Chapter 3: Awakening

I open my eyes to darkness.

For a moment, I wonder if I'm still trapped in the endless torment of Sullivan's Excruciator, the shadows pressing in on all sides. My heart races, a panicked beat echoing in my ears. But then I realize—this darkness is different. It's calm, still, not the chaotic abyss I remember.

I blink, and the faintest glimmer of light traces the edges of the ceiling above me. My eyes adjust slowly, pulling shapes from the gloom. I'm lying on a cot, the thin fabric pressing uncomfortably against my back. The air is cool, carrying a sterile scent that fills my nose—antiseptic, with a hint of something metallic.

I try to sit up, but my body protests. A deep ache settles in my bones, and my muscles feel like lead. My left arm—the augmetic—whirs softly as I move it, the servos responding with their usual efficiency. But it feels heavier than before, like it's trying to drag me back down. I lift it slowly, watching the fingers flex and curl with perfect precision. The metal gleams faintly in the dim light.

But the rest of me... the rest of me feels wrong.

I glance down at myself, the thin shift I'm wearing barely covering the pale expanse of my skin. Shadows accentuate the sharp angles of my ribs and hips. My left arm, once strong from endless chores and training, looks frail. I run my fingers over it—chromatic digits over my real arm—and feel the lack of substance, the way the skin hangs slightly, the bones prominent beneath.

Panic flutters in my chest once more. What happened to me?

I swing my legs over the side of the cot, feet touching the cold floor. The chill shoots up through me, and I shiver. I attempt to stand, but my knees buckle, and I grab the edge of the cot to keep from falling. The augmetic arm doesn't help; it only adds imbalance, pulling me sharply to one side.

"Emperor..." I whisper, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar. It scratches at my throat, dry and unused.

How long have I been here?

I take a cautious step forward, legs trembling with the effort. Each movement feels alien, as if my body is no longer mine. I catch sight of something on my skin—a dark line jagged across my palm. Holding my hand up, I trace the scar with a metal fingertip. The skin is rough and uneven, a stark contrast to the surrounding flesh.

Memories crash into me.

The burning pipe. Pressing it against my palm, the searing pain. The need to purge the mark—the twisted rune carved there by Lucious. The Excruciator, Sullivan! I close my eyes, the phantom pain flaring anew. My forehead throbs in sympathy, and I reach up, fingers finding another scar, raw and raised.

I move to the small sink in the corner, gripping the edges for support. A tarnished mirror hangs above it, and I catch my reflection—gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes shadowed with exhaustion. My hair hangs limp and uneven around my face.

I stare at myself, taking in the network of scars etched into my emaciated skin. One on my shoulder, another along my forehead. Each one a reminder of that night, of the darkness that tried to consume me.

But I'm alive.

Somehow.

I turn on the tap, the pipes groaning before a thin stream of water sputters out. Cupping my hands, I splash my face, the cold biting into my skin. It wakes me up a little more, clears some of the fog from my mind.

Looking around the room, I take in my surroundings. It's a cell—there's no mistaking that. The walls are bare metal, rivets lining the seams. No windows, only a heavy door set flush with the wall. A table bolted to the floor stands in the center, a single chair tucked neatly beneath it. Beside the sink and the cot, there's a small toilet in the opposite corner, no partition for privacy.

On the table lies a book. Even from here, I can read the title embossed on the cover: The Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield. Next to it, a blank notebook and three pens are arranged with meticulous precision.

Why am I here?

I push away from the sink, making my way unsteadily to the table. Each step is deliberate, my muscles protesting but obeying. I pull out the chair and sink into it, the metal cold against my legs. Reaching out, I run my fingers over the cover of the book. The raised lettering is smooth, the pages crisp and unblemished.

I open it, the spine cracking softly. The familiar words greet me, passages I've heard recited countless times by Sister Helena, now in physical form. Teachings of faith, duty, and obedience. I flip through the pages, the scent of fresh paper mingling with the sterile air.

Why leave this here for me?

I glance at the notebook. Its pages are blank, the paper thick and inviting. The pens are simple, utilitarian. I pick one up, feeling its weight in my hand. For a moment, I consider writing something—anything—but words escape me.

