by Al Ewing
I didn't even realise I wasn't settled, but he's right. I'm tugging against the cuffs without thinking, thrashing, trying to break out - all it's doing is getting this sadistic bastard's gander up even further... I force myself to stop. This isn't getting me anywhere. "Why don't you stop being a smart-arse?" I snarl, trying to sound threatening.
It just sounds pathetic. He knows it.
The spider reaches the fly.
I swallow, and then shake my head. Resigned. "You said you know what I am. That's more than I do."
The Boxer snorts again - if he does that again, I think, and feel impotent - and says nothing at all. I sigh like a petulant child.
"Go on, spill it. You're going to feed me to those hairy bastards downstairs, you can tell me now. I want to know." I'm wheedling. He just glowers. His voice, when it comes, is cold as stone.
"I just bloody bet you do."
He gives a smile that isn't a smile, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth. It looks like nothing so much as a dog about to tear apart a piece of meat put in front of it. He reaches into the pocket of his suit, pulling out a mobile phone, or something like it.
"As long as one of you is still functioning, the plan goes ahead, doesn't it? Did you honestly think I'd forget what I was talking to, you filthy rotting git? Roscoe forgot. We know what happened to him. Roscoe told you what you were. In bloody meticulous detail. Poor bastard. Apparently he was some sort of genius, although if you ask me his judgement was more than a little faulty. He actually thought you gave a toss if he lived or died." The Boxer scowls, eyes like stone. There's nothing in them but hate. "The poor stupid bastard. He thought you were friends."
I've never met an Emmett Roscoe.
Never.
"You've got the wrong man." You can hear the desperation in my voice, the cold knowledge of just how bad this is going to get. He grits his teeth, that gold tooth flashing under the cold fluorescent light...
"If you keep on bloody whining I'll give you something to whine about. We are past the stage when I talk to you like you're a human being. You're a bleeding monstrosity and you're not getting out of this building alive, just so we understand each other. But before we feed you to the dogs I'm going to ask you some simple questions, if you think you can concentrate on something other than being a tosser for two minutes. I'll tell you right now, this can be easy or hard, but I am definitely leaning towards hard."
"You do know I don't -"
He lunges, and the thing in his hand sparks blue light.
The pain is gigantic.
It's like a capacitor, but much more powerful, and it doesn't even touch me - it just gets close to my ribcage, and the bone flexes, then flows like melting wax, bending like a magnetic field. Is this what it would be like for muscle and bone and flesh to shift, to stretch, to melt? I don't know, but I can feel it right through me, right in my head, like he's pushing that thing into my mind and making my thoughts come to pieces...
...and for the first hundred thousand years it seems like the worst thing in the world, but then it gets worse...
...and by the time he pulls the device back and my flesh and bone and spirit begins to work back into the rightful place I've invented new cosmologies and pantheons to describe the pain and the agony and the horror of having your body and soul warped like clay...
...and I don't even believe it when it ends.
I can't speak.
I suck back drool and swallow the bile rising in my throat. My cheeks are wet.
The Boxer growls. His gold tooth glints.
"That was a starter. Give me any more shit and we're onto the main course."
I want to die, or stop existing, or whatever it takes to remove the memory of that pain. I hurl myself against the chains, beyond speech, beyond anything but a desire to get away, to escape, looking and feeling like an animal caught in a trap. The Boxer waits.
Eventually, I stop struggling. He waits until I've stopped even twitching, until I'm hanging limp in the shackles. Until we both know where we stand.
I never want to go through that again.
The Boxer clears his throat.
"Now that you've finished your interpretive dance, I've got your starter for ten. Think carefully."
He goes silent. In the eye socket of the skeleton, the fly struggles and thrashes as the spider liquefies its insides. It's a minute before he breaks that silence, and by that time I'm willing to tell him anything. Give up anyone I've ever cared about, sell out my neighbours, plant bombs in crowded places, anything, anything to stop him doing that again -
And then the bastard clears his throat and waits a little longer.
Finally, he speaks. I strain my ears.
"When is the time?"
When is the what?
"I'm sorry?"
He reaches out again. This time pushing the thing at my mouth.
There's a blue spark.
It lasts hundreds of thousands of millennia, infinite gulfs of galactic time. Civilisations rise and fall. Planets coalesce out of dust. The quantum throws up new universes, billions and billions of years long, one after another. And all through that, my face and skull is melting and warping, distorting and dripping off my skull, which softens and collapses in on itself like wax... and all my preconceived notions of self burn and blacken and fall to ash and despair... for ever and ever, world without end.
There's a part of my mind that tells me all this only lasts for four or five seconds. But it's like a mouse chirping in a thunderstorm. The agony is eternal and endless.
But it does end.
I make a bubbling noise, like melting fat, as my face begins to reform. I think I might go insane if he did that again.
He waits.
"What..." It's all I can manage.
He snorts again.
"Since you ask, it's the same kind of technology that put you down earlier. A microscopic electromagnetic pulse - disrupts your cellular cohesion and generally fucks up your day something rotten. Also has an interesting effect on your temporal senses and your cover personality, or so the lads in the white coats tell me. Personally I couldn't give a toss. Just so long as it hurts."
