Month 5
It's sad, I feel horrible. A sensation beyond guilt and lamentation eats away at my soul. I lack the words to express the weight of the growing hollowness that consumes my heart. In other words, I feel like shit. Powder's dreams were easy to invade. That word, "invade," because I can feel a side of her that resents me. It's faint, and she hates herself for it. She knows it's illogical, that's why she's torturing herself. For the past two months, I've learned that she has been having brutal nightmares. They all involve me being dragged away across the bridge by Enforcers and her trying and failing to save me. Other dreams involve us running through Zaun, hand in hand, while every gang and Enforcer hunts us down. Then, there's Minimo, she's afraid that he'll kill me eventually. The problem is, she's too good of a shot for that to happen. All dreams of Minimo are the same, he mauls me as she's helpless to do anything about it. Powder never misses, but that only means that her bullets are no good wads of chewed paper. Her screams of desperation and battle cries of fury are all that I can remember her for. I've spent more time surviving her manic and chaotic dreams, than I had just leaning against her, watching Zaun lose its toxic charm. Just Powder and I, holding hands on our favorite hill, looking over our home. Turning my head, I look at her, meeting her steel blue-grey eyes and her peaceful smile, and then the bullet rips through my chest from behind. Falling back, I look up to see the armed informant getting taken down by an infuriated Powder. Just as before, Powder shot the informant, but instead of in the chest, she shot her in the face. Five remaining bullets pierced the spy's face, making it unrecognizable. However, Powder's fury didn't stop there. She mounts the informant and uses the handle of the pistol to club her face in. The vivid details of violence in her dreams are what no child should have in their mind. The irony is that she was worse than I was at a younger age, at least in the nightmares. My only hope is that she is nowhere near as brutal in the real world. When she was finished exacting her revenge, she returned to me. With bloody hands, she lifts my upper body onto her bloodstained lap.
"H-" The effort to speak came with a healthy degree of blood splatter that decorated her face. But in that moment, she didn't care. Powder wiped my face before she wiped hers. "Had...fun?"
A single tear streamed down her cheek, as she had heard me ask that a million times before. "Always."
With her horrifying calmness, she lowers her lips onto mine, and once again, the scene shifts back to the bridge, where it all went wrong. Powder and I are barricaded in the Last Drop. Enforcers stationed walls of resistance outside the bar. Constant gunfire rang from both sides. Each pull of the trigger ignited heat from within my already blazing spirit. My senses heightened by fear, strengthened by my desire to protect the only person who still fights for me. A bullet tore through the wooden frame of the window and took a good piece of flesh from my cheek. I fell to the floor in shock, bleeding profusely from the injury. Powder flew into a furious rage as she blasted more Enforcers to pieces. But they regenerate almost instantly to recover their weapons and continue firing. Every bullet fired from Powder's pistol carries a streak of brilliant electric blue that eats away at any body of flesh that it touches. Zapper, an arcane charged hex gem-tipped pistol, makes the art of headshots Powder's battlefield identity. Each bullet lands either dead center between an enforcer's eyes or near the heart. Powder hasn't missed a single shot in all the dreams we were in. Granted, this isn't much of a nightmare if she isn't missing all of her shots. However, the futility in resisting the Enforcers provided all the hopelessness needed to qualify as a nightmare. Pushing myself from the floor, I continued the fight. The pain is still fresh, each recoil shot up my arm to send a new wave of pain through my head. But my defiance against the monsters of Piltover and love for my family, for Powder, kept me fighting.
