It was like stepping into a flashback. Or a nightmare, because everything was distorted.

The things in the room had shifted slightly from where they'd been in his memory…. His memory was both vivid and hazy, but he thought he remembered how everything had been arranged.

The pool of gold was still in its place, sunken into the floor. For a moment, he was back in it, his limbs bound, the metal cuffs cutting into his wrists…

Then the others stepped into the nightmare with him, and he was still standing at the edge, the golden poles and posts spread out in a random pattern, hexagonal tables scattered among them, complete with wine bottles and hors d'oeuvres. Several golden luxurious chairs lounged around the room; the walls glittered with golden instruments, their flow interrupted by the mirrors reflecting to infinity.

It was remarkably still, like a photograph frozen in time.

No glitter wafting down from the ceiling.

No pulse-pounding music thrumming through the soles of his feet.

No throbbing lights flashing into his eyes.

No spoiled golden boys with predatory movements….

Just a dead memory pasted into the present, leeched of its danger. It was a flat, benign thing, no power to hurt him.

Still, his skin crawled as he stepped forward, the pool shimmering as if the golden shavings in it were made of liquid…

Zar's afterimage glanced around the room, at some points so vivid he felt he might emerge into the present—

I beat Zar in the end.

I'm the reason he's not here anymore.

I didn't let him take me again—though I did freeze at first, because of what he did here. Bound, of course that's how I react. I was powerless so many times before, my body thinks there's no other choice— I have to always fight that—

This added something worse than previous torture sessions… It was because it was so bad, because I didn't want even worse to happen, that it was so hard to fight….

Being in their power, being enslaved, suppresses your will and self…

Still... seeing Zar as the weak coward he actually was, in the end, made him despise himself for ever letting himself be afraid of him.

He had me bound.

At first.

I was stabbed, probably in shock…. lost blood….

I shouldn't have let my guard down. Shouldn't have assumed he was unconscious. And should have bound him tighter…

When he felt he was in power, he was vicious… and relentless in his entitlement…. He had all the advantages here.

I can't blame myself.

But why didn't I fight harder—even if I was injured?

Serhii fought until he was almost torn apart…

Perhaps I was more likely to give in to avoid pain….

The others lingered near the doorway, and he realized they may have had trauma about this room too. Most of them knew, in one way or another, the sort of degradation he had experienced—and worse. Still, he couldn't shed a sense of shame to be showing them the version of himself with skin flayed and vulnerable—the part of him that still existed here and nowhere else, the part of him that still belonged to Zar.

Part of me is him—part of me is forever trapped here…. And only the memory of it is a shard embedded in my mind, reflecting these mirrors…

He stripped off his shirt before realizing it and jumped into the gold.

It smashed into his lungs

He couldn't breathe

Gold burned his eyes

Ripped his skin

Still, he dove further, letting the glitter scrape his limbs

Shred him to pieces

Bore into his heart.

This way, he would see the slivers and be able to pull them out later—

Perhaps leech this place from him totally….

Or perhaps fuse with it

Breathe it in and become one with it

Wild pieces of shimmering liquid

Rippling over him

Raining down from all angles

Burrowing into his soul

Hollowing him out

The kisses burned his back –

The shocks were an inferno, erasing part of him—

Cool paint on his brow

Burning deeper, creating patterns beneath his skin

Molten gold

His blood was gold

He tasted blood, metallic on his tongue

A knife was embedded in his shoulder and it screamed

All he could see was falling glitter, consuming his eyes from the inside out

Gems twisted his chest

he didn't know which way was up—

A hand on his arm –

He had to get away—

"I'm sorry." Brown eyes looked down at him as he lay like a snow angel in the drifts of glitter.

He was confused for a moment—he could see himself.

Ali was double, his back to him in the mirror above him.

So his soul hadn't lifted away from his body yet. Flakes dug into his back, prickling like ice.

"Let me help you," said Ali. He shuffled closer; Jason flinched on instinct then stilled. "Let me look for it for you."

It took a moment for him to realize what he was talking about.

