Rollerskater: Lotus
I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII
This instalment contains graphic violence and strong sexual themes.
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They called him Socks.
Of course, that wasn’t the name his mother, a Trinidadian nurse named Winnie Jones, and his father, an English accountant named Joseph Oxford, had given him. They had named him Stephen James Oxford.
At school, that had been shortened in many instances to “S. Oxford,” which had led to the nickname “Soxford”. Over time, the “-ford” suffix had fallen out of use, and so…
They called him Socks.
Even now, at twenty-one, at university, school a mere hazy memory of yesterday, that was the name he gave whenever he met someone new.
He wore blue, circular teashades, a black shirt on which had been printed the slogan “MY OTHER SHIRT IS GUCCI”, blue skinny jeans and Timberland boots.
“So, Socks – will I see you at Gina’s Christmas gathering?”
Her name was Daisy. She wore light blouses, leopard-print coats, pleated skirts and Converse shoes. She sat next to him in the lecture theatre often.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, for sure,” Socks said, looking up from his laptop screen. “Can’t believe that’s winter term already over with.”
“I know, the time goes so fast,” Daisy said, opening up her own laptop. “We’ll have graduated before you know it.”
“Don’t wish your life away,” Socks said.
“I know, it’s just, these lectures. It’s long.”
“I feel that. Any idea who else is coming?”
“Doug has yet to respond, and I hear Tom’s had to head home, his grandma’s unwell.”
“Hmm,” Socks said, thoughtfully. And what about…you know…”
“Hippie Girl?”
“I believe she prefers to be called—”
“I know what she prefers to be called, Socks.”
Oh, speak of the Devil…”
The lecture theatre was arranged in a staggered formation, and there were two entrances: An upper entrance at the back of the room with steps leading down toward the front of the room, and a lower entrance at the front of the room. Socks and Daisy were looking at the lower entrance, where someone had just entered.
She was a small, delicate figure, thin, with long blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders like rivers of molten gold. She wore a plain white dress that was always unstained, no matter how often she sat in the grass – something she did often – and everywhere she went, she walked barefoot, to the amusement and sometimes disgust of others. She couldn’t have been much taller than five feet tall, and was known to speak with plants.
Her given name, as recorded on the ID that hung from the lanyard around her neck, was Liberty Parish, but she had been given unkind nicknames, whispered behind her back. “Hippie Girl” was the most popular, and so that was what people called her. Most people, anyway.
“Do you think she wears that damn thing to bed?” Daisy whispered, glancing at the pristine white dress.
“I don’t know,” Socks said. “I kind of want to get to know her…that’s why I asked you if she’s coming to the party.”
“She keeps herself to herself, mostly,” Daisy said, with a small sneer. “It’s funny, you’d think she’d go clubbing, wearing an outfit like that, but I only ever see her in classes and between classes.”
Socks paused. He had a strange feeling.
“Something the matter?” Daisy asked.
“No,” Socks said. “It’s just…I feel weird. You ever feel like something has happened before?”
“Déjà vu,” Daisy said.
“Yeah, but…different. It really feels like we’ve had this conversation before, but…”
He trailed off.
“But what?” Daisy asked.
“Somewhere else. That’s the best way I can put it. Another time, another place.”
Daisy raised an eyebrow. “Are you feeling alright?”
Socks snapped out of it.
“I dunno,” he said. “I’ve had this weird feeling since I woke up this morning. I had a really strange dream. Only, I don’t remember many of the details…”
“Can’t have been a very interesting dream,” Daisy said.
“I think Liberty was there…”
“Okay, too much information,” Daisy said. “Let’s move on.”
Socks quietly agreed.
He gazed down at Liberty, who had seated herself at the front of the room, a paper pad and pen in front of her.
He felt himself blush a little, and felt a nudge in his side.
“Teddybear,” Daisy said, smiling, as the professor entered the room.
*
K-Os drew herself together in a dimly-lit room. She had never been quite unconscious, but her consciousness had been so spread out as she was transported that she could not be certain where she was. That was a new and somewhat disquieting feeling.
As she took shape, she became acutely aware of a sound, a heavy vibration in the air that seemed to emanate from the walls.
She was seated on the ground, and as she tried to stand, she found that she couldn’t. The vibrations were disrupting her structure. With every movement, parts of her seemed to drip away.