A yelp and a thud to the floor next to me drew my attention. She clutches her right shoulder, which is darkening with blood by the second. Enraged, I began to take more calculated risks. There were numerous Enforcers bobbing their heads from behind their makeshift walls. One after another, I hit something. A helmet, a rifle, the chest of a brave Enforcer, the leg of a sloppy Enforcer, and the occasional wild charge to rush the bar. Their bodies dropped with each panicked pull of the trigger. Powder pushed herself off the floor and recovered her position. Through gritted teeth and tears streaming down her face, she lifts Zapper to support me. With her shoulder screaming at her to give up, her defiant spirit endured and fought on. The falling Enforcers piled up before the bar, desperate to reach us. I know what they're doing. It's a morbid and calculated tactic, they're using the bodies as a barricade to inch ever closer. The desperation and the determination are admirable. It would have been something I would have thought up if I had the inhumane heart to enforce it. Unfortunately, I refuse to allow myself to use my people as pawns. Powder and I coordinate each shot with calculated efficiency. Each shot was dedicated to delaying the inevitable. The pile of dead Enforcers mounted. For each one that fell, another replaced them. Finally, an Enforcer managed to breach the entrance and was immediately riddled with bullets by the both of us. In that moment of wasting bullets on one Enforcer, we both knew our fates were sealed. The Enforcers flooded the bar. Our pistols were kicked from our hands, and then the beating began. Out of all the nightmares I've fought along with her, this is one of the worst things I could hear. Her screams of anguish, of pain, of suffering, of anger. Hearing the thuds and cracks of gun butts against skull, against bone, and the collision of boots to her body, it pained me beyond the point of tolerable agony. I fought back, somehow I fought back. Through the countless Enforcers that engulfed my vision, I somehow managed to find her. She's on the floor, in the fetal position, covering her head. Blood turned batches of her hair into a morbidly brilliant shade of purple. As I fell onto her, shielding her from the oncoming assaults, I caught a glimpse of her face. Through her swollen and damaged flesh, I saw hatred, raw and unyielding hatred. As much as it pained me, I understood. It's not just the hatred towards all of Piltover, it's towards herself, towards everyone. Then we locked eyes, and for a moment, the hatred dimmed somewhat before a kick to the back of my head caused me to go limp. I didn't hear her scream my name as I was roughly pulled off her. They laid us side by side, aiming their rifles at us. Wearily, we locked eyes again. Her anger melts away by the second into her usual serene expression. The enforcers were eerily silent, as if waiting for the perfect moment to execute us. We inch closer, each effort a painful reminder of our brutal battle that we have never won. Finally, we're shoulder to shoulder, after having to endure the agony of shuffling on the unforgiving floor. At that instant, all was peaceful in the moment of impending death.
"It's a dream...Powder..." I blurted out with the bitter tang of copper.
Slowly her eyes widen, realization dawning on her.
"What?" was all she could muster before the firing squad tore through our bodies.
I wake up with a yell that ripped my throat sore. Princess holds me with her practiced embrace. It's her survival occupation that kept her guardian feeling accepted and valued, in return, she received protection and extra food.
"It's the...Powder dream again, right?" Princess said it with the sort of jealous disdain that can be easily missed. Luckily for me, I'm too attentive to let that slide.
She felt my body tense, and her warm embrace released me once again to train. Using her animosity toward a girl she hasn't met yet, I sprang into action. Push-ups, squats, dips, and side-kicking the wall. The kicks had to be measured, can't go around kicking down walls. More realistically, I can't destroy my only means of walking. Just far enough away from the wall to feel something give, a quiet acceptance of my attacks.
Princess always sat by and watched, as if she was thoroughly entertained by my routine. "No one works as hard as you."
A simple statement that could be a compliment or lead to a follow-up punchline.
"But they know when to rest." And there it is, the logical punchline.
I need to rest. My muscles ache in places I never knew they could ache. But I can't afford it. The victory over Scar was a fluke, I know it. He was faster, stronger, and tougher than ever. Even with the suspected drug he was on, I doubt that it would have gone as smoothly if he wasn't. Walking towards the door, I twirled around and fell down to catch myself in the push-up position.
Princess watches me obsessively knock out push-up after push-up, with mild interest. "Want me to start counting?"
Pushes until I'm completely drenched in sweat. "Or, you can just sit still and be quiet."
