishment? For what?"
For being a womanizing, adultering murderer and user
in life, he supposed. "My life."
The man nodded once, like he understood. Maybe he did,
at least some of it. He was obviously well dressed and
groomed under most other circumstances, perhaps to
attract women that Frank knew would flock to him. Like
they had to Frank's bad-boy and deliberately rugged
appearance.
And the thought struck him. A way to get out of here
and get what he wanted. To fix the damage that that
bitch Julia had caused.
For with the exception of those few cuts, his skin was
perfect. There would never be another chance like
this.
Now he just had to get him within reach. Frank was
already dead, he doubted that the gun would hurt him
much.
**Say something, Frank, anything. Get him
distracted.**
"Why are you here?" Actually, he was rather curious.
"I'm looking for a way out."
"I got out once. Then some stupid bitch sent me back
in exchange for her."
Kirsty, sweet little Kirsty. Bitch. She was the reason
he was here.
"But why are you HERE?" That wasn't what he'd meant at
all. How had he gotten so far unscathed, or nearly so?
"I don't know."
**Yes, think I'm not dangerous. Let me get just a bit
closer.**
The man seemed to have decided he wasn't much of a
threat. Frank moved closer.
"What happened to you with all that?" He made a
gesture with one hand to the injuries.
"Someone who called herself Angelique. One of the
Order of the Gash, I assume."
Order of the Gash? Ah, Cenobites. And he'd survived
it.
"That's all she did to you?" That seemed different
than he remembered. Once they got their hands on you,
there was no escape, no matter how far your thought
you'd run.
"That's all she had the chance to do. I killed her."
Killed a cenobite. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
Well, what did he have to lose.
"How?"
"Shot her in the head twice at close range." Calmly
answered. This man was a killer. Probably a
professional one.
**Nothing to lose, everything to gain. Remember
that.**
Closer. Closer.
It was a blur when he tried for it, going to fast to
really register except for the fact that things didn't
go as planned. He'd managed to get the man off the
stairs, but a kick to the head, directed at one of his
eyes, had made him release his hold. It was one of the
places he could still feel pain. There now appeared to
have some advantage to the lack of nerve endings where
they had been burned away. Instead of falling
completely, however, the man twisted like a cat midair
and landed on his feet. Fortunately, it was without
his weapon. It had landed on one of the women and was
pulled back out of reach.
"No. Damn you! I won't stay here," he practically
growled.
The man crouched in a ready position as Frank closed
in carefully. He didn't want to damage the skin more
than it had been already.
They fought for a moment. He knew had been right. This
was no amateur. But Frank was dead, that gave him an
advantage that the other couldn't match.
"Your skin. I'll have it. You won't stop me."
The other man didn't have a chance to reply.
He would have it, nothing could stop him, no matter
how good this guy was. Nothing.
Nothin...Gack! He reached his hands up to his throat
at the thing that wrapped around it and pulled him
back. Chains. No, not them. They were here.
He could just see the other make a strategic retreat.
Leaving him here. And a voice, one he didn't know,
didn't recognize anything about it at all except the
tone. Angry and possessive. Angry at him.
"Nobody touches what's mine without my say so."
***
"This way."
Wufei followed after Trowa and Quatre, constantly
looking behind them. He hoped Quatre was alright. He
could practically feel Trowa's concern as well as his
own. The tightness around the eyes, the occasional
glaze over of his expression as he fought some inner
demon and the way he kept chewing on his now bleeding
lower lip did not inspire confidence. Something was
very wrong. They had no choice, though. What else
could they do?
There was noise now, there were things ahead of them.
A moan, a scream, the repetitive hammering of some
tools, all were clear against the sound of their feet.
They turned the corner warily, but it was empty. That
did nothing to relieve him, since there was light
flickering from the one visible doorway.
"Are you sure there's no other way?" he whispered.
Quatre nodded in confirmation. His eyes were narrowed
in pain and his hands clenched onto Trowa's arm.
"They should be distracted. Just go quickly and
quietly."
Given the sounds, he didn't need to ask what they
would be distracted by.
***
William Bremand could not scream anymore, nor could he
hope for the release of unconsciousness. If such a
thing were possible here, he would have blacked out
long ago. His eyes rolled back in his head as he
avoided looking at what was left of his legs. The
zombies continued to saw, they were half way through
the bone. The other limb was already missing.