The chamber in which she found herself was very carefully designed, entirely sealed from the inside, with no discernible means of escape. Someone had thought very carefully about how to trap her. She would be almost impressed, if it didn’t mean dire consequences for her allies.
A light flickered in the corner of the room. K-Os turned to it. In what had been a bare, curved white wall, there now appeared a small screen. On it was a human face, which she regarded hatefully.
“The Captain,” she said. “Let me out of here.”
“I’m afraid we will not be making good on that request,” the Captain responded. “You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, Miss Osborne. It’s good to have you under lock and key at last.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” K-Os replied. “There are things afoot in this country that go well beyond SAID-MI5, Captain. Surely, you must understand this.”
“That may very well be, Miss Osborne. But I will not take advice on national security from one of the most notorious anarchists of our time.”
“Fucking idiot,” K-Os snarled. “You’re all going to die, and soon. That’s not a threat, it’s a statement of fact.”
“I think you underestimate Her Majesty’s Government,” the Captain replied. “Now, wait there for a moment. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
The screen went dark.
Somewhere above, a sound. Then an opening. Through it fell a figure, as though a morsel of food deposited into a stomach.
It was a young man, who lay in a heap on the ground, quietly weeping. He was dressed in a prison uniform, and shivering uncontrollably. As he sat up, K-Os could see that protruding from his nostrils were two icicles.
“Who are you?” K-Os asked.
The young man looked at her, curling his body into a foetal position to conserve heat.
“I’m s-sorry,” he said. “They s-said they’re going to make me st-stay in the r-room with you for thr-three hours…”
K-Os looked at him, watching his teeth chatter at a cold that was not present.
“What happens after three hours?” she asked.
The tears on the young man’s cheeks had frozen into ice.
“W-well, I’m not s-supposed to st-stay anywhere l-longer than a f-few m-minutes,” he said.
*
For Socks, Liberty was a sort of ghost. He had heard of her, heard about her, but she herself was somewhat elusive and distant.
As class ended, he quickly slid his laptop into his bag, and then descended down the steps. Liberty was already halfway out of the door.
He followed after her, caught up to her and walked beside her. As he approached her, he became aware of just how small she actually was – he stood at five feet and nine inches barefoot and he absolutely towered over her in his Timbs.
“Hey,” he said. “Liberty?”
There was a pause as Liberty stopped and turned to him. Even through his sunglasses, her pale blue eyes had a fierce gaze that appeared to see right into him. She smiled. Then she spoke.
“That’s me.”
Her voice was somewhat higher in pitch than he had been expecting.
“I was wondering if you’re going to Gina’s Christmas party?”
“Oh, you know what?” Liberty said, gently. “I’m really busy.”
“I just thought it might be nice to get to know you. I see you around a lot.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet?” Liberty said, genuinely touched. “I’ll try to make it.”
“Really? Awesome. I’ll walk you there.”
Liberty raised an eyebrow and tilted her head.
“I-if you want that, I mean,” Socks stammered.
Liberty laughed. “I think it’s cute that you want me to come to the party.”
“Great!” Socks said.
Liberty narrowed her eyes, looking up at him.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Socks.”
“That’s a funny name,” Liberty said. “Bless your little cotton…socks. I’ll definitely make time if I can!”
“See you later, then,” Socks said.
“Yes,” Liberty said. “I’m sure.”
She began to walk away.
“Nice meeting you, Socks,” she said, sweetly. “Have a great day!”
“You too!” Socks said.
She looked back at him, her face in a broad grin, and disappeared up the walkway.
*
“What is it, Afua? This had better be important.”
Barnabas Mortimer’s office in 10 Downing Street was remarkably spare, Boateng thought. No knick-knacks, no frivolities. Barely even a trace of dust. It was as though the nation’s helmsman lived no other life but politics. Of course, this was likely. Mortimer was unmarried and had no children. A solitary man, the captain of the great ship that was Britain.
“It’s an update from LeTellier, Prime Minister,” Boateng said. “We’ve had it confirmed from The Captain over at SAID that the Rollerskater and one of her associates have been captured and contained.”
“Good,” Mortimer said. “And what of the others?”
“Still at large, but we’re closing in on them.”
“Excellent. I think we’re finally getting the situation under control.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Afua said. “You’ve nearly led us to victory.”
Mortimer smiled, darkly.
“Once the freaks are dealt with, I have many plans for this country,” he said.
“Prime Minister?”