A smirk curled her lip. As I sat back on my knees, she leaned forward and poked my chest. "Bet you can't push me away now."
This is what Princess does to get close to me, and it's working. She playfully tries to push against my chest, and I flex against her hands. My need to feel appreciated, wanted, needed, and loved—maybe she satisfied it all. The extra padded mattress made the journey down easier than it was a month ago. Her touch was sorely needed, she satisfied everything this dungeon took from me. Finally, the wails, moans, and cries in the air were filled with more hope than despair. For a time, when Princess permitted, I was allowed to dream awake and feel everything. These are the dreams that I am cursed to remember. For in my moments of weakness, she has taken something from me that I can never give to Powder. As I lay facing away from her, Princess soothed that pain too. Her healing touch could fix a lot of things, but never a betrayal like this.
Princesses hand glides like a gentle breeze up my waist, to my chest and caresses my tears away. "Shhhh, it's okay, I know it hurts."
The lingering feeling of heartache and betrayal made me feel lower than I ever have felt before. Not since the guilt of starting the civil war in Zaun have I felt so worthless.
Sensing my shattered self-worth, Princess grabbed my jaw and pulled my face to her while perching herself up by one arm. "Don't do that. I'll let anyone else beat themself down, but not you."
Looking up at her with empty eyes. "Why?" escapes my mouth with no clear direction as to what the "Why?" is referring to, but she understood it for me.
Her hand caresses the last remaining fat in my cheek. "Because you want to free us all, don't you?" She lowers her mouth to my ear. "You need all the strength you can get. That includes your own."
She kisses my collarbone, works up my neck, and up to my ear. Whispers of soothing words I could only dream of hearing from Powder. My mind warps to replace her voice with Powder's. For a moment, it worked. My pounding heart slowed, and I could almost smile, genuinely smile. She brings her mouth to mine, and we share a moment of warmth. Those sweet lips carried the words that only she could speak. My Powder mutters her words into each kiss, making me more determined than ever to bring this prison down. As I opened my eyes again, Princess was taken aback. I can feel my hands gripping her arms with passionate intensity, holding her back at a distance. The dream is over, she isn't Powder.
"Then I got to keep working." I sat up, and along the way Princess protested. But as she did so, I blocked her voice from my mind and replaced it with silence. Selective dampening is one of the greatest skills I've learned in here. It helps me think in times of deep concentration. Or, it might have been more of a hindrance than anything. A break in my mind that learned how to hide away from problems I failed to solve. Yep, that might be it, I'm definitely broken.
Although Princess put on the most disappointed look she could muster, it didn't change the fact that she liked seeing me work out. Whenever she wasn't sleeping, she was watching me closely. All the pain, the emotional high, and the thirst to destroy Piltover powered every movement, both for physical empowerment and pleasure. Then the screaming and wailing of other inmates signals my side job.
Princess sighed in frustration as I was forced to stop working out. "These people..." She wipes her forehead of sweat. "Why can't they pick a better time to cry like that?"
"That's not any normal scream." I quickly got up and armed myself with the many gifts and luxuries I've been gifted. Armor, which I had to make myself. Being too valuable for forced labor, fighting provides enough for me and Princess. She stood to help pull the straps together, sealing the hard leather jumpsuit behind me. It's nothing special.
Standing back, Princess watches me rotate my arms as the boots of the Enforcer approach. "You look like a bear..." She tilts her head. "...no, a really grumpy teen bear."
See? Nothing special.
The Enforcer tapped on the solid door twice. "Time to go," and began to unlock the door.
Princess and I locked eyes, then she blew me a smooch. "Come back pretty."
Tying on my leather gloves, I kissed the air in her direction. "Don't have to worry about that." Then I turned to the Enforcer, who was having trouble with the lock. Strange, usually they're faster than this. Sounds like he's really struggling too.
