Omega [REDUX]

Chapter 20

Where am I?

She cast a glance around the area, her mind still groggy and her eyes still unable to process the scenes around her. She was confused. The room was mostly dark, but fiery liquid was visible around the room in various location. It was hot. Vehemently so. The orange, pulsating glow of the room seemed to be a physical, visible manifestation of the heat that assailed her skin. She could not fathom why she was here.

Nor why her hands were restrained.

She turned her head, her long blonde hair swiping the fresh, bloodied wounds on her body, causing her to wince as needles of pain jabbed along her collarbone and breasts. Ignoring her nakedness, she took in the sight of her hands engulfed in the embrace of large metal clamps, the skin around the metal red and sore. She wasn't surprised by the redness or the soreness, because both were common. She was more surprised by the clamps. They also weren't just on her hands; they were also on her legs.

She was fully restrained, completely unable to move. She looked beneath her. A bloodied grate rested where the floor should have been, covering a deep dark hole. She swallowed.

Why am I here?

What are they going to do today?

A shudder travelled down her body, fear coursing through her veins as the orange lights forced her to squint in an attempt to block them out.

This was not good. She'd already formed resistances to the various treatments she was subject to every day of her life. The flesh wounds didn't hurt as much anymore. The screaming and yelling burdened her less. Even the agony of her augmentation, the torture that they'd put her through to give her abilities far beyond the average human, was beginning to fade.

But if they had gone to the extent of restraining her with huge metal clamps, then there was likely something new she would be subject to today.

Worse than what I have now? Worse than what I face every time I open my eyes?

Her childish mind struggled to cope with the notion; what could be possibly more painful than what she was subject to every single day? She resisted the urge to whimper, because down here, wherever she was, weakness was not to be tolerated. Weakness was to be eradicated.

Harshly.

She heard creaking of a metal door, amidst the hissing and dripping of the room around her, bombarding her ears whose eardrums were unaccustomed to the sound. It scared her; everything about where she was scared her, and she was terrified that something worse would happen.

She watched the large, burly man in a grey torn shirt stride across the room. This was a face she had never seen before; she was used to seeing Officer Weselton scream at them, beat them with stun batons or other weapons, but not him. Was he here to remove the clamps? Elsa shifted uncomfortably where she was, and deiced that possibility was very unlikely.

His footsteps continued with his passage, heavy boots thumping with every step he took across the room. Her eyes followed him, trailing his figure to a grey table that was oddly professional; unlike the rest of the room, made of machinery worn from use, this table was fresh, sharp, almost surgical.

Surgical.

Her eyes widened as the man turned around, something in his hand. The tool was blackened from burning and use. She could see every single metal flake that still stuck stubbornly to the shaft, her enhanced vision not helping to allay her fears in anyway. The shape on the end could not be seen in the dim light, and for a moment she believed herself to be beaten again.

Then the man turned away from her, and thrust the tool into the fire.

Her eyes widened. She knew what was to happen. But at that point, she didn't do anything about it. After all, what could she do? She was destined to suffer this treatment. She was restrained by clamps she couldn't even hope to overcome. Even what semblance of powers she had would not save her in this weakened, battered state.

The man drew the irons from the fire. On its tip was a brightly glowing orange snowflake.

Something snapped inside her. She let out a guttural scream, spasming and struggling against the clamps as the man took a step towards her. She felt her hands sputter with magic, icy blue crystals flying across the room, and then a valve must have come loose, because her icy magic suddenly began to flow forth freely from her palms, unrestrained, just like the inhuman screams that escaped her mouth. As if her actions would ward off the pain that was to come.

There was no such respite. The man stepped out of her peripheral vision, and sheer panic overcame her, whiting out every other thought in her brain. Then even panic was wiped out as the scalding irons were pressed into her back, the searing heat scarring not just her skin but her young mind, the excruciating pain dashing any hope of resistance. The fire in her back engulfed her being, her limbs, her body; even the scraps of her soul, thought to be safe from harm, was not spared.

For a moment, she didn't exist.

Only the pain did.

Cold sweat dripped from her forehead, and froze into ice as the memory of her branding began to fade.

She watched Officer Weselton shiver in spite of his thick fur coat, his hard gaze turning into one of fury. Inwardly she was satisfied. She might not be able to form ice hard enough to withstand a laser beam, but she could definitely give the officer a run for his money. She knew what was coming, even before she saw him step towards her, stun baton in hand. She was used to it. 18 years of the same thing over and over again.

First was the dreaded boot, connecting with a cheek and knocking her over. She felt his rough hands grab the bloodied collar of her shirt, lifting her to her shuddering feet, only for the stun baton to connect with her torso, sending a numbing jolt of electricity through her body. The air was forced out of her lungs; before she could recover the baton struck her head, sending her spinning to the ground once more.

"I," Officer Weselton snarled as he delivered kick after kick, "asked you, to freeze ice!"

One of his kicks drew blood; Elsa could feel the copper taste in her mouth before she was knocked over again.

"I didn't ask you, to freeze ME!" Weselton piled on top of her, slamming the baton into her and letting in run. Her body spasmed and shuddered as electricity coursed through her bruised and broken body, but she made no attempt to resist. It was futile, after all. So she simply welcomed the pain. "Do you even understand basic instructions?! You are EMPYREAN!"

She made no attempt to respond, only to struggle to push herself back to her feet as EMPYREAN continued ringing in her ears.

Conceal, don't… feel. Conceal… don't feel… She willed the mantra back into her head. The pain subsided.

She'd endured 18 years of agony, and the searing of her back from irons that must have come straight from hell. This was nothing to her, not anymore. Pain was no longer a tangible concept for her; it was a relative term.

And then suddenly her arm gave way.

Her entire body's energy sapped away like water rushing down a sink. She couldn't move, blink, even breathe.

That was going to kill her.

Only her eyes could show the panic the felt inside, only the blue irises in her eyeballs could be any indication of how afraid she was, because she was completely paralyzed, both by fear and by biological constraints. Evidently, Weselton noticed this, because she was no longer receiving blows and kicks.

A faraway voice called out: "Edison! Revive her!" She could not respond, not in this state. She would have wanted Edison simply defy the order, to just let her die, to spare her the suffering of coming back to face this life once more.

But no. Edison was far too scared to defy Weselton's orders. Not that she expected him to; Weselton hit really hard, and Edison was too young to be expected to have such a train of thought. Even with her dying breaths she could still feel herself being rolled over, albeit numbed and distanced from reality. Her fading vision captured the black mass kneeling over her. She could picture Edison's black hair and panicked features as he rushed to execute the necessary procedure.

Oh, Edison. If he was to be in her last, dying thoughts, it was a worthy enough death for her. She was content. But she knew the extent of Edison's skill, and even when he was flustered or enraged or grieving he still had a high chance of reviving someone. "Clear!" she heard someone yell from a faraway place.

Her chest heaved, and jolted as electricity coursed through her. Nothing changed. She still couldn't move. Already her vision had begun to turn red.

"Clear!" A second, more potent bolt of electricity raced through her. She twitched, but nothing more. Her lungs began to burn. She was still dying.

"CLEAR!" She heard Edison yell in defiance as his already black silhouette began to blur further in her vision, a third bolt electrifying even the deepest vestiges of her body. She gasped for breath, her limbs coming alive in a defensive mechanism, almost to ward off incoming attacks that did not exist.

Edison was kneeling beside her, his hands on her chest, which he removed tentatively once he was sure he'd done his job right. Coughing, he pushed himself to his feet, albeit shakily so. Reviving her must have taken more effort than he had anticipated and prepared himself for.

"Get up," she heard Weselton spit.

Wearily, and painfully, she applied force through her limbs, barely managing to rise to a bent-over position of standing. Weselton nodded towards the door of the compound she resided in for the past 17 years, indicating for her to get out, for some unfathomable reason she was not about to argue with.

She stepped towards the exit, away from Edison, and the rain that had begun to pour into the compound, pulling aside the heavy metal door and entering the pitch black corridor.

How long had she been here?

Her eyes opened wearily, the flashback of her revival fading as her awakening began. Her back could feel cushioning in the seat she sat in. But she was strapped into it, for some reason. She couldn't think of why. Her aching body responded to her command as she reached into the blackness of her surroundings. Her hand struck metal.

Could… this be… a cell? No, she thought, noticing the whirring sound in her ear and the cramped nature of her enclosure, but was far too famished and delirious to think clearly about her observations. Whatever it was, she was in no condition to get out of her confinement. Weselton had kept her at making block after block of ice for the past 328 hours without sleep or food, pushing her to the very boundaries of her already enhanced endurance.

She was weak. So very weak.

So very sleepy.

Then came a loud thump.

Then a plunge.

It caught her off guard; her stomach reached her throat as her plunge continued. Frantically she grasped at the straps still restraining her to the seat. This is… no cell, she realized, her mind overwhelmed by hunger, exhaustion, and now nausea. This is a drop pod.

Were they going to kill her? Her mind entertained the tantalizing possibility of escape, but she decided against it; drop pods were already heavily enforced, so little things short of anti-aircraft fire could take her out, and even anti-air turrets required orbital relays to track drop pods. And there was no point in doing so either, not when they had wasted 19 years of effort and punches on her. Not when they had wasted extensive reconstruction surgery on her.

So something else was happening.

But she couldn't think what for.

The pod slammed into the ground, jolting her vision into a black blur. Her enhanced vision struggled to compensate, but to no avail. She had no available energy reserves for her body to draw from, to fall back on. Slowly, agonizingly, she unbuckled herself from the seat, squinting in an attempt to see clearly, fumbling for the pod hatch release. She found the button, and thumbed it clumsily, wincing at the loud pod release discharge.