“This nation has been harried and bullied for long enough,” Mortimer said. “We are on the cusp of victory, Afua. The cowards and traitors talk at length of how they hate England, how they wish to see her destroyed. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” Boateng replied, coldly.
“We begin with the Rollerskater and her allies,” Mortimer said. “Then everyone else.”
“Everyone else?”
“Yes. Soon we’ll be able to rid ourselves of the human filth who refuse to integrate with our culture, who hate our flag, who spit in the faces of those who died for it. Who demand that it bend and stretch to fit their own backwards morality. This is the beginning, Afua. The beginning of a new Britain. A better Britain.”
There came a knock at the door.
“Enter,” Mortimer said.
The door opened. In came Douglas Baird, whose hands were clasped anxiously.
“P-Prime Minister,” he stammered. “It’s about Project LUCIFER.”
“Yes?” Mortimer said. “What of it?”
“It’s been months,” Baird said. “The c-captive still isn’t cooperating.”
“I see,” Mortimer said, coolly. “Leave it with me, Baird. Tell them to wait for me to get in touch. Run along, now. There’s a good boy.”
Baird nodded to him and to Boateng, then departed rapidly.
“You were saying, Prime Minister?” Boateng said.
“Yes, Afua – a better Britain is on its way.”
Mortimer sat himself down in the leather seat behind his desk.
“Well?” he said. “The least you could do is look excited.”
Boateng simply glowered at him.
“There are men like you in every nation,” she said, quietly. “But only in Britain do they make you Prime Minister.”
She turned for the door.
“Afua…” Mortimer said.
She stopped.
“…remember who kept you in his Cabinet.”
She left, closing the door behind her.
*
“Merry Christmaaaaas! Welcome to our houuuuse!”
There in the doorway stood Gina, a cheerful and chubby classmate of Socks.
“I…brought beer,” Socks said. But he hadn’t. He was empty-handed. Why was he empty-handed?
Gina looked at him askance.
“Are you feeling alright?” she said.
“I’m fine,” Socks said. “Sorry about the beer, I could have sworn…”
“It’s alright, Socks. Plenty of tequila to go rouuuund!”
She put her arms around Socks, and led him down the drably-wallpapered hallway, into the living room, which connected to a small kitchen area.
Socks walked into the kitchen and greeted Gina’s housemates, who were similarly inebriated.
A strange feeling came over him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t remember how he got here.
He was outside the lecture hall, and then—
“Look who it is,” someone said, and Socks gazed across the room to see a guy he had seen a few times, here and there, named Max. He really felt like he should have a beer in his hand. Why had he forgotten the beer?
“How are you, Socks?” Max said. He sounded concerned.
“F…fine,” Socks said. “Relieved we’re already a third of the way into the year.”
“You and me both, pal. But hey, enjoy it while you can, you know. After this, it’s a lifetime of work, and then you die.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Eat, drink and be merry,” Max said.
Socks had a headache.
A slow trickle of revellers began to pour in, carrying with them all manner of intoxicants, legal and illegal, as with any student party.
Daisy arrived, hanging up her leopard-print coat on a nearby chair and finding somewhere to sit next to Socks. She had clearly enjoyed a few pre-drinks.
Socks was sitting on the sofa, a cheap, shitty, preused thing from a charity shop that appeared to be lopsidedly sagging into the ground. She plopped down on the arm of the chair, crossing her legs.
“So,” she said, slurring slightly, over the chatter and a loud stereo playing pop music in the kitchen. “How did your rendezvous with Hippie Girl go?”
“Pretty well, I think,” Socks said. “I was…oh shit, I was supposed to walk her here!”
Why hadn’t he met up with her?
Daisy gave him a strange look.
There was a ding-dong at the door, and Gina, from somewhere in the kitchen, slurred: “Comiiiiiiing!”
A draught entered the already cold house – the walls were thin and the heating was clearly only on some of the time, and conversation died down for a moment.
“Look who it is!” Gina said, from the hallway. “Hello!”
There came the sound of bare feet on the hard floor.
Liberty entered the living room, looking around. Conversation had completely silenced.
“Damn it,” Socks said.
Liberty smiled and walked up to him.
“You came here without me, Socks? That’s not very gentlemanly of you.”
Daisy smiled coyly.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, and left to get another drink.
Liberty slid into her seat.
“So,” she said. “Enjoying the party so far?”