Finally, he steps in. Huh, a new one. His eyes fell on me with a serious glare, which was typical for ambitious cadets. "Come with me, it's serious this time..." Then his glare softened to wonder as his eyes scanned the interior. I don't blame him, I have more than the average prisoner should have. Every comfort that almost qualifies as a half-decent lower-class Piltover lifestyle. Two hand-me-down carpets that cover most of the cold floor and hangers on the wall that hold my outfits for fighting, casual wear, and private investigations. Then, there's the bedroll, which is 2 times thicker than the normal bedrolls but no less comfortable. "Well, I guess you worked for it." His eyes linger over the interior, as if he envies the place.
I step by him, tugging at my straps. "If you want, you can grab a cell and spend the night, see how you like it."
The Enforcer lingered in the cell longer. He only backed away when he finally laid his eyes fully on Princess and flinched slightly. That was weird, I'm sure she caught his attention earlier. It's not like she's hard to miss. Maybe those shadows have something to do with it. Whatever the case, as soon as she leaned against the wall, never taking her eyes off the Enforcer, he snapped back to fulfilling his role. "Follow me."
Here I thought that he'd be more talkative, but he was mostly a stone wall, only greeting the roaming guards along the hall. At least it gives me time to think and plot my investigation. More importantly, I can wonder why it took him that long to notice Princess. Now that I think of it, when I spoke to her the first time, something happened, and it was difficult to see her figure for a while. Thinking blocked out the wails of despair and the impacts of Enforcer fists against inmate skulls. It's easier, but the pain to my heart isn't any less nostalgic. I want to help them, I want to jump in and save them, but that's suicide. All I can do is walk on by, follow the enforcer up the stairs, and behave as the arena champion and investigator. Go back to thinking, Owen, think about yourself, and take care of yourself. Princess, who is she? Is she who she says she is? Or is she more than what she lets on? Worse comes to where she's more like me. She must have figured out a way to take a share of arcane knowledge and is now using it to keep her alive. If that's the case, she's using me as a reliable ally to increase her chances for survival. Smart girl, most likely scenario. I would do the same thing if I were her. And as I think about being in her shoes, the smell of thick rot and metallic blood assaults my nose. I gag and spit, then regret not keeping my mouth closed.
"It's getting worse the further you go." He mentioned the one thing that I didn't want to be true.
However, as the Enforcer falls back at the second-floor entrance, I see exactly why he wants nothing to do with this. Dark pools of blood and soot decorate the hall, floor, and ceiling. The only evidence of life in this level is the suspiciously fresh trail of blood leading further down the hall.
My concentration was shattered when the Enforcer handed me a lantern. "You have an hour before the fire goes out."
Without breaking my eyes from the grotesque scene, my hands grabbed the crude iron cage of thin glass and a frail stick of wax that burned with flickering embers. "The bare minimum..." It didn't take long for me to get used to the smell. But the sounds of my boots meeting the pools of blood will never leave my mind. Upon entering the first cell, I'm already pushed to my limit. What was a large man is now a mostly half-decomposed corpse. Sitting against the wall in only his trousers, he appears to have only recently died. His chest was ripped open, with the wound reaching from his throat down to his pelvis. Upon inching closer, evidence of something tearing him open from within was evident.
"What the hell happened to you?" I muttered under my breath as I directed the light over him. Just then, the throat muscles flinched awake. Backing away, I marvel in morbid fascination as he fights to speak. "Take it easy, man, easy."
But my efforts to soothe the struggling man only encouraged him to pursue me. He forced himself to his knees and began crawling after me. Springing into action, I scrambled backwards and pulled the door shut. The lantern hit the floor as I pressed my hands against the door, holding it shut. A low gurgling roar bellowed from his open throat. Soon after his animalistic roar, he began throwing himself against the door, like an absent-minded monster. His ferocity and desperation is unreal, more primal than human. Each pound at the cell door made it give bit by bit. My mind raced with an escape plan, if he manages to break it down. Then the Enforcer unexpectedly came to my rescue.