Was I looking for something? Or just… trying to escape by drowning myself? Trying to face it by devouring it… merge with the blood that I left here, under the golden snow…

Jason nodded, feeling bad for letting others do his work, ashamed to let them see the part of him he didn't even want to show himself…. In a way, didn't feel like part of him, since he didn't understand it, and didn't want to. He couldn't control the part that Zar had twisted in this messed up place….

I was content to let Zar stay in the past—he's gone unless I resurrect him. What he did didn't matter, shouldn't matter. It was awful but—not the worst. The others could deal with what happened without going off the deep end… without giving one piece of themselves to their tormenters…

Perhaps most of me is something I don't want to claim but is just as much a part of me as who I think I am….

How do I escape when I can't even see all that I am…. Perhaps I don't have it in me to escape… parts of me belong here more than anywhere…

Ali offered a hand and Jason took it. Ali had rescued him the first time, after all, even if he'd been a little late.

Jason sat on the edge, light glancing into his eyes like multicolored gems. The gold flakes rustled as Ali, Serhii, and Gray searched the pool for a clue.

Two figures beside him, silent as shadows. They sat on either side of him and kept him company, gentle presences gradually thawing him until the light stopped blurring

Sahara, cross-legged, on his right. Elliot on his left, looking into the gold as if mesmerized by it.

"Rave took me here," said Sahara. "He buried me in it…"

"I'm sorry," said Jason, guilt hitting him he'd only been thinking about his own trauma.

"It—was a long time ago. Maybe it is good to face it. But the mirrors… they crowd in on you…"

Jason nodded.

Beside him, Elliot was shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks. He huddled up, hugging his knees. "I shouldn't be so… so undone by this…"

"You saw me," said Jason.

"Your instinct was to face it. I—don't know how I can be worthy of him."

"Kyr?"

Elliot nodded.

"You've already helped him and protected him…"

"I should've fought to the death. I should have let Seraf be his mother—or no one at all."

"He wouldn't be him, then."

"He'd be someone—better." He shook his head. "That's messed up, I know. I love him with all my heart, and I have to get back to him… somehow I thought I'd find more of myself out here but—I've been barely surviving. Kyr brought some of me back, gave something to me I didn't have before… but if I'd have fought… if I hadn't been so stupid in the first place—I'd still be with Seraf, we'd have a child after we were married, and my baby wouldn't have a father he could be ashamed of."

"You did fight."

"Not enough."

The voice was so much an echo of his own thoughts, he wasn't sure if he hadn't said it. So at first he didn't feel the need to reply to something so bitingly true.

But it was Elliot's anguish. He'd been in an impossible situation.

It was me that failed.

Although… I don't see how you can give in to your enemy like that…

As if I haven't! Given a few more weeks… or months….

"They're in control here," said Jason. "It's all we can do to survive. There's so much they can do to us—" His voice caught. "There's only so much we can do. Maybe surviving means…. doing anything we can. If you'd fought to the death… you wouldn't be here."

"I don't know if the me that's here is worth going home. Kyr is part Elena and part me—I—don't want to think things like that of him, but what kind of start is that? What kind of future can he have? A weak coward—or the devil incarnate—or a mixture of the two? What kind of life can I give him? What kind of father can I really be if—" He leaned his head on his knees as if to shut it all out. He shook as if from a silent sob. "It was here," he whispered. "The first time—" His breath hitched. His voice lowered so much it was almost nonexistent. "It might have been here where… Kyr came to be…"

The horror of it slammed into him. What Jason had gone through paled in comparison.

Kyr was a beautiful child, a little miracle, but still— to be conceived from rape was a thing that should not be. It was not the kind of origin any child should have… but still, the child existed…. Something good had come from it…. but how could he comfort Elliot? Especially here, in the belly of evil, facing the awfulness of it head on…

Elliot looked up, tears streaking his cheeks. His indigo eyes were dulled with devastation yet gleaming with memory. "I wanted this… to be a chance to move forward, to embrace action… to be a protector not just a carer. But…. It was all I could do to hang on… and then they attacked and struck us down…. I was useless."