“I only just arrived,” Socks said. “Listen, Liberty, I’m sorry I didn’t bring you with me…”
“I was only teasing you,” Liberty said. “I said I was busy, but might come along if things were sorted out, remember?”
“Oh, yes,” Socks said. “Of course.”
Liberty smiled, then pushed herself up, leaning in to Socks’s ear. Hair prickled on the back of his neck, and he shuddered.
“Meet me upstairs,” she whispered, and got up, sauntering across the room and grabbing a bottle of tequila that somebody had left on a table.
He sat there for a few moments, unsure of his next move. He was sure…he was sure that Liberty wasn’t normally like this. Something was missing. Someone was missing.
And suddenly he was on the stairs, but he couldn’t remember leaving the room. Somewhere below, conversation continued. He proceeded up to the landing. The main lights weren’t on, so a street lamp outside threw long shadows across the drab, stain-resistant carpeting. A door had been left slightly ajar. Socks strode across the landing, pushing the door open, to find himself in a girl’s bedroom.
The walls were hung with fairy-lights, softly-lit. Polaroid photographs and posters had been stuck to the wall with sticky-tack. He felt strongly that he shouldn’t be in here, that this was someone’s private space in which he was intruding.
There, sitting on the end of the bed, was Liberty, clutching the bottle of tequila.
“Hello, Socks,” she said. “So nice of you to join me.”
“We shouldn’t be in here,” Socks said.
“I know,” Liberty said. “That’s what makes it so exciting. Shut the door behind you.”
He pushed the door shut. Liberty stood, approaching him. She pushed the bottle into his hands.
“This isn’t right,” he said.
She placed a finger to his lips.
“Shhhh. It’s alright to be nervous. Everyone’s nervous their first time.”
Socks tried to back away from her.
“I never told you that,” he replied.
“You didn’t have to,” Liberty replied. “You’re an open book, Socks.”
With a deft movement, she removed the lid from the tequila bottle. It fell to the ground between their feet.
She leaned in to his ear.
“Drink,” she whispered.
“I don’t want to.”
“Come on,” she said. “Let me in.”
She smiled coquettishly, slipping her shoulders out from her dress. Her breasts were bare.
She kissed his jawline, running her tongue along his neck, and guided his left hand to her right breast.
“Don’t you want me, Socks?”
He felt her teeth graze his throat, the hardness of her nipple in his palm.
Socks might even have been fooled, but she had made only one mistake.
Despite himself, Socks knew, somehow, that he had lost his left arm.
There came a vision of another time and another place.
A screaming face – golden hair – a girl vanishing from sight.
He looked again at the person in front of him, and knew her as false.
“Don’t,” she said, angrily, in a voice that was not hers.
But already, he was charging towards the bedroom window. It felt like running through treacle, but somehow, he achieved enough momentum, and threw himself at the glass.
The window crashed open, and he was falling…
*
A machine was bleeping loudly.
The Captain turned to one of the medical officers monitoring the situation.
“What’s happening?” he demanded.
“Brainwave disruptions, sir,” the medical officer replied. He looked bemused, even slightly afraid. “Looks like he’s left deep REM. I think he might be trying to wake up, sir.”
The Captain turned back to the bed.
Stephen Oxford was laying on a reclining leatherette seat, his eyes closed. In his arm was an intravenous drip of tranquilisers, keeping him unconscious. Or at least, they were supposed to be. Wires trailed from his head, into a machine that the medical officer was monitoring.
Next to him, in another seat, sat a young woman, her hair grey and unkempt like a birds’ nest, her skin pale. She was gaunt and sickly, her cheeks sunken. Her eyes were half-open in a trance. Her hand had been bound to that of Oxford’s by the use of bandages. There was a badge attached to her internment uniform that read “Y. TRAUM”.
“Ysabel,” the Captain said, softly. “Ysabel. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Ysabel replied, with a strange, flat affect that indicated she was not entirely in the room with him.
“What is happening in there?” the Captain asked. “I need information about the Rollerskater.”
“He has broken through the psycho-erotic potentiation manifold,” Ysabel replied. “He is attempting a retreat.”
The Captain surveyed Oxford, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
“You are authorised to deploy a limbic-system potentiation attack,” he said.
Ysabel was silent for a few moments.
“Understood,” she said.
A small sound escaped from Oxford’s mouth, a quiet moan or yelp. Then he fell silent again.