"Cellular...?" I'm barely coherent, but I don't think he'd make sense even if I could focus. Something's seriously wrong with this guy. I'm dead. That's all. Just your average walking dead man.
I'm not that... complex.
Am I?
"Don't bother your little head, Sonny Jim. Your cover personality won't let you understand it even if I told you, so you might as well lie back and think of England." He looks up at me. "You may have forgotten what you are, Doe, but I bloody haven't and you're not pulling your shit here. Now it's time for round two. Lets see if you can win the set of steak knives."
He clears his throat. Oh God. Oh God, oh God-that-would-make-me, please...
"When is the time?"
I don't know. I don't know what he means. I don't know anything. Jesus, just tell him something, tell him a time, any time -
"Fuh. Four o'clock. Tuesday. Tuesday four o'clock PM."
He scowls. His eyes are like ice. Grey ice.
"Are you sure?"
"I swear. Please. Tuesday afternoon, four o'clock. That's the time."
He shakes his head.
"Do you think I rode into work this morning on a chocolate fucking digestive, you lying little bastard?"
I start crying.
"Stop bloody bawling!" He bellows it, genuinely aggrieved. "Jesus fucking Christ! I didn't expect you to tell me the truth, and I don't expect you to act like a human bloody being but you could act like a fucking adult!"
I look up at him, shaking my head, unable to speak. I don't want to act like an adult. I want to beg. I want to fall onto my knees and plead. I want to lick his boots. I want to say and do anything I need to say and do to end this.
Is he enjoying it?
His voice is like a block of ice.
"Now listen here, you filthy little bastard. You can stop pretendin
g to yourself that you're the hero in this little adventure story because, believe me, you are anything but. What you are is an inhuman undead piece of shit pretending to be a human being. You eat human beings brain-first and you want to kill every living thing on this bloody planet! And by the time I am finished with you you are going to tell me every one of your horrible plans for the human species so we can finally grind you up and serve you for dinner with a fucking Waldorf Salad! Capeesh?"
I shake my head. I'm not like that. I'm not some monster.
I'm just like you.
I try so hard.
I swear.
Please.
"Tough shit. Ding ding, round three, question fucking one. Either take off that fucking mask you've superglued onto yourself or take your fucking medicine."
Please.
Please.
"And at least take it like a man. Come on, spit it out, you little toerag."
Please.
"Fuck it! Time's up."
This time, he goes for my groin.
I scream so loud and so hard I think my throat is going to explode, and the scream lasts one hundred, thousand, million, billion... imagine someone driving a cricket bat layered with razor-wire into your most sensitive parts at one thousand miles per hour, while making you believe that you are worthless and ugly and pathetic and unloved, down to the very lowest core of your being. Imagine physical and existential nausea and agony flowing through every single cell of your body.
Imagine your dick melting like wax and running onto the floor.
And imagine that lasting until the end of time.
Imagine being trapped in Hell.
Just because he can, he keeps the button pressed. Ten seconds. Twenty. Twenty lifetimes. He draws it slowly up the front of my torso, and my guts and organs and heart melt and twist and distort, like a plastic model of a man left on a radiator. Like a melting snowman.
I see the look of pure hatred on his face as he lifts the tool up to my face, and my face is gone, and all my notions of self and identity and all of my illusions. My eyes run down my face and burst on the floor and keep seeing despite that, and my face is a screaming bloody ruin, screaming and screaming for a judgement day that never comes...
And then he switches it off.
And I tumble into blackness.
Interlude The First
Japan, 1578 AD
But the tale of the dungeon and the Boxer and the question with no answer was yet to occur on that day in the middle of winter, when Oda Nobunaga and his retinue trudged up the cold hill to take tea with the Cold Ronin, O Best Beloved.
It was spring, when the cold heart of the world thaws and the beautiful blossoms grow upon the branches, but there was no spring upon the cold hill. Had it been the middle of winter, in that early part of the year when a carpet of frost covers and smothers all that grows, it would still have been so cold as to invite comment. Not the cold of a snowflake falling on a bamboo leaf, nor yet the cold of a clear icy stream running through the mountains, but the cold that is seldom found anywhere but in the forgotten resting-place of one who died without honour, in a locked stone tomb where there is no company save the dead and no comfort save death. A chill experienced only in a place of deepest death and horror.
The noble retinue of Oda Nobunaga wrapped their coats tighter around themselves and shivered, yet made no sound of dissent. It was their Master's will that they take themselves up that cold hill in that chill wind, and as such it was to be obeyed without question, even as they looked around them at the stunted trees and the stony patches of ground upon which nothing grew, and prayed to their ancestors that they would live to see the morning.
Oda Nobunaga did not pray. He did not shiver. He did not look left, or right, or up, or down. He simply walked, facing into the bitter wind, one foot in front of the other, his ceremonial cloak wrapped about him, his sword at his side, showing no sign of fear or danger or even discomfort. He was Oyabun - it was not a part of his nature or his station to give in to fear.