Pressing his hands against the barrier, stationing his feet, he shouted, "Don't you dare let this thing out!"
The nerve of this guy, as if I want that disgusting thing as a cellmate. We weathered the primal storm together. Each assault against the door fluctuates in power. The slams against the weakening iron shell, sound similar to the sounds of the warden approaching with his staff. The force wore my arms raw and almost sent me to the floor. Finally, one last smash against the door was followed by silence. We pressed the tops of our heads against the door in silent exhaustion. Our combined breathing was the only thing that brought me some comfort.
In frustration, the Enforcer pushed off the door and stomped towards the stairs, saying, "Fuck this!" leaving me with the burden of holding up the door.
Slowly, I inched to the side, kicking the lantern along with me. At the last moment, I released my hold on the door. The hall carried the noise of the cell door landing flat on the floor. Grabbing the lantern again, I'm impressed that the thing is still lit. "Gotta think about making me one of these."
It was a small distraction from what needs to be addressed. The man's head is completely destroyed from repeated bashing against the iron door. Bringing the light over his body, bits of brain matter leak out. "It shouldn't be so...fluid..." I retreated as I observed the frontal cortex begin to fill with fluids. It popped when the area inflated to the size of my fist. My mind raced, debating whether or not I should do what's logical for me to do. "I can't let this spread." I pulled out the sharpened handle side of a spoon, then dipped the tip in the pool of blood. Then, I begin to carefully write the formula for blood and fire on the glass of the lantern. "Wax...I should consider that too..." Adding the formula of wax, along with blood and fire, gave me more ideas for future projects. I tried to distance myself from using formulas. The allure of using its power is intoxicating. What makes matters worse is that the knowledge hasn't stopped whispering in my mind. Being in prison didn't help stop the formula from sinking into my mind, perverting my ability to learn the hard way. Something beyond the veils of reality wants me to do something great. Whether that something great is good or bad is entirely up to me. As I finished the formulas, my mind commanded the flames from a shy ember to a roaring inferno. Backing away, I prepared for a worse smell than slowly rotting blood. The door of the lantern opened, and the flames engulfed the dead monstrosity. The stench and smoke assault my nose, making me heighten the intensity of the flames. After I had enough of the stench, I withdrew the flames. It was a prettier sight than a mutated corpse. With no other path before me, I continued investigating. Each inspection of the cells reveals a new level of depravity. A cell with a living victim of macabre experiments. Their organs and vitals hug all over the cell, covering every inch from top to bottom. Their skin hugs the interior of the cell, keeping every organ protected and intact. The heart is far in the cell, resting on the ledge of the window. The lungs are tucked in the corner, still inhaling air. Blood pumps thickly through the veins, decorated all over the ceiling, walls, and floor. The liver pulses on the wall with jealous hostility. The kidneys are inseparable on the ceiling. The small and large intestines act as snakes, slithering all over the floor and ceiling. The skeleton sits on the floor under the heart, with all the veins and evidence of origin trailing from it. I had enough, the entire cell looks like a trap. Lifting the lantern, I aimed at the heart first and released the flames. Instantly, the blanket of flesh envelops the skeleton. Focusing on the intensity, I concentrated the flames over the skeleton that covers itself in the blanket of flesh. It screams, sounding frighteningly human. As it perishes, I try to block out its screams of anguish. Its screams pierced my chest and rattled my nerves. This is worse than every fight I've ever been in. I turned away, not wanting to watch its charred form curl into itself. I slammed the cell door shut and stumbled along the blood-splattered wall. If not for the wall supporting my crumbling weight, I would have fallen face-first into the gore-littered floor and given up. My legs buckled and gave out at the surrounding rotten smells. As my knees met the floor, they were cushioned by a mass of soft flesh I couldn't identify. The lantern clinked against the iron floor as I rested against the wall. My stomach is trying to push up something that I desperately can't tolerate wasting. Battling the bile down, I began to push myself up. That's when I heard them. Down the hall, which is hidden with thick fumes of gases, is a horde of softly moaning abominations. Grappling arms, snapping mouths, blinking sliding eyes, and prickling strands of flinching hairs...it's too much, it's all too much...