“Brainwave patterns nominal,” said the medical officer across the room.
*
The room had begun sweltering. K-Os couldn’t move for the vibrations in the air. The young man opposite her sat, curled into a ball, shivering uncontrollably, as though seized by fever.
“What’s your name?” K-Os asked.
“A-Aidan,” the young man replied.
K-Os surveyed him a few moments.
“You’re constantly generating and losing heat,” she said. Her voice had become liquidous, burbling, like a person trying to speak with a melting ice cube in their mouth. “That’s your ability, isn’t it?”
Aidan nodded, shaking. “O-one d-degree Celsius p-per m-minute,” he said.
“Three hours,” K-Os said. “That’s 180 minutes. This room was about 20 degrees before you entered, so—”
“I-it’ll b-be an o-oven b-by the t-time th-they come to rem-move me,” Aidan said.
“I can adapt to certain temperatures,” K-Os said. “But if I can’t hold my form together, the free amino acids that make up my body will begin to denature. That’s the Captain’s plan. Slow execution.”
“I-I’m s-sorry,” Aidan said. “Th-they c-came and t-took me. I w-went to A&E f-for a f-fever, l-least I th-thought it was a f-fever…”
By now the room was probably fifty degrees Celsius. A normal human being entering this room would rapidly begin to experience the effects of heat exhaustion: headache, dizziness, nausea, sweating.
K-Os was hardier, but she wouldn’t last long, not if she was already structurally compromised.
“Listen,” she burbled. “If you can find me a way out of here, I’ll help you. I’ll get you to a safe place where you can get control over your powers.”
“N-no,” Aidan said. “Th-they know where m-my f-family live. Th-they’ll k-kill them.”
“We’ll protect your family,” K-Os said. “Help me, please.”
She held a hand out to him.
Aidan looked at her. For a few seconds he seemed to consider it. Tears appeared in the corner of his eyes, turning instantly to ice on his eyelashes.
“No!” he cried.
He turned away from her, sobbing heavily.
The choice, then: Turn herself into a liquid and search for cracks, but risk losing her form forever; or try to hold her shape for just a bit longer and hope the Captain would relent.
Both were equally as hopeless as the other.
So she sat, trapped by inertia, minute by minute, as the room got hotter and hotter.
*
Socks was falling, but the house was no longer there.
As he fell, he looked up and saw a great tower of stone stretch up before him, impossibly tall, like an artificial cliff. From a window above leapt a figure, who spread wings of red crystal as she fell on him. She was distorted, with sunken cheeks and lips that seemed almost peeled back, to reveal black gums and a mouth of jagged red teeth. Her hair, formerly golden, was now black and knotted, like wet seaweed.
“You should have just played along,” she said, her voice a hideous death rattle.
And suddenly he was crashing through a sheet of metal, landing with a painful thud on a stone floor. He recognised this place.
It was a water-tower.
The Unliberty landed in front of him as he struggled to his feet. Her chest was still bare, though the dress was now dirty, ragged and torn.
With two filthy hands, she reached up to her belly, plunging fingers into her own flesh, and rended her stomach open. Black, ink-like blood came gushing out as she disembowelled herself. Greyish entrails hung from her body. As she withdrew her hands from the wound, white, needle-like teeth, like those of the angler-fish, manifested themselves, and the wound became a vertical mouth, from which a long, rope-like tongue slid out and lashed at the air.
The creature approached him, laughing madly.
“Come on, Socks,” the vertical mouth hissed. “Come and give me a kiss.”
The Unliberty descended on him, and as he raised his arms to push her away, he found them both crumbling to dust. He was defenceless against her. The mouth drew closer and closer to his face.
He looked past the thing at the hole in the water-tower’s roof.
Above him, the clouds parted, and there was a full moon, red, like an unblinking eye, come to see his ending.
ZDEEEEVUNNNNN OKSSSSFERRRRRD.
*
Oxford’s nose was bleeding.
The medical officer ran to stop it with cotton wool. Machines were bleeping so loudly that the Captain feared it might wake the sleeper.
Ysabel seemed calm, but her brow was furrowed.
“Ysabel,” The Captain said. “What’s happening?”
“I am not sure,” she replied. “There is something here that I have never encountered before.”
“Keep going,” The Captain said. “I don’t care if you leave him brain-dead. We must know what they’re planning.”
“Yes, sir,” Ysabel replied.