And yet, deep in the hidden core of Oda Nobunaga, locked away from all human sight, there was a sense of foreboding. This was not the simple hiring of a mercenary, or a pack of samurai; to seek the Cold Ronin who lived on the cold hill was to seek something less than human. Men spoke in whispers of his cold, pale corpse-flesh, his way of staring at you, head cocked, as though he was a bird and you were a tasty worm ready to be plucked from the frozen ground. Occasionally, it was said that if he did not like what you had come to offer him, he would cut the top of your head off with his sharp katana and feast on your living brain - but these were, of course, only stories, and it would not do for Oda Nobunaga to show even the slightest tremor as his feet shuffled in the cold snow.
They had almost reached the top of the hill when Oda Nobunaga lifted his head and spied the Cold Ronin six feet in front of him, barefoot, dressed in a white robe, his flesh like marble in the high sun, his sword sheathed at his side. Oda Nobunaga swallowed, once, then spoke in a clear voice betraying not the subtlest quiver. "Nanashi No."
He bowed, and his retinue bowed also, almost comic in their efforts to out-scrape one another, noses almost touching the snow.
Nanashi No nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Oda Nobunaga. What leads you to disturb my solitude on these cold hills?"
Oda Nobunaga hesitated a moment. But it would be a mistake to lie to the Cold Ronin.
"Anger and hatred, Nanashi No, and the desire to defend my lands against those who would try to conquer them. You are aware, of course, of the warlord Uesugi Kenshin."
Nanashi No nodded once. "He attacked you recently, driving you back into Omi Province. There is doubt in some circles that you are still the strongest warlord in Japan after Uesugi Kenshin out-manoeuvred you so cunningly. In the last few months, Uesugi Kenshin has put together a grand army, which appears capable of driving you even further back and claiming still more land—"
Oda Nobunaga coloured, eyes narrowing in fury. "Enough!"
The chill on the cold hill deepened, and a single leaf blew between the two men. Oda Nobunaga felt his throat close and his stomach churn. "Th-that is... I did not mean to insult you, Cold Ronin. It was an unworthy outburst. Forgive me."
There was another pause that seemed to last an age before the Cold Ronin nodded.
"The price of doing business with me has increased, Oda Nobunaga. Explain what it is you wish of me, and please do so quickly. My patience is not infinite, and your unseemly behaviour has strained it to the breaking point." Nanashi No's voice was soft, but infinitely cold. Oda Nobunaga bowed again, deeply, and his retinue followed, each attempting to bow lower than the other, trembling despite their warm clothing.
"Forgive me, Cold Ronin. I wish you to assassinate Uesugi Kenshin as soon as is convenient. He is the heart and the brain of his army - without him, all of his plans will fall to chaos."
Nanashi No nodded again. "You have heard, I trust, that Uesugi Kenshin is in poor health and is not expected to last another year? Tell me, Oda Nobunaga, what profit is there for you if I strike my keen blade through a heart already dying?"
Oda Nobunaga looked into the cold eyes of the Cold Ronin and chose his words with care. To turn around and leave after such a journey would be intolerable, and to offend Nanashi No further would be actively dangerous. "Every beat of Uesugi Kenshin's heart is a danger to me, Cold Ronin. I find stilling it worth more than any price you name."
Nanashi No smiled, and the smile was without warmth. "Any price?"
Oda Nobunaga turned to look at his retinue, and the shuffling, shuddering men hauled two large chests filled with treasures - magnificent jade pieces, ornate vases, gold and glittering jewels.
The Cold Ronin stared at the wealth before him. "I am no collector of fine jade, Oda Nobunaga, and as such I have no need of this. I'm sure you see some prize to be fought for in this, but all I see is nothing at all."
Oda Nobunaga opened his mouth to speak, but Nanashi No simply shook his
head. "A fat pouch of yen, Oda Nobunaga, will serve. Bring it to me by sunset. And one thing more. When you leave here, take only those members of your retinue needed to lift those twin chests of nothing, so that you can bear them far away from my cold hill. Leave the rest with me."
Oda Nobunaga opened his mouth again, but the eyes of the Cold Ronin forced his silence. He turned and nodded to the four best men in his retinue. They, too, were wordless as they picked up the crates.
The five men did not look back as they took their leave of the cold hill. Not when they heard the unsheathing of the sword, nor when they heard the noise of fine-tempered metal slicing through flesh and bone, nor when the screams and gurgles of those left behind reached their ears.
And when they heard the sound of teeth gnawing at the meat of the skull, a ravenous tearing, a gulping, a feasting, the sounds of an unholy communion taking place not twenty metres from where their boots shuffled in the snow... then, most of all, they did not look back, O Best Beloved.
Not once.
Imagine the finest of the Shogun's horses, O Best Beloved! Imagine the thunder of its hooves as it gallops through the orchards of the Shogun, the shifting of the muscles of its flanks. Imagine the magnificence of the beast, the life force emanating from every pore, the shifting of the black mane in the breeze.
Imagine it has no eyes.
The wet, red sockets gape, droplets of gore seeping from them, trailing back from the head of the noble steed as it runs blindly, hurtling forward. The life force is subverted, the magnificence of the animal broken by this one detail, transformed to horror and madness.
