Godclads

Chapter 3-9 The Bait

Ghouls take the bullets, you shoot the enemy. Gather up the dead ghouls. Pour their blood into your prisoners. Infect some more meat. Wait three months. Do it again. Works practically forever.

I can see why the Low Masters made them.

Efficient.

Expendable.

Predictable.

Replenishable.

Only problem comes with feeding them if they survive. These half-strands don’t ever seem to get full.

-Vincentine “Ripperjack” Javvers on deploying ghouls as disposable assets

3-9

As Avo stepped through another threshold of glass, he found himself in a narrow hallway of mirrors. Narrow beams of crimson ebbed and dimmed overhead, casting the room in an eternal struggle between light and dark.

To his sides, ritualistically fashioned plates of glass were layered in folding feathers, like wings sprouting from wings. He continued, traveling down this liminal pathway until he emerged, squeezing through a narrow band of brightness.

He staggered out into the confines of an elevator. His cog-feed spiked his awareness with new details, ghosts drinking in a sea of mem-data from all the thoughtstuff ebbing around him in the Nether. Multiple loci across the immaterial horizon like ethereal suns. One shone just above him. The traffic flowing to it, however, was enervated. Minimal. The type you expect for a private lobby.

Someone cleared their voice to his right. He noticed a still, nervous mouse of a woman in the corner. There was little remarkable about her other than the multi-colored dendrites she had for hair and the gleaming optic that burned at the core of her forehead like a gem. The optic flashed then, a beaming sweep of light washing over him in a scan.

“You…you Moonblood?” she asked, swallowing hard, face ashen.

He grunted. Her heart rate was thundering. He could sense her blood circling through her veins, flowing ever so slower in her right arm. A heavy sweetness tanged the air around her, a heavy scent that Avo found himself all too familiar with. She abused joy in her spare time. The nectar-like substance tended to clog up arteries. Avo had been a witness to more than one death from the congealing substance.

She walked over to the front of the holo-haptics controls and struck an icon. The elevator stopped. A breath escaped from her, nervous and shallow.

Hands shaking, she drew from her filth-stained monochrome coat a mirror-plated mask. Taking a few breaths more to steady herself, she held it over her head as if she was about to plunge a dagger into her skull, and only with a final exertion of will did she manage to put it on.

There was a fatalism to her action. A finality. Considering who she worked for, Avo couldn’t blame her. Explained the joy habit too. When your boss could crush your skull and strike at you from any reflection, what respite could spare your nerves from fated lassitude?

Again, a spill of writhing ghosts seeped through the glass, linking to her through the reflection. A voice rumbled out from her, then.

Sonorous. Expected. Mirrorhead.

+Did you appreciate my gift?+ he asked.

Avo didn’t answer immediately. The question was secondary to his interest. Mirrorhead was speaking through this girl. The implications breathed upon the fires of theory. Was the person Avo interacted with on the aerovec even Mirrorhead himself or just another minion–a conduit–for the Syndicate to channel his Heaven through?

Such was a possibility. For all Avo knew, he could have been fighting an advanced synth-sheathe. Just another gateway to Mirrorhead's true power.

+Is this wait contemplation? Or disobedience?+ Mirrorhead asked, his voice dipping ever so lower.

“Thinking,” Avo said. “Implant’s…appreciated. Though bones are lacking. Overtaxes nerves too.”

+Then, it is working as intended,+ Mirrorhead said. +What you have is only a prototype–and a sample of the gifts that I alone can continue to offer. So long as you heel. So long as you obey. Besides: you will be needing this prototype for the task to come.+ Delightful. The Syndicate boss was planning something. The woman mimicked a sweeping gesture that Mirrorhead made a habit of performing; a rising slash with his right arm while the left remained folded behind his back. +I have a use for you. Consider it a test for both you and the implant. Something to tease our viewers. A promotional, if you will.+

“Promotional,” Avo said, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice.