"You shot other agents… you helped—"

"Mostly I was just trying to hold myself together, to not be a burden. And when they threatened to use the Blue—" He shook his head. "It's… like she's trying to crush me all over again. I'd almost rather be discarded, except I—have to try to be a father. I wasn't ready… I—I'm just this hollowed out thing, barely alive… how can I be a father? Especially since—" He shook his head. Looked at Jason with pleading anguish. "I love him. He's beautiful and amazing even though he keeps us up at night—Nalika's so good with him, better than me— and I'm so happy I can be with him without Elena's presence, and sometimes I forget—but sometimes I… wish he had never been born. That he'd—died there—" His breath hitched. "It's horrible, I know. That's why I'm not worthy to be a father. To sometimes wish he shouldn't exist."

"Well…" said Jason, "I know that at least a child is… more than just the sum of their parents. And you're so much more than what she's made you feel that you are."

"I hope he's like my parents… but—he can't grow up here. The only way is to—" He pursed his lips, biting off the word Jason knew was 'escape'. "If only I'd been the agent I thought I was— my son would be part Seraf, not part Elena. Now I know I should never have had a child—never worthy of him or Seraf. I have to make the best of that. I have to somehow—accept him… not despise the parts of him that are me… and fear the parts that are her…. If I could help him be—elsewhere, perhaps I could see something worthy in myself of being a father—but she's undone me…. I'm trying to find the scattered parts of me, but I can't grasp them—there's almost nothing left—that's how insubstantial I was in the first place. Only worthy of being hollowed out—consumed by her… a thing that does what it's told, taught to love being violated…. To crawl on his knees begging for one more touch because it's the only thing that'll suppress the pain—"

Jason offered his arm and Elliot hesitated, disbelief and fear in his eyes, but then he leaned into his arms and Jason embraced as he sobbed. He held him just firmly enough so he didn't collapse; he didn't want to make it feel like he was pressuring him… or have anything in common with force… just let him cry, let him shake against him, let the pain burn into Jason's heart….

We're the same.

He's my future, I'm his past…

If only I could let him know everything will be okay… let him know he's more than what he feels is consuming him… that his child will grow up happy and healthy, far far away from this place, so he's never tainted by the memory of it….

Elliot sat back and wiped his eyes. He hung his head, his back bowed as if burdened by endless shame.

The shame of not being enough… of being consumed by the one you hate… so familiar it fit around Jason like a cloak.

Sahara helped them both over to the couch at the end of the pool. She retrieved a cloth and some antiseptic from the cupboard and dabbed away the blood on his chest, then brought him his shirt. He slung it over his shoulders, not having enough energy to put it on yet.

Ali helped Serhii and Gray out of the pool.

"We didn't find anything," said Serhii. He looked at Jason with sympathy and sorrow.

"Could still be something in there," said Ali. He slung gold pieces out of his hair; they shivered to the floor and Jason flinched. Ali stepped away and stood with his back to him, sluicing gold into the pool.

Gray looked dazed and exhausted. His eyes strayed to Jason's chest—contrition crossed his face when his gaze lingered on his scars. Then his eyes sparked with alarm and empathy.

Jason wondered—then looked down.

The bite marks.

Shame suffused him.

But Gray knew very well how he'd gotten them, as he had some too… so he didn't need to feel shame in his presence. That didn't suppress it, though…

"So what next?" Jason's voice sounded distant, as if his ears were packed with cotton.

Ali turned back to him, the last bits of glitter falling from his fingers. "We can keep looking. But maybe you need a break."

"They… never took me here," said Serhii. "Misha… preferred to stay in his rooms. And Zar—" He looked at Jason. "He should never have focused on you in the first place. I should've been his target. I should take on this burden."

"It might be good to face it…. I have to excise him." Jason pressed his hand to his heart. "Maybe you should all leave and let me search… It wasn't even that bad, and I should've—been the one to rescue myself." He stood, paced around the room. They trailed after him like the dust of a comet.

