100
Pains
"For in such things they took their joy, and strove to pacify an implacable obscure desire." – Clark Ashton Smith, "The Isle of the Torturers"
Miyako had a slight headache. It was barely noticeable, but it formed a consistent background to her chaotic impressions. She had been asleep for a long time, but seemed to have a vague sense of her external surroundings. It couldn't have fully been sleep, because she was apparently standing rather than lying down… but then it could all just be part of another dream. It felt less real than her recent nightmares had. Slowly, however, her sensations began to solidify, and at last she felt fully awake.
Still some doubt remained about the true state of things – a doubt often missing from the dreams. She didn't recognize this place, and not only because all she could see was pitch blackness. The atmosphere was uncomfortably cool despite its airless stillness. She wanted to curl up and hug herself for warmth, but could not because both her wrists were handcuffed, not to each other but to unseen structures on either side of her. The cuffs were locked in place somehow – she couldn't even slide them up or down.
When it became clear that she wasn't going anywhere, a sort of panic began to set in, though it was held back somewhat by her doubts as to whether any of this was real. Frantically she cast her mind back to whatever had come before, but a shroud of unreality remained over everything. She remembered the scene in the desert and what had happened to Hawkmon, but its nightmarish qualities made even it suspect. Everything had come to seem like a bad dream recently.
The silence started to tell on her. She wanted to shatter it with protests or cries for help, but there was no telling what sort of attention that would draw. This was obviously not a friendly place. Needing to do something, she strained hard against the handcuffs, but was rewarded only with the dismal scrape of metal on stone. No matter how far she leaned, how she pulled with her forearms, how she pushed against the stone floor with her sock-clad feet, there was no change.
Her breathing quickened, not entirely from effort. The question of what was real began to grow in significance. A nightmare was one thing, but if that was not what this was… if she had no chance of waking up… A scream began to form down in her throat. She wanted to stay quiet, but wasn't sure she could.
"Hawkmon?" Instead of a scream it was a whisper infused with a scream's emotion. She said it almost automatically, and even as she said it the focus of her fear shifted. That desert battle – had it really happened? If it had, she was doubly lost. She suddenly recalled the dream image of Sato Katsu allowing that last feather to fall and be dissolved. Was it true? Had all of her partner's unfailing gallantry and quiet support been brought to a sudden tragic end? She was no longer about to scream. In another moment she would begin to cry.
But before the tears had fully formed, she noticed an abrupt change. The darkness was no longer total. A gray dimness suffused the room, the stone walls of which Miyako now saw for the first time. At first she was too surprised to react, but with the return of vision came a heightened sense of her situation. Why she felt cold was partly answered. She apparently wore the clothing created for her whenever she entered the Digital World, but the vest over her thin shirt had been removed, and with a shock of dismay she realized that her baggy red pants were also missing, leaving her in the knee-length spats she wore as an undergarment.
She had no idea of what it all meant, and wasn't given time to puzzle it out. An aperture silently appeared and widened in the wall before her, forming a doorway for the creature that stood beyond it. Its rubbery covering matched its gray surroundings, and as it plodded slowly forward the circular lenses in its ghostly gasmask reflected Miyako's pallid figure. It stopped before her.
"What…?" She didn't know how to finish the question. There were so many things to ask and so much fear to prevent asking.
"Inoue Miyako," the thing said, in a voice like the harsh hiss of steam. "Welcome to this World of Darkness. Your hosts have business elsewhere, but will attend to you later. For now you are to know that you and the other Chosen Children will never escape this place. Also, that for the present you are to be subjected to experiences designed to pain your mind and senses in various ways. This experiment begins now."
Miyako made several abortive attempts to reply, even before the speech had ended, but the Digimon, if that's what it was, reacted to none of them. Part of her difficulty in responding was the sense she got that that no response was asked for. It was somehow like listening to a pre-recorded announcement over a PA system. But she had to say something after that terrible message.
"What— Hey!" No sooner had she broken the silence than the thing turned and began retracing its steps. "Wait! Don't leave me here! Where's everyone else?" But having spoken the creature was silent, and had soon disappeared in the darkness it had emerged from. Again Miyako pulled at her restraints, with as little success. As she did so she noticed something strange. The Digimon was apparently gone, but the doorway it had come through was continuing to widen. Why? Was she being taunted, or – a chill went through her – was something else coming to see her?
She stood still and listened. The footsteps of the being in the mask were no longer audible, but there did seem to be something faintly stirring in the blackness ahead. There was a gurgling, slopping sound like thick mud, together with an equally unpleasant metallic scraping that came at measured intervals. Slowly a bulky form resolved itself out of the shadow, and the thing came into the room.
Miyako squeaked and recoiled, not from fear so much as a visceral disgust. The creature was ugly enough to warrant it. It was like a moving blue mass of rotten material not quite meat nor rubber. A gaping maw hung open at the front below bulging, misaligned eyes, disclosing a red interior as moist and molten as the rest of the thing. But worse than its sheer ugliness was the overwhelming smell that came rolling into the room before it. That stench was like a compound of all lesser stenches, with organic decay mixed up with the smells of powerful chemicals.