Most entertainments held little sway over Avo's time. He was a creature of task and purpose, made so by biology, augmented so by good habits learned from a caring father. Reviews and tutorials on Metamind sequencing and new phantasmic builds occupied the majority of his streamed content. Applying his learnings to action consumed much of his remaining time. He did find himself following a hunting/cooking hybrid channel called Flesh of the Fall. It detailed hunting aberrant beasts that spawned near major Ruptures caused by Fallen Heavens. Last he remembered, it was put on hiatus after the host got her spinal marrow infested by fractal-wasps after looking in the wrong direction.

+Indeed,+ Mirrorhead said. +New Vultun, as you might understand, is a thirsting city. It thirsts in more ways than one. You, my novel little acquisition, offers it a chance at a new dish; a new cocktail of violence. But first, we must beat the deluge coming from the competition, and thus I need something eye-catching. Something that will send ripples across lobbies acrosses the city. Something controversial.+

Controversial. The way Mirrorhead said those words sounded like the man wanted Avo to attack a nursery. As tasty as new-grown infants were, Walton would have most certainly frowned upon the mass consumption of half-formed babes. Better to wait until they grew a bit and sinned. In time, there was reason enough to find anyone deserving of being devoured.

“What’s the dive?” Avo asked. Traffic began to flow into the locus above, running like trains of thought fueling the brightness of an etheric sun. More eyes were filtering in, drawn to the promise of entertainment like moths, snaking their way beneath the great unseen sin that was the city’s cojoined mind–a grand network of cognition and memory.

+A story with two acts,+ Mirrorhead began. +Something I thought of personally. For you. It is rare that I find my attention occupied by a single individual.+

“Honored,” Avo said, his note of dryness hidden amidst the usual flatness of his tone

+Good. For the first act, I need you to merely follow the directives of an instrument of mine when the elevator doors open. Rantula, she calls herself. I have instructed her to…test your mettle. To take you to the pits. There, you will face your first trials.+

Avo was beginning to suspect that Mirrorhead had the genetic material of a bush-creature spliced into his biology with how much he liked beating around the point.

“The second?” Avo asked.

+When you see what Rantula has done, I wish for you to challenge her for reasons that will be made manifest. Hurt her. Humiliate her. Break her, in front of her peers. But do not kill her. A hatred is to be cultivated. I think there is potential for a heavy rivalry to be seeded between the two of you. Something that will add lingering tension to future storylines between both of you for the good of the Syndicate. Do this, and another reward awaits you. I promise it.+

Avo frowned at how Mirrorhead seemed to be plotting out an extended timeline for this farce. “Her capabilities. What are they?”

+That will be obvious when you greet her. But that is not the question you are interested in, is it?+

“No,” Avo admitted.

+Ah. Well. Put your concerns to rest: you may not assail her with your constructs of memory. This act is to be played out in the flesh. Use anything more than your Mem-Guard and bear my displeasure. It will be a shame to lose something as promising as you so early. But I have suffered other losses in my time.+

Avo was half-tempted to kill himself in front of Mirrorhead right there and then. Drop dead. See if the Syndicate boss would keep prattling on to his corpse. But as enticing as dying to escape the social tumor that was his new boss might be, his Heaven was still filled with Rend. Any death was permanent, according to Draus. No reason to doubt her about that.

An aerovec flashed by outside the outside window, guns blazing, engine screaming. Three missiles streaked after it. A loud blast followed seconds later.

Never change, New Vultun.

The momentary distraction also made Avo realize that he scarcely had any clue as to where he was anymore. He supposed it was a common problem when dealing with someone who could twist space to their whims. To muddy the waters further, he wondered just how much control Mirrorhead held over reflections, and how vast the Syndicate boss’ dominion over glass was.

More questions. More dangers. Not quite on the pan or in the fire, but not far above it either.