He stopped short, something arresting his momentum. He wasn't even sure what it was—a massive center of gravity… inexorable… he couldn't wrest himself away… but how could it have been there and he not see it?

A black hole—

Writhing its way through him, tearing him up as he fell straight into its maw—

Smooth, soft pleather….

Warm liquid drooling off his face…

Vibrant shocks—pinning him there—

An inferno in his shoulder

Numbness

Something slicing slicing

Ripping, tearing part of his skin

His clothes sliding off of him in tatters

Knees between his legs, something wrenching his hair

cutting into his back,

Hands on his thighs

Hands where they should not be

Because there was nothing there

It'd been cut apart

Shocked into nothingness

It didn't exist and yet…

So much pain

Pain hit his knees, and it was even more real than the violent pain tearing him up from the inside and he realized there was a floor beneath him

Pieces of me are

Still in his hands

He screamed

Tears sliding off the dull gold surface

He cried against the thing that had participated in his violation

It—wasn't anything really… shouldn't be this hard

To tear myself away…

Should be able to

Ignore it like I can ignore the inferno just below my waist because it doesn't exist

He realized he'd tried to pretend it didn't exist, just like he had not seen the pleather until he was embracing it

And it wasn't even that big a deal

Except—I couldn't fight and I shouldn't have let him—

Part of him was comforted by the fact that it really had been painful. So he was right to feel this awful…. (if he'd felt pleasure, he'd really have deserved to stay plastered here, shredded apart-)

And that's why he shouldn't have let it get this far….

Dear God. Please.

I don't want to feel…. Give the numbness back… I can pretend he took that part of me away until I'm back and can deal with what he did

Face the fact he might've… taken something precious—just for a few moments of perverse pleasure… how he could enjoy hurting someone I don't know…

How can someone like that take something good… intimacy with the one I love…

Perhaps that means I'm only worth what he did. Worth feeling like this—that he possesses me even though he's long gone….

And someone else possesses the rest.

His hand was buried in it before he knew what he was doing. But by then it was too late—and it felt good—he was rewinding until it didn't happen and he didn't have to feel numb to forget—

He tore out the insides and laughed as he broke it

"What's this?" said Sahara, picking something off the floor from among the mangled remains of the twisted thing that had comforted him even as it helped him be cut into.

There was pain now, echoes of it, but it belonged to himself.

Well… it was more himself than the numbness… numbness was nothingness. He could do something with this… try to heal…. Even though he couldn't face it directly; he'd have to do it if he ever reached freedom, if he ever reached the one who might be able to draw him back to life.

Something glittered in Sahara's hand. A delicate necklace. Iridescent gold flashed into his eyes.

He wanted to shut all this out. Of course it hadn't been a straightforward game…. Elena had slashed his worst moments right in his face…

"What's it say?" said Serhii.

"The play's the thing," said Sahara.

Jason looked closer and saw the words in elegant cursive letters.

What if Elena wanted him to perform for her?

She was watching, just beyond the mirrors….

He aimed the gun at his reflection.

BOOM!

Glass shattered.

His heart exulted. No more phantoms staring back at him.

The other side. BOOM!

The bullet ricocheted past his ear

He aimed at the ceiling. The mocking face looking back at him, the self that belonged here—

His finger brushed the trigger.

Serhii grabbed his arm.

"Don't."

He tried to wrest the gun away, then it filtered into him what he was doing.

She's already cut me open, wrung me out….

He let the gun slip from his fingers and fell to his knees.

Sahara knelt beside him and held him as he leaned against her, too hollowed out to cry.

He followed them down the hallway, beating himself up for becoming so oblivious he forgot he wasn't alone with his pain. Who was he to endanger the others, who'd been through worse? And Ali, who'd helped him?

Elena wants to see me break… enjoys seeing me come apart at the seams… can't let me have this space to myself but has to bore into me at every turn… can't let me feel like an agent, has to turn it into one of her games….

At the theater, he sank into a random chair, determined to fight any demands of him. This game wasn't worth it anymore. Unless… they hurt the others if he stopped. He wasn't about to let that happen—or endanger them himself again either.

Have to keep my mind clear and not let trauma get to me… I'll let Serhii keep the gun, if he wants it.

People filtered into the room, chattering casually. Nothing was onstage yet, just a red velvet curtain.

She probably wants me up there.

He took the stungun from his pocket.

I'll take as many down with me as I can before I let her turn me into a spectacle…

Most of the agents ignored him, but a woman behind him said, "Really not surprising he got here before us—he has a powerful patron."

"I wish she'd have let us know the deck was stacked against us," said a man beside her petulantly. "But he's privileged because he's hers."

Privileged! He almost laughed. So privileged she torments me with gold reflections…

"Word is," said a different male voice directly behind him, "he even had an alternate route. So he didn't have to face the risks the rest of us did."

"He'd never have made it this far otherwise," said the woman.

"Giving him all these shortcuts—leaves a bad taste in my mouth," said the first man. "He'd better not win."

"If she lets him win," said the second man, "it's her prerogative. The game isn't about the prize anyway."

"I'd really like the prize," said the woman.

"We'll have other games. I have a feeling she's just playing with him. We'll get our chance. If this performance is what I think it is…. It'll weed him out."

"It better, or I'll take him out myself."

So much for camaraderie between agents… I'm still just a slave to them…

Serhii left and a few minutes later, brought back some snacks. Jason recalled how close the theater was to their hiding place. He took a bag of cheesy pretzels and immersed himself in the salty savory crunch, blocking out his surroundings.

Music drifted down from the ceiling, so faint at first Jason didn't register it. Slowly, the curtains slid aside— revealing nothing but the bare boards of the stage.

You guys are going to have a very boring show, he thought, because I'm not going up there….

Footsteps clicked from stage right. Michelle appeared, the long golden gown she wore enhancing her sinuous form. Golden earrings dangled just above her shoulders.

"Welcome, everyone!" She spread out her arms dramatically. "We have a real treat for you tonight. It'll involve audience participation." She slid a golden stand from the side; it looked like a torch, gleaming flames leaping from it. But Jason realized it was just an illusion—he was getting familiar with the signs of holographics.

"All you have to do is reach into the fire and pick out an action—then perform it. The fun part—you get to choose who you do it to." She gestured and people filed out from stage left and lined up. He knew most of them by sight if not by name; they were guards' slaves from Below. Some were even children. And—some he knew quite well. Pedro. Kara. Zakhar.

"Some of us have been generous enough to lend our slaves," said Michelle. "Just remember not to break them. Otherwise, you can be creative." She reached into the fire and drew out a piece of paper then held the paper up, though the script was too small to see from the stage. She strode over to Kara, who looked terrified. She backed away; Michelle grabbed her arm, yanked her forward.

Stop this, said Jason, jolting to his feet—except he didn't move. His wrists were still bound with golden cuffs, his limbs tingling with the aftertaste of glitter. Not only was he not able to ignore what Zar had done but facing it hadn't made him able to get past it. It had just frozen him further.

Got to overcome this…. his phantom self can't own me….

Michelle dragged Kara over to Zakhar a few steps away. He backed away—

Shocks laced over his body, slamming him to the floor. Michelle pulled Kara down with her, holding her tightly as she kissed Zakhar, who looked barely conscious. She sat back, smiling. "Go ahead." She gestured to Kara.

Kara shook her head, trying to struggle out of her grasp.

"I've indulged you so far, but I will not have you disobey me in public. Unless you want me to tell them your secret?"

Her eyes widened with fear.

"Alternatively…." She grabbed something from behind the curtain—a golden whip—and dragged it forward.

I wasn't going to let anyone else get hurt. We're all in this together—against them.

"Stop this." Serhii stood.

Of course—he's the real man of action.

"Or what?" said Michelle, slinging the end of the whip casually over the floor.

"Take me instead."

"Interesting." She tilted her head. "By speaking up on their side—you've forfeited the game. Perhaps your whole team should forfeit, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. You've proved you're still a slave at heart." A sly smile spread her lips. "How about it, everyone! This is turning out to be a fantastic show, am I right?"

