The Final Freedom Chapter 2: Paladin

"What do you know then?" The sudden arch in her voice feels like a slap, so cool was her demeanor until now.

You pause and inhale deeply. You squeeze your eyes so hard that flashes of false color wink in and out. Your head still throbs, but beyond the pain, above the fear, you search for something, anything.

"I don't - Ah!" A face bursts through the mental fog. The mouth and nose are covered by a stained surgical mask, and a blinding light at the center of the forehead denies you any further description.

"What? What?" Claes sweeps the hallway with the flashlight mounted on her pistol. Her motion is neither languid nor hurried.

"I … I think I remember something. I remember a…" You press your forefinger against your pounding temple. "A face. A mask, really."

"What kind of mask?"

You struggle for the words. The most direct name, the one in your thoughts but a heartbeat ago, it eludes you. "It's … it's that cloth kind. White, usually, but this one had brown stains on it. Uh, it covers the mouth, the mouth and nose. It's a rectangle, and it... and it…"

"Is it a medical mask? Like the kind they use at hospitals?"

"Yeah. That's it." You nod. You nod and note that your brown tresses are too limp, too flat to bounce like they normally do. Instead, they hang below your sundress' neckline in front, and they remain pasted to your bare back under the scratchy woolen blanket. "That's it," you whisper, some palpable yet unformed dread receding.

"It was stained, you say? Brown stains? Were they reddish-brown?"

"Uh-huh." Your stomach tightens, your shoulders hunch.

"Sounds like a surgeon's mask, then."

At those words images, sounds, sensations stampede over you. Screams, multiple voices- The high-pitched whine of a power- An array of lights, with petals of mirrors over- A burning in the crook of your elbow, and the sight of- The sight of another girl's wrists, the skin worn angry and red from struggling against- A burning from inside, searing, incinerating-

"-you stand? What happened?"

You open your eyes as the flood of hated memories fade. You're on the floor, curled on your side. Your knees are drawn to your chest and your hands are balled into rock-hard fists in front of your face. Out of shame, you avoid Claes' outstretched hand. Her composure, her confidence, they are so strong, so brilliant that they make you feel as if you would diminish her with your touch.

"I'm… I'm okay. I remembered a lot of things when you said… when you said…" You look at her, a sliver of your heart hoping she'll say those words again, and the vast remainder steeling itself for the memories they'll bring.

She looks at you, and her eyes warm from their focused scowl. A candle's flame of humanity warms you from her gaze. "It's all right. You don't have to say it, and I won't say it either. Just tell me what you saw."

You deflate, the stress escaping your body with a prolonged exhalation. "It's more than just what I saw, there was also stuff I heard, and stuff I…"

Ξ§§§Ξ

As you both venture further into the pitch-black hallway, Claes listens to you as you attempt to describe each shattered shard of memory. She is silent. You imagine she nods, she gives you encouraging glances, but she is silent. She no longer tries to fill in your stammering sentences.

You realize your gratitude to her is growing, both for her kindness, and her patience in this matter. It was already substantial given her confidence and competence.

And you realize you've tried to describe the same scene three times, and failed again at the critical point. "Uh, that's all I can remember for now. I'll uh, I'll tell you if anything else comes back to me."

She nods. By the light of the flashlight splashing on the nearby wall, you see she has her eyes fixed far ahead, her mouth in a tight line. Her hair is tucked under a black hat, and the light hints at utilitarian pants tucked into boots and a lined jacket. You can't make out the colour, but the shapes and lines alone lead you to think she is not wearing anything bright or flowery.

As you continue to step forward, you look at yourself. Bare feet, a white sundress with a flower over the belly, and a blanket. The contrast could not be greater.

"Uh, Claes? Do you know how to get out of here?"

The flashlight swings back toward you, blinding you. You raise your arm to shield your eyes, but instead of the blobs of false colour, you instead imagine seeing irritation on her face.

The light swings back the way you are heading. "No. I'm hoping that we'll see an exit stairway at some point."

You nod, feeling silly for asking the obvious question. "Stairway? Why a stairway?"

The light doesn't sweep back this time. Instead, it remains fixed down the dusty hallway. "I fell. That's how I ended up here. I was on a … I was trying to follow someone and fell down a trapdoor. I think we're two or three floors below street level."

"Oh."

"You don't remember how you got here, do you?"

You fight the pain, the fear, the confusion and dive into your memories, fragmented as they are. Nothing. "No, I'm sorry. I remember waking up in that cell." You shudder and wrap the blanket tighter around yourself. "Thank you for getting me out of there, Claes. You probably saved my life."

"Very likely."

You hear a tightness in her last sentence. You debate asking, and think better of it when her flashlight sweeps across a scene so horrifying the glimpse of it is seared into your vision. "Go back! Over there!"

Claes obliges, and directs her lamp at another cell. Just like yours. In one corner is a bucket. Just like yours. In the center of the room is the face-down desiccated corpse of a young girl, her dress still trying to show its original yellow hue in spite of the dirt and discoloration. Her hair is red, curly, and neck length. One hand is under her body, and the other is stretched at the bars. She looks like she was no more than eight.

You recoil and find yourself stepping back. Only the darkness and fear of being too far from Claes and her illumination keeps you from fleeing.

She maintains a steady hand, slowly studying the cell. Trying to be worthy of her effort, you swallow your revulsion and terror. You follow the slowly moving pool of light as it illuminates that girl's resting place.

The bricks and mortar are plain - dark red and off white. The bars are black, with orange growths where rust has started to invade. The cell is easily twice your height, and is roughly that span in width and depth as well. It lacks any furnishings, anything besides the bucket. There are no windows, no light fixtures.

In the cell, there is the bucket, and there is the body.

"That could have been me." The words exit as naturally as breathing.

"Very likely."

You blink, and go back on your recent decision. "What do you mean?"

"I've found at least a dozen of these cages. Five of them, now six, were occupied. You're the only one I found alive."