Mirrorhead would be watching him. Avo would be watching back. The Syndicate boss couldn’t be omnipotent. Or even omniscient. If he was, he would be matching edges with the other Godclads instead of stomping around these shallow waters.

“I’ll spare her mind,” Avo said, finally his focus catching back up with himself.

+Spare her mind,+ Mirrorhead chuckled with mirth. +How she will hate you, Moonblood.+ The Syndicate boss’ dipped then to a hefty whisper. +Remember: finish your task. And then hurt her once she gives you proper cause. Break her flesh but do not touch her mind. When you are done, all that, to the victor shall go the spoils. And so long as you have the mettle, the temerity, it can all be yours for the taking.+ Heeding Mirrorhead's will, the woman leaned back, as if he basked in his pride for him. +Bear witness. Another reward promised so easily.+

“Generous,” Avo said.

+And let it never be known otherwise,+ Mirrorhead replied. Their thundering voice cracked. The chain of ghosts snapped. Like snakes slithering back into the shallows of a river, the phantasmal sinews drained away into the glass.

With shaking hands, the joy-fiend lifted the mask from her head, face pale and sheened with sweat.

Avo studied her for a moment. Frustration swelted inside him each time he had to speak with Mirrorhead, and frustration he wanted to release. An intrusive thought ignited in him them. He wondered what it would be like to bite into this woman--this drug-fiend--when her substance was still flowing in her. Joy didn’t work on his kind, but perhaps he might just get a secondhand thrill from her flesh.

“The, uh,” she swallowed. “The boss. He’s…gone.”

“I know,” Avo said, his attention sliding away from the glass mask and onto the person beneath like a snake descending a cliff face.

The beast whispered louder to him then, speaking to him with wants posed as questions. What if he activated his Celerostylus now? Could he tear into her faster than anyone could react? Could he feed from her without anyone noticing?

Tear out of the cameras. Frag her memories. Say she went missing.

Avo licked the insides of his cheek, trying not to imagine the taste of her flesh. She still had two organic eyes. They looked invitingly soft and deliciously pearly.

“Should press that button," Avo said. "Now.”

The last bits of his rationality had somehow managed to smuggle the words out despite his want. His claws were twitching, his throat was wet with appetite.

She didn’t need any more encouragement.

As the elevator restarted its ascent, she sank back into the corner, her eyes fixed on him, fingers coiling on an unseen weapon inside her coat pocket. Avo heard the unmistakable sound of a chambered spring.

“I…I saw the stream,” she began. “You were, uh, I–I didn’t think you could do it.”

He just studied her blankly. It always felt awkward for him when a potential meal tried to indulge in small talk. Perhaps it was the clash between his mind understanding that he was dealing with another self-aware creature against his instinctual savagery that wanted its delights.

“Yeah,” Avo said, mind only half-tuned to the conversation “Should inject the other arm instead. Can smell the joy.”

She cupped her right arm as if the limb itself was shy. She was hiding it from him. “I don’t use that much.”

Avo grunted. “So you say. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Her lip quivered. He forced himself an inch back. He wished there was someone else in the elevator with them. Some kind of muscle. A new suspicion kindled itself within Avo, telling him that this too, was Mirrorhead’s doing. Perhaps the woman was meant a reward as well. A post-transplant meal to start the festivities. It fit.

The Syndicate boss knew what he was; understood his impulses. Simply leaving her would be an act transcending the careless into the callous.

This had to be deliberate. She was being used as bait. Like she was an aratnid. Which made Avo the nu-cat in the metaphor. All toys and tools for Mirrorhead to pit against each other. What a delightful company culture his new boss fostered.

“It’s all I got consang.” Her eyes flicked at the glass around them, trying to see if anyone or anything was looking back at her. She swallowed. “Just want to…to forget that I’m being watched.”