The Raremon – Izumi-senpai could have named it for her – crawled forward on its claws to within less than a meter from where Miyako stood, shrinking as far back from it as the handcuffs would allow. She was glad to see it pause, worried about what might come next. It was bad enough to be near it and breathing its poisonous atmosphere, but what if it came closer? That mouth could swallow her whole.
What did come next was unexpected. The mouth clamped shut on air, and what might be called the throat below it bulged outward like a bullfrog's. And without further warning, the thing vomited. The chunks of greenish sludge hit the floor at Miyako's feet, hissing and steaming – if the flow had touched it could have melted her flesh to the bone. But she had no reason to be grateful. The pile on the floor had been sitting within that rotting body, and had the same stench greatly intensified. On its own it might have gagged her, but worse were the fumes that rose from the slime, making her eyes sting and water, and her throat burn. There followed a fit of coughing that shook her entire frame as it fought with the urge to retch.
When the fit began to pass and Miyako had regained some control, she threw her head back as the only available escape from the toxic gas. As she peered up at the ceiling through misty eyes, there was an odd sound of friction down low, followed by a thick gulping noise as nauseating as the smell. Then she heard again the liquid heaving and scrape of the Raremon's claws across the floor, and was relieved that it seemed to be leaving. Still, even after silence fell and the effects of the sludge had begun to wear off, she remained with her head back to avoid another inhalation. She stayed that way until her neck began to hurt, then finally, cautiously returned it to a natural position.
Yes, it was gone, and had taken the steaming gunk with it, though something of the smell and the toxic fumes remained. Closing her eyes and holding her breath for intervals made it tolerable. But her relief was tempered by the knowledge that eventually some new and equally terrible thing would approach. In fact, it wasn't long before she heard it coming. Miyako opened her eyes to see the thing in the rubber suit reentering the room, its gasmask apparently protecting it from the effects of the Raremon's lingering atmosphere.
As it came closer, she saw that it was holding something in its outstretched hand. She couldn't tell what it was. It was smaller than the misshapen paw that carried it, and its color was a dull yellow that would have been bright in the Digital World. Whatever it was, she didn't want anything to do with it.
"H-hey," she said, her throat still sore. "How long am I going to be stuck here?" She said it without really thinking, but the question assumed great significance as it left her mouth. How much would she be put through, unable to get away? What if she got tired and wasn't able to sit or lay down? She noticed that she was beginning to feel a little hungry. When would there be food brought to her? Would there be food brought to her? Would she be here forever? Would she die here? "Please—" she stammered, but the thing in the mask interrupted her.
"What follows is also of a physical nature. Later the ordeals will have more variety."
Miyako's eyes, misty with fear, fell again on what the creature was holding. She started when the thing's yellow surface was broken by the appearance of two red slits – its own eyes, which, together with the hint of a mouth, expressed a sardonic malignancy startling in something so small. So, it too was a Digimon. The Troopmon turned over its hand, and the little monster hit the stone floor with a quiet smack.
Having made its delivery the Troopmon turned and again walked slowly out of the room. Miyako looked down to where the little blob had fallen, but it had moved. She realized where it had gone when she felt it crawl atop her left foot. Her instinctive reaction was to kick in an effort to throw it off, but it stuck fast to her sock. Like the Raremon it was in a state somewhere between solid and liquid. Either this gave it adhesive qualities or it could somehow manipulate its body to grip surfaces, because none of her efforts managed to dislodge it.
After a few little kicks Miyako paused to rest. And then the thing began to move. The feel of it crawling up her sock made her uncomfortable, but then it came into contact with her bare skin. The pain didn't begin immediately. For a moment all she felt on her shin was the creature's clammy surface. Then that cold wetness began to burn.
The thing was acidic. Caustic liquid seeped slowly out of its body without ceasing, and wherever the creature passed the greasy trail it left behind ate into Miyako's skin. It wasn't powerful enough to dissolve flesh, but it hardly felt that way. Now Miyako screamed, as the poison sank in and replaced her nerves with fire. The effect was only temporary in any one place, but the Digimon continued its climb, drawing the pain up after it. Its path meandered – it worked its way around her leg as it ascended, forming an agonizing spiral, and none of her shaking and writhing could detach it.
She hoped that there would be a reprieve once it was no longer touching her skin. Finally it had crawled up to her knee, and rested there atop the fabric of her spats. Miyako, too, stopped moving, and looked down at it. Its expression was the same – her tears didn't prevent her seeing the mockery in its red eyes. The pain recommenced. The acid had soaked quickly through the thin fabric that was her only defense. It started climbing again.
The minutes stretched on, and still it crawled – now in front, now behind, but always upwards, and her shirt gave no more protection than her spats. Eventually Miyako could no longer make a sound, but only wept, half standing and half hanging from the handcuffs. Finally, after what seemed like hours of torture, there came merciful unconsciousness.