Oxford began to stir, apparently flinching. Soft moans came from his throat.
He was in the valley of death. Exactly where the Captain wanted him.
*
More than an hour had passed.
Bubbles had begun to form in K-Os’s arms and hands, and they were sizzling on the surface, popping and crackling like hot fat on a grill. Her legs had largely disintegrated, leaving only her torso, her arms, and her head, which was oozing down her chest.
“Please, Aidan,” K-Os said, trying to appeal to him. “You know this isn’t right.”
“Th-this has f-followed me my wh-whole life,” Aidan moaned. “I’ve always f-felt c-cold, no m-matter what the w-weather. One t-time I g-got s-sunburn in the C-Costa del Sol, b-because I c-couldn’t f-feel the S-Sun’s heat.”
“You can control it, Aidan,” K-Os said. “They’re using you as a weapon. But you can hone this. Focus it. Please, you can do this.”
“I st-stuck my hand in b-boiling water once,” Aidan said. “Th-they said I m-might n-need skin graf-fts…”
“Listen to me, Aidan,” K-Os pleaded. “I know this is frightening. But there’s another way. Help me escape from here and I’ll help you.”
Aidan was silent for a few moments.
“I j-just c-can’t,” he said. “My M-Mum and Dad…my l-little b-brother…”
K-Os cast her gaze downwards.
“Then I am sorry,” she said. “I hope they can forgive me.”
In her one good hand, there manifested a golden sword.
With great effort, she began to approach him, and raised the sword above her head.
*
The Unliberty turned to face the Blood Moon, which now seemed almost to fill the entire sky.
“What is that?” she hissed.
ZHEEE IZZZZ MYNNNEEEEE ZDEEEVUNNNN OKSSSSFERRRD.
“No,” Socks said. “Not as long as I still live!”
YOOOOORRRRR WERRRRLLLLLLD IZZZZ DOOOOOMD.
“Go away!” Socks shouted.
YEWWWW HAVVVVV FAYLLLLLLD ZDEEEEVUNNNNN OKSSSSSFERRRRRD.
“Don’t you hear me?!” Socks roared. “GO AWAY!”
ALLLLL IZZZ LOZZZZT!
ALLLLLLL IZZZZZZZZ LOZZZZZZZZZZZT!
“Enough of this!” the Unliberty shouted. She seized on Socks’s throat, wrapping unnaturally long fingers around his neck and throttling him. “I’m looking for information,” she said. “Give it to me!”
“I…don’t…have…anything…to…tell you,” Socks choked.
The creature crushed his throat harder. The skin on her face looked leathery and old. Not like Liberty at all. She drew her head back and headbutted him hard. He felt his brain rattle.
HEWWW UILLL YEWWWW CHOOOOZ?
The Unliberty drew her head back again. Socks was beaten down, weak beneath the unblinking gaze of the hateful sphere. Her forehead slammed into his, and he cried out in pain.
The creature had cracked its forehead open, and black blood ran down the bridge of its nose. With a greyish tongue, it lapped at the blood, grinning fiendishly.
“I am going to enjoy breaking you open,” she croaked.
ZHEEEE UILLLLL DYEEEEEEE ZDEEEVUNNNN OKSSSFERRRD
IT IZZZZ OLLLL YOOORRR FAWWWWWWWWLT
The Unliberty’s head drew back a final time. Socks’s head was pounding. As the forehead made contact a final time, he felt his forehead open. Blood poured from his face, and at last, it was over.
There was warmth, pulsing from the wound in his head. Something finding its way out. He screamed out as he pushed its way out of him, bursting from his skull, and flying into the hand of his assailant.
It was a yellow envelope.
“At last,” the Unliberty said. “I have it.”
“No,” Socks said. “Please. Don’t open it.”
Blearily, he looked at the hole in the ceiling. The Blood Moon seemed to retreat, satisfied with the agony it had inflicted on its quarry. Blood seeped into his eyes, mixing with tears of bitter defeat.
The Unliberty let go of him, transforming into her true form.
There before him stood a sick woman, probably only a few years his senior, but looking much older. She was withered like a diseased plant, her hair prematurely grey. She resembled a skeleton clothed in skin.
“My name is Ysabel Traum,” she said. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Oxford.”
Her hand went to unseal the envelope.
“Don’t,” Socks begged. “Don’t!”
She ignored him.
She tore the envelope open and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Letting the envelope drop to the ground, she flipped the paper open, and read the contents.