Their voices were full of pleas of mercy, of death, or release—freedom from Stillwater. "Kill...us..." said a blob of what was a human being. "Save....us..." a humanoid thing that can still walk on two legs but is weighed down with the burden of other beings attached to it. They kept begging me to release them from a life of torture and of dark experimentation.
Tears ruined, or perhaps relieved me of fully comprehending what came crawling down the hall. "I'll help...I'll...help..." My hands unconsciously open the door on the lantern. Then, I gave in to the unknown seductive force of the formulas. The constant pressure I've been enduring finally gave way. The arcane knowledge that has been cultivating my mind guides my hand to the floor. The abominations slowly approach, with pain evident on their vaguely humane faces. The formula for oil faintly envelops my glove, like a second skin. As the oil reinforces the wax within the lantern, the abominations are only a few feet away. Their flesh is the only method of movement. Their bones snap as they attempt to walk as they used to. Having collected enough natural oil from the fallen inmates, I released the flames. Their screams of initial anguish relaxed into settled praises and thanks for their merciful end. The choir of praise and thanks horrified me more than the moans of pain. Witnessing their bodies incinerate to ash and twisted lumps of blackened soot hollowed my soul. My cleansing of the second level from that point forward was clinical. Every cell revealed more horrors than the last. Some were monstrous, twisted subjects of a twisted rogue dark mage. They were drenched in merciful fire. Either I have grown used to the smell, or the flames have purified the last of the filth on the floor. By the end, the flesh-covered cells were now smoldering layers of embers. The blood that once flowed freely in the hallway has been torched to ash. What was left was a monster that had seen it all and was more fascinated by the nature of these experiments than disgusted at the fact that they were committed at all. As I make my way back to the staircase, the Enforcer meets me as I descend.
"What happened?" He looks me over, shaken by the ash and soot that covers my clothes and face.
"What do you think happened?" I looked up at him and wiped my lazy eyes. "I burned them all."
He snatched the lamp from my hands and walked past me. "Stay here."
As he ascends the steps, the sound of his disgust makes my lips spread in a grin. Yeah, he must have been the new guy. The Enforcer stumbled back down the stairs. He passed me, avoiding my general space as he did so. I followed him, half by obligation, half intrigued by his level of revulsion. Then, at a moment of great entertainment, he vomited in front of the other Enforcers. The inmates howled in laughter and rightfully jeered his weakened disposition. He was escorted off, and another Enforcer assumed his place. It was a strangely pleasant distraction, all things considered. This Enforcer looks like the rest, but with slightly broader shoulders and a straighter back. This one is no rookie.
He looks down at me occasionally, reading my disposition and choosing his words carefully. "Heard of you, Inmate 800, right?. What happened up there?"
Clearing my throat, I prepare myself to recall everything I witnessed. "You better have a stronger stomach than the other guy."
After the interrogation, I was rewarded with a longer time to shower and extra portions of food for a month. The lukewarm water runs over my body. Soot, grime, ash, and blood flow off my skin and down the drain. Those faces, the screams, and the continuous moans of anguish—I'll never forget them. But as much as I want to remember them all, I can't help but mourn them. Piltovian or Zaunite, it doesn't matter, no one should have to endure whatever happened to them. Whoever was behind this, I'm going to find them and tear them apart. My disgust for the mage that experimented on them reflects upon me. For some strange reason, I'm still utterly fascinated by them. And as I remember them, their twisted forms and powerful bodies, parallels to that dream were apparent. The walking horrors, they carry the same methodology. Enhanced anatomy gone wrong, the perversion of the human body—yes...it was the right thing to do. And destroying the sick bastard who did this would also be the right thing to do. Shutting the water off, I wrapped my body in a towel, formulating a plan to crack down on the identity of the dark mage.