He gazed longingly at the door. If only he could still
run, if only he could still run. He didn't deserve
this. So, he had caused a few deaths in the name of
business. That's all it was, business. Not like this
torture. Except, that's what this was to them. He'd
begged and pleaded, to no avail.
Schruch.
One more stoke. One more slice.
Schruch.
And another and another.
That stupid puzzle. He should never have listened,
never have taken it, just dumped it with the body he'd
taken it from. That's what he should have done. But it
was so convenient. Business again, with his hands
clean. He hadn't forced anyone to open it, had he? No,
they'd done it themselves and left him free and clear.
He saw them then. Someone was walking by, ignoring
him. Not even looking in. They were human! Human, not
these demented freaks.
He tried to speak through his scratchy throat with a
voice that was gone.
"Help me."
It was just a breath of air. They didn't hear him.
Didn't stop.
"Help me. Help me. Help me."
The last one turned to him, a young Asian who probably
hadn't even had his last growth spurt yet. The boy's
eyes widened and left his, focusing on something else.
"Run," he heard the boy yell.
Schruch. They kept cutting.
***
Wufei yelled a warning. The thing was something he had
never imagined even in his darkest nightmares. Like a
scorpion with the mouth of a shark and claws that were
too much like human hands. Intelligence glimmered in
its eyes as it dropped its utensils of mutilation from
where it had been sewing something that he didn't even
want to think about.
It came through the doorway before he could follow his
companions, splitting them down the middle. Wufei
jumped backwards as it decided where to attack.
The thing turned and went after Trowa and Quatre. They
retreated, Trowa avoiding the claws and tail using his
acrobatic skill, occasionally getting a shot at it.
Wufei could not abandon them, he could not be so weak
and tried to follow and attack from behind, but it was
not to be.
Other things, these more human and in some way more
horrible for it, poured out of the doorway.
He shot the first one, then the second. They still
came forward, arms outstretched, like those monsters
in all those terrible early horror movies that Maxwell
had forced him to watch.
There were just too many, if they did not react to
anything. Perhaps if he did more damage.
One grabbed his arm and he could not get it loose. It
was too strong. Wufei instead shot it in the throat.
This time it gagged and let him free.
**So, they can be hurt.**
He used the same tactic again, trying to get through
the crowd. There were many, but they weren't bright.
He was almost through. Almost free to help the others.
His gun clicked. It was empty. **Ancestors, not now.**
How could he have forgotten to count his bullets at a
time like this?
But he twisted and dodged and ducked. And the hall was
empty in front of him. Wufei ran, he had to find Trowa
and Quatre.
The things behind him seemed to have thought they'd
done their duty and went back to business.
Wufei ran onwards. He looked down intersections, into
rooms, everywhere. But they were gone.
**Weakling. How could you have lost them too?**
Don't look with your eyes, Quatre had said. Wufei had
never been one for mysticism. The only thing he had
faith in was his ancestors and, at one point, Nataku.
He swallowed. How did one go about seeing without
eyes?
***
Zechs cursed himself under his breath. He should have
been more wary. Now he was unarmed. He would just have
to keep going, he had no choice.
The corridor was long and empty. It seemed to be
lighter at the end, but he knew that for the trick it
was now. A light at the end of the tunnel, just enough
to give hope, but it was false hope. Still, there had
to be something that would let him out, somewhere.
They had gotten in, they had to be able to get out.
Somewhere, the others were in the same predicament as
himself. They wouldn't be caught unawares like he had
been, he had to believe that. Had to have faith in
that, or there was no point. A small voice whispered
to him, asking him why it mattered if he got out or
not. Did he have anything to live for?
He ignored it as he always had since the end of the
war. That voice had plagued him for too long.
He turned a corner.
The hallway came to an abrupt end with another door.
Since there was no choice, he pushed it open.
And was blinded by light of the beyond.
TBC...
NOTES
Jack's first name is taken both from the obvious, and
is the name of the main character in An American
Werewold in London.
The rooms Zechs sees is taken from Songs of Metal and
Flesh, a Hellraiser comic. The transcript can be found
on the Hellbound Web.
Frank is from the first two Hellraiser movies.