*
“I am ready to report my findings,” Ysabel said.
The Captain returned to her side.
“Excellent work, Ysabel,” he said. “Report.”
Ysabel was silent a few moments. Her eyelids began to flutter.
There came a quiet sound in her throat, a sort of soft whimpering.
The medical officer looked at her, puzzled.
“Ysabel,” the Captain repeated. “Please report.”
The silence persisted a few seconds more.
Then she opened her mouth.
And screamed.
The Captain doubled back, almost falling from his chair, as the medical officer covered his head in fear.
“Jesus!” he shouted, as Ysabel continued to scream. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Ysabel,” the Captain said. “Ysabel, calm down.”
But still, the screaming continued. Ysabel’s eyes came open, and her pupils were dilated to the point that her irises were barely visible. She began to shake and convulse, her facial features contorting and twisting horribly. It was as though something had crawled its way into her and was tearing her apart from the inside.
Foam appeared at the corners of her mouth, and she began to bleed from her nose, screaming all the while.
“I’ll get the emergency tranquilisers,” the medical officer said, rising from his seat.
“No,” the Captain said. “It’s too late for that. Come on.”
“Captain—”
“Apply psychic brace,” the Captain said. “Now.”
The medical officer bit his thumb anxiously. “Yes, sir.”
The Captain pulled a small sealed wrapper from his pocket, tearing it open. Inside was a small needle attached to a glass receptacle, held pressurised by a small plastic bead. Without hesitation, he pushed the needle through the bead and into his finger, delivering fast-acting sedatives into his blood.
The screaming continued; Ysabel’s mouth was open, open and howling; her eyes were bloodshot and her nose was bleeding, bleeding. What had she seen that had broken her so?
But there was no time left for that. He felt sleep coming, quickly, and he slipped under, to the sound of Ysabel Traum’s madness.
*
Aidan screamed.
“My head!” he shouted. “Oh God, my head!”
K-Os withdrew the sword as the young man cried out once, twice, then went into a violent fit.
Blood began to ooze from his nose, eyes, and ears.
“Help me!” he screamed.
She tried.
But the heat and the sound prevented her from making any movement. She was fixed in place.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Please!” Aidan cried. “I see – I see—”
His back arched like a man struck by tetanus; his spine curved and crackling in opisthotonic crisis. K-Os could only stand and watch.
“No!” Aidan said. “No!”
Silence.
Darkness.
The lights had gone out.
K-Os slithered her way over to Aidan.
He was dead.
She could not make out his condition that well, but she could see his white teeth, open, ringed with lips that had peeled back in a horrific rigour. His arms were curled under him, and the ice all over him had begun to melt.
Immediately, the room began to cool.
Able to reconstitute herself fully and move once again, she set about searching the walls and floors for a small crack.
Someone was going to pay for this.
*
Ysabel Traum popped like a balloon.
Her form emptied out, it seemed; all the flesh and bone inside her seemed to have been sucked out through an unseen opening. All that remained was an empty husk, which wavered a few moments, then fluttered to the ground.
Socks watched as the paper, held in what remained of her hand, flew back into the envelope, which re-sealed itself. It then soared over to him, sliding itself back into his head. Not yet, it seemed to say.
He gazed up through the hole in the roof of the water-tower. The Blood Moon was gone, for now. He wondered why it had retreated when Ysabel had opened the envelope. His eyes fell back on the empty skin, and he got something of an idea.
Then, all around him, things started to fade, and he heard the distant sound of a machine bleeping.
His eyes opened.
He was in a dark concrete room, trapped in a chair, with an intravenous drip in his arm. Laying before him was The Captain, out cold.
He went to lift his right arm – boy, was he glad to have his right arm back – and found that he couldn’t.
There, laying beside him, was Ysabel Traum, her eyes wide open, slack-jawed, staring into space. Saliva dripped from her mouth, and a horrible wet noise came from her throat.
“A-a-a-a,” she gurgled. “Agggghhh.”
His hand was bound to hers. He manifested his crystal left arm, and with the clawed hand, snapped the bandages holding them together.
Ysabel slumped back in her chair, unresponsive.
It was safe to say, Socks thought, that she was gone.
He stood up, removing a wired cap from his head.
He began feeling his way across the room, flexing his right hand a few times. He had pins and needles from the compression. The machine was still bleeping insistently. Slumped in front of it was another military man, wearing a mauve beret. Dangling from his belt was a keycard.
