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It’s impossible to drag yourself out of the muck. It’s like an ever–present fog flooding your mind, claws dragging into your skin to pull you deeper, deeper, deeper. The pits of Hell beckon to you with a gaping maw whenever you so much as close your eyes for a precious few seconds, and it jolts you back to awareness. Thud, thud, thud. This is the crescendoing tempo of your heartbeat, dancing in time to the pulse of the shackles beneath your skin. It’s like a whisper, familiar but eerie all the same, thrumming through your body, tingling in your fingers and your toes.
It’s like the ghost of an old friend. Memories and shackles entwine; you’re sure of it. The shackles hold the key, but every time you reach for them, part of it slips away into the rivers of amnesia, swept away far beyond your reach, leaving you with nothing but a burning in your palms that feels more like ice.
Perhaps it’s an unfair comparison to make, when you know what that really feels like. Thorns of blue light dance over your hands, enough to make you tense up as you wait for icicles to stab into your body again, waiting for your Sinners to cry out in strangled distress, but nothing happens. These are only illusions conjured up by an unsettled mind, and when you call upon the shackles again just to be sure, it’s the glow of Mania red that greets you. You must be tired.
You’re only human, after all. The weight of the world rests upon your shoulders, it would seem, but you are no Atlas. Eventually, it all has to come crumbling down. It was not yesterday, even as the shade of that death you danced alongside breathes down your neck and a grim promise carves itself into the shackles. It will probably not be today. You might even get away with tomorrow, if you’re lucky. But you are only human. It’s a matter of time, and Hell lingers so close. You have asked a favor from the end of everything; it will collect its due, in time.
Sinners are branded by your shackles, little marks of their unbreakable bond to you. You have no such thing. Still, as you stare at the skin of your hands and flex your fingers, you wonder if that’s true at all. Something writhes inside you, unseen but deeply felt. You do not know what it is. You’re not sure you want to know. The thought of the answer you’re sure you’ve chased since the day of your awakening is enticing, of course, but after all you’ve seen, now…
Now, fear has its place in your heart too. It always has, but now it’s enough to make you sick, gripping into your throat and lungs and squeezing ‘til you feel bile and vomit in your mouth. How weak; how laughable. Some “savior” you make for.
Unbidden, as your thoughts spiral into darker and darker places, an unearthly presence that has become well familiar to you makes itself known. It’s the throbbing of a heartbeat, but it’s not yours. At least, you don’t think so. You hope not. Time has blurred the line of distinction, and while it used to be a separate being, a separate consciousness, you cannot say so with conviction anymore.
It does not speak. Not this time. Perhaps it knows you are far too used to its little whispers of corruption and temptation. Still, it is impossible to overlook it when it makes its silence so loud. A heartbeat that roars in your mind, a headache that pulses so strongly it forces you to place your hands against your temples in the hope of soothing it; this is how it manifests. You cannot forget it.
This time, however, it is not alone. A saccharine giggle is what alerts you to her presence; her appearance is a much rarer sight. Your shoulders tense on instinct, and you look around, as though expecting to see a familiar specter and an unsettling grin in the teeming shadows. There is nothing, of course, except for the two Sinners curled up across the room from you, deep in the throes of slumber. This haunting is not one of the body, but of the mind, the heart, the soul. You can feel your spirit eroding away piece by piece.
“Why are you so scared?” Her voice whispers right in your ear, as clear as a ringing bell despite the insistent throb of that sickening heartbeat. “Aren’t you happy to see an old friend?”
You do not answer. You refuse to give her the satisfaction, and yet. And yet, you’ve done exactly that simply by declining to acknowledge her. You cannot win; no matter what you decide to do, you will feed her power. She knows this, too, and she laughs as she watches you curl in on yourself, trying to block out the voice that cries out from within.
“Oh, don’t be like that. We’re friends, aren’t we? I just want to help… We just want to help.” Unreal hands settle on your body, and frost spreads across your skin as she pulls you into a mockery of a comforting embrace. It’s all in your imagination, of course, and yet you can almost see the icy latticework that your body disappears underneath.
The shackles. You reach for them, intending to burn away this prison of the heart. But fear is ever the noose that tightens around your neck and chokes you, and you only see a few red sparks flicker on your fingertips before they sputter and die, and the cold is more oppressive than ever, now.
Your paltry attempt at resisting draws another giggle from her, and she presses herself closer, her weight against your back. “You want to drive me away again with those shackles? But you don’t even understand them! But, I… Oh!” She removes herself from where she’d draped herself across your shoulders, and the phantom eagerly kneels before you. You can’t see her. You won’t ever see her. You know she is there. “We understand them. You’re like us, after all. Don’t you want to know who you really are? Let us help you!”
You intake a breath through gritted teeth, then release it. “I don’t need your help,” you answer under your breath. It’s useless to resist, so you may as well. This is a battle you have no chance of winning. What’s so wrong about clinging to the false hope that by stating your intentions, she might leave you alone?