Setting the pen down, I lean back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. Questions swirl in my mind. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is Valeria's voice, her song soothing me as darkness closed in. I recall the scent of lavender, the soft touch of her hand.

I was dying.

Was that a dream?

I press a hand to my chest, feeling the steady thump of my heart. It's real. I'm real. But everything else feels uncertain.

Time. How much time has passed?

I look at my hands again, noting the thinness of my wrists, the way the veins stand out beneath the skin. My nails are clean but brittle, edges rough. My gaze travels down my body, noting the way the shift hangs loosely, the fabric barely touching me.

It must have been weeks. Maybe months.

But why? Why keep me alive? Why heal me?

A chill runs through me at the thought that perhaps they didn't heal me at all—that this is some afterlife, a penance for my sins. But the ache in my muscles, the cold seeping into my bones—it's too tangible to be anything but real.

I reach up to touch the scar on my forehead again, fingers tracing the uneven line. Beneath it, I can almost feel a faint pulsing, like the echo of the mark that was once there.

A shudder passes through me.

Am I still tainted?

The thought creeps in, unwelcome and insistent.

What if the corruption never left? What if it burrowed deeper, hiding beneath the charred surface? I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms.

"Contempt," I whisper, the word a fragile shield against the encroaching fear. Sister Helena's lesson echoes in my mind—contempt for the heretic, the mutant, the daemon.

But what if the heretic is me?

I shake my head, trying to dispel the notion. No. I fought it. I burned the marks away. I endured the pain, the interrogation. I held on.

Didn't I?

I push back from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sudden noise startles me, and I freeze, listening. Silence presses in, thick and unbroken. No hum of the excruciator, no shouting voices. Just the sound of my own breathing, ragged and uneven.

I stand, moving towards the door. There's no handle, no visible means of opening it from this side. I press my ear against the cold metal, straining to hear anything beyond.

Silence, followed by nothing.

Stepping back, I study the seams, looking for any weakness. My augmetic arm might be strong enough to force it open, but in my current state, I doubt I have the strength to even try. Frustration wells up, and I slam my metal fist against the door. The clang echoes in the small room, fading into the silence.

"Is anyone there?" I call out, my voice cracking. "Hello?"

Silence.

I feel a pang of desperation. Am I truly alone here?

Turning away, I let my gaze sweep over the room once more. There's a small vent near the ceiling, barely large enough to fit my hand through. I drag the chair beneath it, climbing up to peer inside. Darkness stretches beyond, the air faintly cooler as it brushes against my face.

"Hello?" I whisper into the void.

No response.

Climbing down, I slump onto the cot, pulling my knees to my chest. The fabric of the shift offers little warmth, and I rub my arms to ward off the chill, glad of the minute heat generated by the augmetic's power plant. My stomach growls, a sharp reminder of how empty it is.

When was the last time I ate?

As if in answer, a faint hiss sounds from the corner. I look up to see a small panel sliding open near the floor. A tray is pushed through, laden with simple fare—a bowl of thin porridge, a piece of hard bread, a cup of water, and, seemingly out of place, an unopened tube of protein paste.

I stare at it, a mix of relief and suspicion coursing through me. Pushing myself up, I approach cautiously. The panel snaps shut as I reach it, the seam almost invisible against the wall.

Picking up the tray, I carry it to the table. The porridge is lukewarm, the bread stale, the protein paste utterly bland, but I don't care. I eat ravenously, the food sitting heavy in my stomach. The water is cool, soothing my parched throat.

As I eat, I consider my situation. Someone is watching. Providing for me. But they remain unseen, unheard.

Why the isolation?

I recall stories whispered among the novices—tales of penitents locked away to contemplate their sins, or initiates tested in solitude to prove their devotion. Is this a trial? A punishment? Or something worse… permanent…

I glance at the book again. The Rule of the Sororitas. Perhaps they expect me to study, to reflect, learn?

Setting the empty tray aside, I open the book once more. The pages blur before me, the words swimming. I try to focus, forcing myself to read aloud.

"In the God-Emperor's name, we serve. Through faith and fire, we cleanse the heretic and the unclean. Discipline is our shield; righteousness our blade."

The unfamiliar passages bring a measure of comfort. I read on, losing myself in the doctrines and hymns, the beauty of litany and verse. Time slips by, unmarked.