Socks crouched down and unclipped it as deftly as he could. There was no real reason to, the man was dead to the world, but it seemed best not to take any risks.
The room was blocked by a magnetically-locked door. The fail-safes had tripped, so the door could be opened simply by releasing the latch.
He escaped through the doorway and down the corridor.
*
The corridors were full of bodies.
Along dark, chthonic hallways of beige paint and linoleum she escaped. She had found the smallest hole, the tiniest flaw in their admittedly sophisticated design. The sound and the heat had been necessary after all.
And everywhere bodies, uniformed bodies, civilian bodies. Something had come through this building and killed everyone in it.
No point in wondering the cause of all this death. She had to get out of here. Had to escape. There was still time. There had to be. There always was.
“K-Os?”
She stopped dead in her tracks.
That voice. That damn voice.
“Socks?” she said.
Stupid, stupid name.
She turned, and there he was, looking hardly the worse for wear.
“Am I glad to see you,” Socks said.
“And you,” K-Os said.
There was a long silence between the two of them, in this house of the dead.
“I suppose you’re behind all this?” K-Os said, gesturing to the corpses around them.
“In a way,” Socks said. “They got this psychic or something to invade my dreams. She was trying to get info out of me.”
“Well, did she get what she wanted?”
Socks scratched the back of his head.
“I don’t know what she got. But whatever it was…well, I don’t think she can tell us about it.”
K-Os nodded.
“A psionic criticality,” she said. “Without appropriate safety measures, an unguarded psionic burst can destroy the brain of every conscious being within a certain radius. The Captain must not have realised the dangerous game he was playing.”
“How come it didn’t kill you?” Socks asked.
K-Os tapped the side of her head.
“I don’t have a brain,” she said. “And, in fact, the extent to which I am conscious is debatable.”
“Right…”
K-Os turned from Socks, and skated further down the corridor.
“Come on,” she said. “We need to get moving.”
“Wait.”
She stopped, meeting Socks’s gaze.
“In the dream…” Socks said, quietly. “In the dream…it was like the day we first met, but you weren’t there.”
“Socks, we don’t have time for this.”
“I relived that day, K-Os…I relived it for a reason.”
“Socks…”
Socks gazed hard at her.
“That was the most important day of my life,” he said. “I’m not the same person I was before that day. And all because I invited you to a Christmas do.”
K-Os stood for a moment, silent. Why was he doing this? Why now?
He continued.
“I’m tired of running,” he said. “I’m just so tired.”
That, at least, she could agree with. She held out a hand to him.
He took it.
“Come on,” she said. “I have a bone to pick with someone.”
They fled together then, and just for a moment, things felt okay again.
*
“What is it, Captain? This had better be important.”
“Hello, Prime Minister,” said the face on the screen. The Captain gave Mortimer the creeps. The man looked as if he’d passed out of his mother’s birth canal, nodded to the midwife curtly, given a short salute and toddled off to join the Army.
“There was an unexpected psionic discharge at the internment centre where we were holding the Rollerskater and her accomplice,” the Captain said, regretfully. “As a result, they have both escaped and are once again at large, Prime Minister.”
Mortimer paused a few moments, steepling his fingers.
“I see,” he said, calmly. “So you mean to tell me you have failed, Captain?”
If the Captain felt guilty at all, it did not register on his face.
“Yes, Prime Minister. I’m afraid we have.”
Mortimer sighed, leaning back in his seat.
“Baird has informed me that funding for Project LUCIFER has run out,” he said. “In light of this failure, I am authorising you to terminate. Do you understand?”
The Captain’s single eye gazed dispassionately back at him through the screen.
“Yes, Prime Minister, sir. It shall be done. For Queen and country, sir.”
“For Queen and country, Captain,” Mortimer said, smiling. “I’m sure you have people to ring. Get to it.”
The Captain nodded, then raised a hand to his forehead in salute, then broke off the video call.
Mortimer reclined in his chair, gazing at the quiet office.
The Day of Judgement was coming. It was coming for everyone of these freaks. And after them, all the wretched vermin that would disfigure the face of Britannia.
He laughed to himself.
Oh yes, the end was coming, indeed.
Another time, another place…
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Illustration created using elements of an image by Clarence E. Hsu on Unsplash
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ARC FOUR: BLOOD MOON
I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII