"1945 -- Hitler died in '45."
Good God, why can I not format anything on this site? When did it become so fucking hard to copy stuff? Argh, I don't think I'm cut out to work with computers.
INK SPILL
---
Bree is lost. Lost as in she’s not even sure she’s in the same building as when she started. Lost as in she’s too far gone to even be scared anymore.
Lost, lost, lost.
Cellphones don’t work in this part of the city, the remains of the old SAIA labs interfering with any service. So, she’s lost and she can’t call anyone. Great. Awesome. She is going to kill Bailey when-if-she gets out of here because she had told him a hundred times that breaking into the old SAIA building was a terrible idea. Squaring her shoulders, she trudges onward, her flashlight slicing through the dark. If she keeps walking, she’s sure to find an exit. At least, that’s what Bree keeps telling herself.
She steps into a room littered with glass and upon closer inspection she finds that there were once several cylindrical tanks that lined the wall; all broken now. Wires, long dead, hang limp from the ceiling and yellowed, withered paper is scattered about like leaves. She bends down to pick one up, squinting to read the long-faded words.
SUBJECT: FEMALE XII-37
HYBRID SAMPLING: SCORPION
AGE: 17 - 22
TRIAL INJECTION: 12/16/38
Spe im n re ted failing e es. Replaced wi
prev us s eci an New eyes. Ir egul L st swel in
can’t speak without gar es Los ap ti Killed x
didn’t find l gs. bl d ev wh
vocal chords swell ng of ey s
clicking commu with specimen X 45?
Elongation of spinal column con ant pain first to grow
assistan Ripp rm nd sev r d Violent tendencies poison us grow h tail. Tail c n dama e com uter lab on upper level has been completely Broke through
sedative dosage upped n t res ing dan ous, and un rol able.
Bree drops the papers as though burnt. She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she can infer the enough. She shudders; this place gives her the creeps. A quick perusal tells her that the other papers have similarly disturbing texts. A couple document trial runs and test injections, complete with graphs that track their health. A page near her foot tracks the decreasing menstruation of a female specimen.
“My god,” she murmurs, shining her light back up at the tanks.
“Horrible, isn’t it?”
Bree nearly drops her flashlight at the question, whipping her head about in search of the speaker. The unknown voice sounds like several speaking at once, a distant echo; it’s definitely not Bailey. There’s movement inside one of the tanks, something shoots up like water from a hydrant. The substance twists until it forms a figure, and it presses a hand almost fondly against the dusty glass. The thing stares at her; human, but not quite. It is taller than a man, limbs too long as though stretched. The face of the thing is too smooth, too flat, features almost non-existent. It’s black, like ink.
She opens her mouth to scream, and the thing holds up a long-fingered hand.
“Oh, please don’t. Really, I don’t mean any harm, and if you scream you might attract the others.”
It’s not real, it’s not real. But no matter how many times she keeps repeating it to herself, the thing is still standing there looking straight at her. “Others…?” Oh, God, there’s more?
It smiles, the too-smooth skin stretching widely to reveal translucent teeth. “You didn’t think that we had all died, did you? Haven’t you ever heard of survival of the fittest, or do they not teach you that anymore in your schools?”
She shakes her head, more in denial than an actual answer to its question. She takes a hesitant step backwards, but that’s about as far as her legs will take her. The flashlight in her hand shakes, but her grip is firm. Bree doesn’t want to lose sight of it. And despite her best efforts, she can’t help the whimper that passes over her lips.
The thing tilts its head to the right at the sound. “Are you afraid? You don’t have to be,” it soothes, and despite everything, she does feel better. “I’m not going to hurt you, dear. Believe me, if I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it when you first came in the room.”
It should like a threat, but it doesn’t. The thing has a point; if it wanted her dead she would be, and the fact that it hasn’t killed her yet is calming. If only a little. “Who,” because she can only suppose that at one time this thing was a person, “…who are you?”
The ink-thing seems to melt away, and Bree can hear a sickening, squelching sound as something moves along the floor. It reforms in front of her a moment later, reminiscent of splashing water, features becoming slightly more human. It takes her a minute to realize that the thing has become her mother. The ink-thing smiles again with her mother’s full lips, smiles in a self-deprecating manner, “I don’t remember anymore. It was one of the first things that I forgot.”
The thing is closer now and she should be terrified-and she still is-but her curiosity is starting to get the better of her. “You forgot your name?”
“And my parents. And my friends. Where I was born, if I had ever been in love. Even what gender I was.” It holds up a hand, lets the fingers melt and drip away, leaving an inky puddle on the floor. The puddle crawls back to the ink-thing’s foot, merging back with a slight squelch. On the fingerless hand, the ink stretches until five digits reappear. Bree looks away from the hand back to its face and can only stare. Another smile with her mother’s face, “One can only imagine what they have to do to a person to enable it to do that. So, really, then, is it any wonder that I have no idea who or what I used to be?”