“Not judging,” Avo said. The shape of her cheeks reminded him of that of a hog’s belly. He wished Draus was here. The thought surprised him. Short as his time with the Regular was, she provided him with a net. A bulwark against the beast. Someone he could count on to stop him from disgracing Walton.

“Do what you can,” Avo said, barely managing to choke the words out. “Choose better, if you can.”

She shrank into herself, folding against the curved angle of the elevator. The lights above her flickered. Over her, his encroaching shadow loomed. In his periphery, in the glass where she was just staring, he saw spills of saliva running down the side of his cheeks. It was as if he was a passenger in his own flesh, taking a backseat to his basest hunger.

She wasn’t going to stop using. And in her, he saw a echo. They were all only as strong as–

The elevator door rang. He shivered. His Celerostylus fired. The world slowed for a beat. The woman's eyes were only widening. She hadn’t even begun to stumble backward yet. So fast were his senses that he found himself in exile; time courting his mind back into its rightful place as he watched her expression coil into terror.

What was he doing? What was he about to do?

He quelled his new organ. Standard time reasserted itself. The user's hyperventilating breaths ground at his senses, her eyes bloodshot and wide, her fear naked and raw. A cool flush of air flooded the insides of the small space, cupping Avo and dousing the last flames of the beast.

Her lips were quiet but her body screamed, the terror leaking out from her poorly stitched ward. Stiff and still, her fingers were likely clenched around a small switchblade of some kind. Inefficient against him. Inefficient against this city. She couldn’t choose her fate. She couldn’t choose anything. If even a ghoul could take her life from her, then what choice did she ever have?

FATELESS. Choiceless. How close he came to breaking his promise. How weak was he still in will that he could be drawn astray so easily?

Shaking his head, he pulled himself away from her. He caught the closing doors before they could shut and damn him to a certain mistake.

As soon as he looked away, the joy fiend crashed back against the railing, sobbing in relief. The salt of her flowing tears hit his taste buds immediately. The elevator shook. A red light flashed over the elevator’s control interface, warning its passengers not to shake.

“Good…good luck,” she muttered.

Avo didn’t respond, choosing instead to leave. He had done enough to her. She would still have to suffer in the city afterward.

Closing his eyes and releasing a tense breath, Avo looked down as he pressed forward, wondering what tribulation he would have to suffer next.

He made it three steps before he ended up bouncing forehead-first off a jaw made from reinforced titanium.

Stumbling back, Avo looked up and found himself looking up into eight burning eyes. Each one was a different style of implant, a different color, and implanted on the same snarling face. Phys-Sim impact vector flashed red a moment too late. Avo frowned and deactivated the phantasmic with a thought.

Behind him, the elevator doors closed.

It took no second glance for him to know what he was looking at. She was Scaarthian. Her eight and a half feet of height made that clear as the stars' shine. Five skald marks were carved along her bare, musclebound arms through conjoined whorls of complex ritualistic scarification spread up to her neck. Each coiled ridge of tissue was supposed to represent another decade survived. She had five on each arm. Eight industrial-class legs of segmented titanium hissed steam into the air, each as thick as his thigh. They coiled and twitched behind her, bolted into her spine, hydraulics whistling, tips wicked and piercing.

Rantula. As in tarantula. Oh, these chromers and their cute little gimmicks.

The only skin that adorned her face was pasted thinly along her cheeks and forehead. From a single knotted braid swinging down from her flame-mutilated scalp, the fingerbones of creatures she supposedly killed were left as hairpins and mementos.

Looking down, she sneered at Avo, unimpressed. “Was hoping he’d gotten something bigger. Like one of ‘hose No-Dragon Jade-Mastiff nu-dogs.” She leaned down, her putrid breath probably smelling close to his. “They’re sure harder than your like.”

She snorted again and spat a thick gob of phlegm past him, the wet pulp sliding closed doors of the elevator. Avo sighed. One winning personality after another.

“Come along, Moonblood," she said, leading him away. "Can’t let you be late for the performance.”