Eventually, fatigue pulls at me. I close the book, placing it neatly back on the table. The cot beckons, and I lie down, staring up at the featureless ceiling.

Sleep doesn't come easily. My mind churns with unanswered questions, fears lurking at the edges of my thoughts.

What if they never let me out?

I turn onto my side, curling into a ball. The scars on my body throb faintly, reminders of wounds and tortures that should have killed me. I run a finger over the one on my shoulder, feeling the raised skin. Beneath it, a phantom itch, as if something still lingers.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the sensation away.

"Contempt," I murmur. "Contempt…"

I repeat the word until my thoughts blur and darkness finally takes me.

I'm jolted awake by a soft sound—a faint click. Sitting up, I rub my eyes, trying to orient myself. The room remains the same, dim and unchanging. I don't know how long I've slept.

The tray is gone. I didn't hear anyone enter.

Swinging my legs over the side of the cot, I stand, testing my strength. My muscles protest slightly less this time, a minor improvement, probably the food. I walk the perimeter of the room, counting my steps. Twenty paces long, Ten paces wide.

No windows. No clocks. No way to measure time.

Back at the table, I pick up the notebook. Flipping it open, I find the pages blank, pristine. I tap the pen against the paper, contemplating.

Perhaps I can keep track of the days. Mark the passages of time, record my thoughts. Perhaps that's what they're waiting for, to see what I write, to see what I do, a test, and with it, the hope that I could pass. Should I write? Do I dare reveal my own thoughts and commit them to paper? What sort of man is Faust, my assumed jailer? Did he leave these for me, or did Sister Helena have a hand in this?

My head begins to ache with the questions.

I begin to write, the pen scratching softly.

"Day One? I don't know how long I've been here. I woke up weak, scarred, but alive. The room is a cell—plain, cold. I am alone."

I pause, the words feeling inadequate.

"Why am I here?"

I stare at the question, hoping for an answer that doesn't come.

Setting the pen down, I rest my head in my hands. The silence presses in, heavy and oppressive.

I need to stay focused. To remain strong. No. To become strong again.

I stare down at my atrophied muscles. The base of strength is there, but worn away by disuse, perhaps by malnutrition?

The question rises in my mind again. How long?

I huff a breath out through my nose. It doesn't matter. If I live through this ordeal I will come out the other side fit to fight and serve Sister Helena. If I am to be isolated, with no one, then I will study these holy words, I will maintain this body of flesh which is the Emperor's tool. I will memorize. I will exercise. I will train. I will not give in to fear or loneliness. I will hold onto contempt, even if it becomes contempt for myself.

Yes.

"Sister Helena believes in me, she must, or else why save me from Sullivan, why heal me? "I write, feeling better as I commit the words to paper. "I will hold onto that hope, no matter how long I'm here."

Pushing aside the notebook, I stand and begin a series of simple exercises—stretches, bends, anything to regain some strength. My body moves sluggishly, but I persist, counting each repetition.

As I work, I take frequent breaks as exhausted limbs burn and threaten to give out completely. I begin to read aloud passages from the book, letting the unfamiliar words find purchase in my mind.

"Faith is the soul's anchor amidst the storm. Discipline tempers the spirit against corruption."

This is a holy book. This is the book by which Sister Helena acts and finds her authority. These are the Emperor's words spoken through the saint and those who came after her. I will read them, I will embody them, I will prove that I am not a heretic!

Sweat beads on my forehead, and my limbs tremble with effort. After only minutes I collapse back onto the chair, breathless but satisfied.

Reaching for the pens again, I sketch the Aquila, on the back of my hand, over the scar. The lines are shaky, but it brings me comfort.

Food arrives. I sleep and wake. Time passes, unmeasured. I read, write, memorize, exercise, sketch the aquila on my flesh. The routine becomes my anchor.

But in the quiet moments, when there's nothing to distract me, the doubts creep back in.

Am I tainted? Will they ever trust me again?

I press my hand over the scar on my palm, feeling the steady beat of my pulse beneath. The mark is gone, but the memory remains.

Perhaps this isolation is a mercy—a way to protect others from me.

Or perhaps it's a test.

I resolve to face it with strength, to prove my faith.

No matter how long it takes.