She wants to say that she’s sorry, but apologies sound so silly and trivial. What is the apology of a young woman to a thing that has been warped past the point of humanity? Instead, she settles for the question that has been at the back of her mind. “How do you know what my mother looked like?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I saw her.”
“But that’s... she’s been…. She isn’t…”
The ink-thing shakes its head, places a calming hand on the side of Bree’s face. Like her mother once did. The skin is clammy. “You showed her to me. She’s in your memory, so I saw her. I see lots of memories. You think that memories are just filed away, only resurfacing when the occasion calls for it, but they’re not. They’re always present, you’re always thinking about them. You just don’t know that you’re thinking about them.” The thing pauses and takes its hand away from her face. “Does that make any sense to you?”
“N-not really.”
The thing shrugs her mother’s shoulders. “Ah, well. It’s an obscure concept. I don’t blame you for not understanding; I’m horrid at explaining things anyway,” it says, waving a hand dismissively.
Her nose wrinkles in confusion. “So, are you saying that you see other people’s memories?”
“I see the memories just as clear as I see your black hair, the half-moon scar hidden just beneath the bangs. And there are just as many memories visible to me as the freckles on your face, my dear. I don’t have to dig through your mind, so don’t worry; I promise I’m not prying.” It holds up both hands in a sign of good faith.
It’s all too surreal for Bree, talking to a thing who looks like her mother but isn’t her mother. It’s like a dream in the fact that she isn’t afraid of this thing, not like she should be. In dreams, there is no fear and strange is the norm. The same applies here, she supposes. She’s stopped trying to make sense of things and just accepts it. It’s easier that way. “What other memories do you see?”
“Oh, some of them are mundane. Like what you had for breakfast your first day of high school, that awful haircut you had back in the second grade-bowl cut, darling? Really? And then there are the sad ones, like your mother’s funeral, when you got the call about your father. And then there are the juicy ones, like the one of you and that man. You know, the cop? That’s a filthy memory for such a pristine girl,” it chides, features shifting into Derek’s face. “Tsk, tsk. And in his office, too. On the desk, even.”
Bree flushes, too embarrassed to be worried, even as it leans closer in her face. She doesn’t feel the thing’s breath; it doesn’t breathe. “That’s…”
“I don’t blame you,” it croons, the translucent teeth flashing in the dark face knowingly. “He was quite lovely, quite forceful. Well groomed, if you get my meaning.” The ink-thing looks as though it wants to say something else, but it pulls back suddenly, stares at the door. The features smooth out, its face once again flat. “You should go.”
Bree looks over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“Eve will be here soon, and she’s not nearly as nice as I am.”
“Eve?”
“The file you read, that was hers. The one with the tail and the violent tendencies.”
“Wait, tail?”
“Like a scorpion,” it says offhand. “Sharp, poisonous. You get the drift. So, you need to go.”
She looks down at the dropped file; the poor woman mentioned in that file is still alive? She shakes her head slowly, “What did they mean when they said ‘trial injections’?”
“Preliminary injections, smaller doses. If the specimen survives the first round, that’s when they start administering the real doses. After all, they wouldn’t want to waste the serums on unfit specimen, now would they?” The sarcasm is almost palpable. “I don’t even remember my trial injections, which I suppose I should be thankful for.”
“What did they inject you with?” Does that count as prying? Bree supposes it’s fair trade; after all, the thing saw her and Derek.
“God only knows,” it sighs, shaking its head. Then, in a stern voice, “But enough of all of this. You need to get out of here. Eve is coming, and I don’t want to be responsible for what happens next. She’s not too fond of you humans.”
She wants to ask whether the thing is a human, but she supposes no, it isn’t. And neither is this Eve. “Why do you call her Eve? Did she eat the apple?” she snarks before she can stop herself.
“No, but she did eat Dr. Friedle’s heart,” it replies, not in the least bit amused. “Ripped it out while he was still alive, took the first bite while it was still connected and beating. She’s been in these labs the longest. She might even be the first, I don’t know. That is why we call her Eve. Well, that and because that’s her given name.” It looks at Bree pityingly, “You have no idea what she’ll do to you if she finds you. So, go. Take the stairwell to the left, and when you reach the second floor there’s an old fire escape that’ll be on your right. Take it. Take it and go. Go before either Eve or Lethem finds you.”
She starts backing away. “Lethem?”
“The beast that hangs around with her. He’s got quite the appetite and loves to play with his food. I’m not going to tell you again. Go.” The ink-thing leans in her face, reforming and twisting until its body becomes almost skeletal, nothing human its face as the mouth is now replaced with an arthropod-like mandible. It shrieks at her, sounding like at once like scraping metal and someone’s dying screams.
Bree does not need to be told again.