Chapter Text
It’s so bright.
Blinding white is all they can see. A light a thousand times brighter than the sun is above them, and their eyes are locked in place. It burns. Everything burns. Every breath they take is agony.
They can’t move. They try, they struggle against their restraints, but they can’t move. Sounds of tinny metal echo in their mind.
The air is unimaginably frigid, but their body is on fire. Sweat beads down on every surface. It’s so hot. A rhythmic beeping noise is all they can hear.
Pain. Pain is everywhere in their body. They feel like they are being torn apart and put back together. Awful wet tearing and dry cracking noises come from every place in their body, each new sound sends a new wave of shooting pain.
They would scream if they could, beg for someone to help them, but they are so overcome with pain that they can’t form the words. Tears stream down their face in a silent sob.
Suddenly, they feel something warm and heavy on their skin. They are covered in blood, covered in someone else's blood. They look down, seeing countless bodies on the impossibly white floor. Faces they don't recognize. They know these people somehow, but they can't remember where they’re from. Dead eyes look through them, prodding at their mind, they know they killed them.
They get up from whatever held them in place, restraints suddenly free. They want to run away, but they are stopped in their tracks as they feel something warm seeping from their nose. They move to wipe it. The liquid is pitch black, viscous, and warm on their hand.
They fall on their knees, the wind knocked out of them as the pain comes back tenfold. The inky substance pours out of every orifice; from old cuts and wounds now open, it leaks out.
An ocean of black liquid has flooded the floor. The bodies are stained as the liquid keeps filling up the room.
They try to swim up, but a hand has grasped around their ankle, keeping them in place as they are plunged into darkness.
It’s so thick. They can’t breathe. They gasp and choke as the liquid enters their lungs.
They are dying.
They are being remade.
—
A slit in the cold concrete wall cracks open slowly, loud scraping sounds reverberate through the floor as a familiar red robe enters the sterile white and gray room. A young person stirs in the bed at the noise and opens their eyes. Their eyes adjust quickly, the fluorescent lights on the ceiling no longer bothers them. They sit up on their thin cot.
"Another mission today. Get ready."
The figure steps forward as he talks, the scarlet robe swaying under his words and movement. Cracked white hands under the cloak hold a white tank top, and a plate of raw meat with a small metal cup filled with shiny liquid sitting on its edge.
It’s Lisden greeting them today, as usual.
"Yes, sir," the devotee croaks out a response that has become automatic; the words have lost any meaning.
They get up from their bed, their wings ruffling and stretching as they move to take the items from the Bishop's hands, bowing in reverence to the man. As soon as they take them, Lisden quickly leaves, never usually staying long enough to talk. They don’t mind, though; they prefer speaking only when necessary.
The brief gap in the stone wall seals shut after the man is clear of the room. The person remaining inside the room starts moving once the door has fully closed shut, their movements robotic as they start their routine. They place the silver tray on their bed and move to put the shirt modified for them on while also rubbing the sleep away from their eyes. Then, they sit down and drink their dose of neon, immediately calming the awful buzzing of their restless mind. The liquid metal coats everything in their mouth and down their throat, no matter how small a portion they take. It tastes like manufactured blood, making them wish for the real thing.
The adolescent begins to eat their portion of the day's food. They always get extra on mission days to prepare for the extra exertion of energy. Easily tearing the meat into shreds with their teeth, they take huge chunks at a time, eating as if it were their last meal. As the beast disfigures the food in their claws and mouth, they silently hope the Bishops have made today's mission an easy one.
Their overseers always seem to know when their ward is prepared, as the slit in the wall opens once again after they have finished and washed off the bits stuck to their face and hands. Lisden is waiting just past the threshold into the darkness of the tower. The person inside takes a deep breath and heads toward the opening.
—
It's bright, the natural light unusual for them as they squint and raise their hand to block the burning white of the sun. They notice a substance on their hands in the seconds it takes to raise it. They feel the familiar warm and metallic taste on their lips and tongue.
They look down, knowing what is there already. Their mission lies in tattered and ripped pieces of dull greens and browns in an indistinct mass directly below them. Small pieces of yellow tape are haphazardly strewn about the clothing. A dark crimson scatters the scene, slowly tainting the cloth further as the seconds tick by. The monster leans down, examining its kill further. Their body creaks at the movement, only then realizing the gashes and wounds that have appeared on their body as well. The killer pulls down some of the cloth with their blood-covered claws to see a face they don't recognize.
That isn’t unusual; they’d probably be more surprised if they did recognize someone.
They think most people would feel guilty about killing someone. But they are not most people. They were chosen by the Bishops to carry out a job only they can do. The predator part of their brain is deeply satisfied at the successful hunt, looking at the body with hungry eyes. The other part always feels mildly terrified at the result of these missions, waking up somewhere covered in a mix of their blood and someone else's.
This escapee had their chance.
They must not have listened to the Bishops.
The Bishops are always willing to welcome escapees back, but this one must have refused their forgiveness.
They repeat those reassuring words until their questions are silenced.
Their stomach growls, frustrated with the prospect of a kill with no sustenance. It's hard to quell a rarely ending hunger, but the Bishops’ instructions are to leave the corpse for the vultures to feed off of. A way to give back. They are exhausted, muscles that they did not use are threatening to give way to the weight of their body, blood seeping out of places it shouldn't be. They almost don’t register the signals of pain their body is trying to send; they don’t know if they’ve finally gotten used to it or that they are too tired to care.
They take a deep breath and make their way back to the towering stone walls in the distance, the sun hanging on the horizon behind them.
Mission complete.