Light poured in. If she was blinded by darkness before, now she was blinded by whiteness and clawed at her pupils, pricking them over and over again. Instinctively, she raised her hand to shield her eyes, her brain overwhelmed by the sensory stimuli.

Can't… think… straight…

And then the screaming started.

She didn't understand. Why was there any screaming? What was going on? She placed a firm grip on the heated metal of the pod, ignoring the burning sensation on her palm as she attempted to exit the pod.

She didn't get far; trying to push herself into a standing position only caused her to lose her balance. She toppled facedown into the ground, her nose connecting with hard asphalt, drawing blood. Ripples of nausea washed through her head, setting off agonizing headaches. The screaming wouldn't stop.

Conceal, don't feel.

Conceal, don't… feel.

Conceal… don't…. feel…

She forced herself to look up.

No less than 12 black, blurry shadows stood above her, menacing and malicious, almost waiting for her to make a move. Fear gripped her heart like a predator's deathly grasp, and her breath hitched. No. I… can't… move… Panic began to fill her, and she began to drown in it. She had no refuge.

Somewhere faraway she thought she heard the words, "Stay where you are! Hands behind your head!" She shook her head. There was no reasoning with black shadows, not the ones that remained motionless before her, almost surrounding her in a formation.

She glanced down at the asphalt, heart racing. Please… don't hurt me…

A layer of frost had begun to form upon the ground, growing thicker every second. A snowflake landed in her platinum blonde curls.

I don't have a choice.

She saw one of the black shadows move cautiously, uncomfortably.

She rushed the shadows. Adrenaline filled her veins as she leapt from where she once knelt, her vision sharpening and her limbs charged with energy. The blurred shadows turned into black, humanoid shapes, armed with weapons – guns – of some kind. But at that point, it didn't matter.

She watched the first bullets turn into blurs as they flew miserably off target, crashing into one of her adversaries, her hand sending a bolt of ice straight through his heart. Not bothering to review her handiwork, she conjured up a shield of ice, staggering with effort as a leadstorm of death slammed into it. She let the first shield fly, slamming into two black shadows, and quickly shot off two ice bolts into another pack of shadows. The resulting force knocked them off their feet, and she heard their screams merge into the background noise.

Three shadows dived at her simultaneously. She sidestepped two, but lashed out with her leg to catch the third one in the head. She heard the satisfying cracking of bone as her foot connected his skull. She spun, giving her enough space to fire off more ice bolts with increasing potency, catching one of her adversaries head on. The last shadow charged her, but she deflected one punch, then another, and another, and finally scored a solid uppercut, her fist denting the hard metal as the punch connected.

Something was off. She couldn't tell what.

Right now, being accurate about what exactly was going on was the least of her problems. More shadows were closing in.

A full-scale blizzard slammed into where she was standing. She staggered, but kept her balance, fending off dying, weak attempts to harm her with quick blasts to the head. Amidst the flurry of white around her, larger black shapes began to appear, the faint sound of rubber screeching reaching her ears. The large shadows split into smaller segments, threatening to overwhelm her with sheer numbers. Another bout of panic swept over her exhausted body. She clenched her fists, willing the blizzard around her to grow stronger, almost as if to ward off her adversaries, to tell them to go away.

Please… go… away…

Why… are… you… here…

She collapsed to her knees, her energy spent, her vision fading again. The shadows surrounded her, unmoving.

This was it.

At long last.

Death.

And then she caught a glint of light on one of the shadows.

Something was wrong, she realized. Something was terribly wrong; shadows didn't glint, or gleam, they absorbed light.

What… the hell…? She willed herself to crawl forward, the howling in her ears beginning to die down. The shadows remained there, motionless. Not even a single twitch as she moved towards them ever so slowly and painfully.

Need… to… verify… situation…

Her hand slipped. Her face hit the ground. She noticed the pain first, then the fact that the ground had become solid ice.

Oh no.

A sickening feeling began to form in the pit of her stomach. Something was definitely, terribly wrong. Fear gripped her heart as she tried to scramble to her feet, ignoring the phantom swords that jabbed at her muscles and the excruciating pain that wracked her body; she had to find out what was going on. Her vision clearing just a little, she stumbled over to the nearest shadow, who remained unmoving in front of her.

She placed her hand on the shadow, her knees giving way. But the contact with the shadow, and a small glance, was all that was needed to tell her everything.

It wasn't a shadow.

It was a black armoured soldier.

And he was frozen solid.

She tried to catch her breath. No, she couldn't have. She only called in a blizzard. She didn't want a fucking ice age to hit this place—

Wait.

I can't hear the screaming.

I can't hear any more screaming.

Did I—

No.

No.

Did I really freze—

—everyone—

Her upper body, now completely sapped by energy, didn't stand a chance against the tsunami of horror that overwhelmed her. Guilt, agony and fear slammed into her like a truck, and the only word that repeated in her damaged mental state was EMPYREAN EMPYREAN EMPYREAN EMPYREAN EMPYREAN—

She blacked out even before she hit the icy ground.