Her laughter is louder now. It presses in on you from all sides, weaving the invisible bars to a titanium cage. Thump, thump, thump. Is this your heartbeat, or that thing’s? The silence is deafening. Every nerve in your body sings, alive, and you choke for air. You are drowning under the pressure. You know, without a doubt, you will not resurface.
She knows it, too. Her ghoulish embrace returns, and you are far too weak to fight her, your head tilting back to rest on her ethereal shoulder. It’s a surprisingly familiar sensation. You won’t think about it.
“But… maybe you should?” She knows your thoughts, of course. Her question is posed in a teasing manner, yet with all the confidence of someone who has all the knowledge in the world. Maybe she does. She certainly seems to know more than you, that’s for certain. “Don’t you want to know why this feels familiar? I told you, back at the Carnival. We’re the same! We’re welcoming you home.”
You try to shake your head, a last, desperate, futile attempt at not giving into her sweet temptation. “My home isn’t with a bunch of Corpus.” You have to force the words out, your tongue like lead in your mouth. “It’s with the Sinners. I’m a human. I’ll never be like you.”
“A… human?” The phantom is quiet for a moment, then she giggles. Thump, thump, thump. Your silent observer is laughing alongside her, and even with the presence of the two Sinners in the room, you have never felt more isolated. “Really? Is that what you think? Let me tell you a secret… I know what a human is like. I know what they feel like. And… You’re no human! I know what you are. We’re friends, so I’ll tell you again and again and again until you finally get it: You’re like me! You’re like us.”
It finally speaks, echoing its words of six months ago. “You’re just defective.”
Maybe if it had just been her, you would have continued to put up a stubborn resistance, even as you felt your soul crack and your rationality wane and give way to desperation. However, it has been quiet for so long that now it feels like knives cutting into your skin. You look down at your hands; beneath your gloves of frost, beads of blood well to the surface. This is not real. But it is.
And you crack. You cannot fight them any longer. Your shoulders slump and your body tips forward; your eyes slip shut until all there is you and the darkness. You, and the darkness, and them. “Please,” you begin quietly, and the word feels like a desperate prayer on your lips, “tell me. What do you know about me?”
The phantom’s thrilled ecstasy rushes through your body like a burst of vitality. You finally hear the inheritance laugh properly, low and manic. The ice trapping your skin cracks, and the blood beneath bursts free. Before your eyes, it turns black as ink, then evaporates into smoke; a decidedly inhuman substance. You’ve seen it before, seeping from the cracks in the bodies of Sinners on the verge of corruption; NOX, and the grey-haired maiden. You know it well and intimately.
These are hallucinations. What is real is the blue light that erupts in your palm. Familiar thorns cast in a glow that makes you think of fear; instinctively, you jolt away, only to realize that it’s different this time. These shackles do not stab into you. The chill is soothing, like a balm pressed to an open wound. With a snap, the tension in your body breaks, leaving you limp and blissful. Who are you? You don’t remember, but this must be what home feels like. Embrace the shackles, wrap yourself in their voices, and your journey is over. This is it. This is your answer. There’s no need for you to search any longer.
“Chief…?” A sleepy murmur in a young girl’s voice breaks the spell. You awaken from your daze, and both the blue shackles and the haunting Corpus are gone, your mind and spirit hastening to recover themselves from the devastation that had been wrought upon them. “Are… Are you alright? I heard you talking to yourself…”
You remember where you are. Drifter Camp, resting as you make preparations to ensure that the case of BR-002 will be finally put to bed for good.
You remember who you are, infinitely more important. The Chief of the MBCC, the one who commands the Sinners. The Legion’s ally, and Syndicate’s blossoming hero. That latter title is one that still makes your gut twist, thinking of the lost woman who is supposed to have that honor, but she dogs your thoughts enough as it is. Thinking of her now will just leave another opening for the greedy Corpus to sink their claws into you.
You let out a soft sigh, and bring Hecate into your arms. She is still in shock from your brush with death, so you half-expect her to shy away; you’d let her if she wanted to go. Instead, she curls closer to you, looking up at you with wide eyes, allowing you to share in her real, comforting, and human warmth. Perhaps she subconsciously understands how much you need her companionship in this moment.
“Just some bad thoughts,” you answer, lightly brushing a hand through her hair. It’s not a lie, but it certainly omits a great deal of the truth. Then again, isn’t that kinder? The young girl is still so fragile. You do not want to break her by making her bear a burden that is not hers. Isn’t this mercy? “I’ll be okay. Go back to sleep, alright?”
Hecate gives a nod, but the uncertain look on her face gives away that she is hesitating. You don’t dare to reach for her end of the shackles, the memory of blue light still burnt into your brain, but luckily, you know her well. She’s wondering if it’s okay to stay where she is; you gently squeeze her to assuage her fears.
Her expression breaks into a tiny smile; one that you can’t help but return. Her visible eye closes, and her tiny body rests against your chest. You cradle her close, and let all other thoughts slip away as you sink into slumber yourself.
You are human. There is still plenty you do not understand, and you certainly don’t have all the answers. However, that one thing is sure: you are human.
…Right?