A ripple of applause.

"Come on, beautiful! Get on up here!"

"Don't," said Jason.

"Don't worry," whispered Serhii, "I'm not going meekly to the slaughter." He strode out of the aisle. He stopped at the end furthest from Michelle.

"What's your name?" said Michelle.

"Serhii."

"You can get closer. I don't bite." She laughed.

"I do."

Some of the audience laughed, probably those who'd seen him bite Zar.

Michelle stepped forward.

Serhii whipped out the gun.

"Wait—" She raised a hand

Boom!

Michelle whirled back. Staggered to the floor and caught herself on one knee.

Serhii ran over to Zakhar, lifted him up; his head lolled. Kara helped support him off the stage. Perhaps because of the gun, or because they all thought it was part of the show, no one went after them.

Michelle slung blood onto the floor then ripped part of her skirt and wrapped it around her hand. She cradled her arm close, red drenching the gold. "I promised you an entertaining evening, didn't I?"

The audience cheered.

"Now, it's your turn! Come on up, one at a time, pick something out— Excuse me, I've got to go get some painkillers, perhaps reconstructive surgery…. But after that, I'll be back— and make him feel every nuance—" She waved and ran offstage.

The crowd murmured excitedly, as if just realizing this wasn't part of the "show".

Jason hoped Serhii, Kara and Zakhar had gotten as far away as they could, but he couldn't count on it. Perhaps I should go help them…. But then, the others here might need help.

After a stunned silence, a man in the front row jaunted up onstage. He picked a strip of paper out of the fake fire, then laughed as he read it. He grabbed a tall young woman Jason remembered was named Jenna. When she resisted, he jammed his shockrod into her stomach and she collapsed, writhing.

Enough of this!

His heart thumped hard. Sparks trickled over his skin. He struggled to make himself move.

"Is this really necessary?" said a voice behind him.

Jason looked back. Diego was standing, a curl of black hair gleaming over his forehead.

"What do you mean?" said the man onstage. Jenna gasped at his feet.

"We all know where we're going next."

"We do?"

"It's obvious."

"You'd give us the clue?"

"I'm tired of this game. I want the prize."

Murmurs of agreement around him.

"Truce until we get there, then all bets are off. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"The Entertainment Room."

"Which one?"

"Where do all these slaves come from?"

"Below."

Diego leaped over the chairs with the agile grace of a cat.

The other agents scrambled after him, some shooting at each other. A few agents fell, inert, over the chairs. Jason pulled Elliot and Sahara out of the line of fire.

Gradually, the noise died down, but they didn't dare look up until Ali popped up and said, "All clear."

The chair past Ali was empty.

Gray was gone.

Onstage, Pedro was holding Jenna. Jason forced himself to shed his frozenness and ran up to help. Ali provided some painkiller and restorative. The other slaves, especially the kids, looked stunned, uncomprehending. But at least they were safe for now. The perverse game upended.

Did Diego do it on purpose to help them, or was he only serving himself? Jason wondered fleetingly before he led the others out of the theater.

His 'privilege' helped—because he was able to open the elevator and let everyone go back down, away from the horror they'd been dragged into.

Elliot headed back to Elena's; even though he hated living with her, he would never abandon his son. Jason wasn't about to return Beneath if he didn't have to, so he went Below with Ali and Sahara after the others had gone.

Ali suspected the game was nearing its finale and wanted to see what happened next. "I'll just audit, though," he said as they descended. "Unless you'd like to keep going—"

"I've had enough," said Jason. "It'll probably only get worse."

Ali nodded. "The prize isn't worth that."

"What about the game?"

"I don't want to go on without you. Besides, I've proven myself already."

Jason walked around the Cathedral with Sahara while Ali headed to the Entertainment Room to catch up with the other agents.

It hit him fully—Gray had kept up the game, despite its cost…

Jason had known, deep down, Gray would not throw his lot in with slaves. He had too much self-preservation instinct, as long as he could rise above his shame and the feeling that he deserved the pain for giving in.

But still… his heart ached for the loss of his former enemy.