A Hero in the Dark: 2nd Edition

Chapter 91: Past Visitation

As soon as the darkness begins to subside and the faintest form of light appears, I know where I am. I know what I'm looking at as much as I feel it: West Virginia, but not as I remember it.

"No. No. No. Please. No." My voice carries through the dimly lit chamber. My back is pressed against the wall, my wrists sore, aching, numb.

I let myself hang until my weight worsens the pain, then opt to try and hold myself up instead. It's as bad as it was. It's worse than every nightmare, somehow—I don't know how. It's too real; I know the nightmares did too, but this actually feels real. It's like I'm there again, but that's impossible. I thought I forgot about this. I wanted to forget about it. I tried so hard...

He walks into the room and the iron door shuts behind him; his silhouette is unmistakable. Immediately, I'm shaking, and the chains clink and clank as he strides to the table—the very same table with all his instruments of torture—blades, clamps, arrows of all different shapes and sizes. He picks up a curved dagger, and speaks in his same grumbly voice, "Hello, Emily."

I swallow before I slur, "No. This isn't real. You're not real. You're in my head. I watched you die. I felt your heart stop beating..." He does neither react nor respond but smiles in that way of his, stopping when he's inches from my nose. "Who are you?" It's as if my words aren't even mine. My body won't stop trembling. Every muscle constricts itself to keep me small, to keep more of me hidden away. I wish I could disappear. Why am I back here?!

"I am Setrákus Ra," he states. "Supreme commander of the Mogadorian Empire, engineer of the Great Expansion, beloved leader, et cetera." The lack of emotion in his tone is evident and suddenly, as chills shoot through me, I wonder how it is that I came to understand him at all.

"I know who you are," I murmur, but still, he doesn't seem to hear me. I don't want to be back here. I can't be back here. I can't do this again, but no matter what I do, I can't wake up.

His cycle of pain replays, and so, masked in defeat but drowning in fear, I hang my head. I don't want to look at him, never again. I don't want to even hear him speak, but still, he does: "This can be painless, Emily," he goes on. "You've chosen the wrong side, but I am nothing if not forgiving. Tell me what I want to know, and I'll set you free."

I follow suit exactly as it was. "What—What do you want to know?" There's nothing I can do to break this cycle. It's beyond any of my control; it's beyond anything I could ever explain.

"Tell me where they are."

I pull in a breath as my tongue works out its automated reply, "I'm not telling you anything; just—just let me go."

He takes a breath but doesn't miss a beat. "I think we both know that's not happening."

From one beat to the next, it's as if everything happens in perfect sequence. I wish I could rewind or pause, or hell, stop the recording before it continues.

But in thinking that John isn't here, feeling no one except his presence—his old presence—I'm still afraid of what he'll do. It's like watching a film you've viewed before, knowing how it ends, but you're still rooted deeply in the events, following through with the main character—their wants, desires, their fears. Knowing there isn't anything I can do to get out of this, not yet at least. My chest starts to accelerate, my lungs start to sob until it's one gasp after another.

My old hissing friend-enemy returns above me, and I look up to find the sickly black sludge dribbling down the chains again. It smells as acrid as I remember it, like burning plastic and rotten eggs. It's enough to get my gag reflex kicking in, but the pain is too much to bear to do such a thing. "No. Not again. Please. I can't do this another time."

I don't know who I'm begging to, who I'm praying to for an out, but I don't care.

I pray. I beg. I do more than hope. I plead. My eyes are filled with heavy tears and that's the most I can do: plead, and as if in answer to my desperate cries, there's a laugh, and not one from Setrákus Ra. I shut up while the ooze signs my flesh, listening. Is someone else here? Did another person walk in? It doesn't sound Mogadorian...

Setrákus watches me with old fascination, and I him. Unlike the nightmares, there's no black sludge seeping out of him. He's as normal, strong, and menacing as he was. Is?

But then, from somewhere—I wish I knew where—that new voice whispers again; I hear them loud and clear: "That was way too easy," he says. "Fools. Soon they'll realize. Soon the whole world will know what a danger we are. They'll look at us like monsters and I'll be the one to save them. I'll free us all from this mutation." He takes a breath, which in turn allows me to do the same; I'm beyond grateful for that. "Are you listening, Emily?"

He—He's talking to me, but how? From where?

I can't say anything in reply; I have no air to try, and the air I do breathe is little and insufficient. His sludge bites me, tears into my skin, and cuts through every layer, burying deeper. I hang limp and wish this memory away; it's all I can think to do to make this awful memory end.

I lean my head against the back wall; that's when I notice a flash of... something.

In the ceiling, there's a crack in the stone and a hint of sky grey, but what's more, the more I stare into it, the wider my view of it gets. It's as if I'm looking through a telescope; afar from the scope, it's nothing but black, but when I look in it and focus inwards, different surroundings engulf me.

His work cauterizes my skin, and I'm both worried it'll make my wrists greener and glad that I'm somewhere else, even if this road is only in my head. "I know you can see what I see, Emily," the boy says slyly. "Good. I want you to see what I'm about to do."

I'm breathing hard, heavy—I didn't think my heart could pump any more—but there it goes: THUMPTHUMP-THUMPTHUMP-THUMPTHUMP—loud in my throat.

No. The—The HGA. "Lucas, no," I slur. "You—You can't—!" I scream with a rush of tears, the ooze unbearable. "Get me out! Please! Get me out of here!"

He laughs, then continues as if I hadn't screamed at all, "I've always known you were what I needed. My Cêpan said you controlled energy, that you could do anything, and when I told her I'd find you on my next venture, she didn't believe me. She threatened to have me sectioned for another job, a useless task. She undermined my abilities all because she believed more in you." He laughs another mocking laugh. "Well, now I have you, and now you're going to help me."

"H—Help you?"

"You're going to help me turn back the world, starting with this joke of an academy."

"No—" I'm pulled out of his view and zapped back to Setrákus Ra and the searing of the ooze is much more intense when I'm focused on him. "I—I don't know anything," I murmur.

He releases his staff from my throat and the burning resumes tenfold.

By the time he wedges it to my throat once more, I know now's my chance to catch some air, so ignoring the rest of his intrepid inquiries, I take a deep breath before I duplicate the same old answer, "I don't know." I suck in another breath, chin pointed high with the Eye of Thaloc, and count down the seconds there are of peace: Four... Three... Two... One...

He pulls the staff away, and it's like I'm drowning in hell all over again. I try to concentrate my ergokinesis, my telekinesis; I even try to call out to John: Help me!

But nothing seems to bring me relief. Nothing. Lucas, please, I cry. If you can hear me, make this stop. I don't care what you do, just bring me out. I'm begging you...

It takes a while before I receive a response, but eventually, I hear him: "Don't worry," he says, somberly, "this will all be over soon."