Chapter Text
Sleep is not something that the Wanderer engages in. Why would he? The idea of him doing so is laughable; he does not need hours of uninterrupted rest like humans do. Nor is he interested in pretending to be like those pitiful people. He would much rather spend his time doing productive tasks, be it research for Lesser Lord Kusanali, or hunting down information on the Doctor. Sleep is merely a distraction from more important matters—and distractions are annoyances.
Needless to say, it is entirely unexpected for the Wanderer to find himself rousing from a deep slumber when he did not recall ever going to sleep in the first place. In a singular moment he jolts to attention, eyes snapping open and hands flattened to unleash blades of Anemo. But his Vision does not awaken as he does—no elemental energy heeds his call. He can't even move a finger.
The room that greets him is horrifically unsettling, and the pod he is trapped in even more so. A sort of veined glass makes up the part he is facing, allowing for a tinted look at the larger room. Everything is a bruised purple, ridged and distinctly fleshy in texture. If the Wanderer had a stomach, it might have churned, and even still his lips curl with distain. A large basin with a stagnant yellow liquid sits in the middle of the room. Surrounding it is a number of other containers, though he cannot see what they may hold. While the glass curves away from the Wanderer's face, his arms and hands remain immobile by his side, trapped by fleshy cuffs. A quick glance down reveals his Vision still dangles against his chest, though the cyan light seems oddly subdued.
There is the slick sound of flesh against flesh, and the Wanderer looks up just in time to see creature float through a round entryway, which rotates neatly back into place behind it. The creature is disgusting to look at. It is the same grotesque purple as the walls, with a partially exposed brain, four tentacles where a mouth would be on a human, and clawed hands and feet. The Wanderer has seen his fair share of Abyssal monsters from his expeditions for the Jester—each on more disturbing than the last—but this tentacled thing is a new level of revolting.
The creature floats like an Abyss Lector over to the yellow pool of liquid and scoops something out of it. The Wanderer doesn't have a clear enough view to see what it is, only able to watch as it waves its free hand and opens up a pod nearby pod, revealing a green-skinned woman. She is closer to human that the tentacled monster, but still distinctly different with her upturned nose and long ears. She too is awake, struggling against her restrains in vain as the creature brings its hand close to her face. It unfurls three boney fingers to reveal a shrieking, squirming tadpole. The Wanderer watched with disgust as it snaps forwards violently, burying itself underneath the woman's eyelid in mere seconds. Her head lolls back as she falls unconscious once more.
The tentacled monster waves its hand to close her pod, and moves back to the basin. Redoubling his efforts to call on his Vision's power, the Wanderer struggles against the pod's restraints, but the Anemo energy that usually comes freely remains unresponsive. The creature scoops another tadpole from the basin, and calmly floats towards the Wanderer's own pod. With another wave, the glass slides up and away. The air is stale and cold—cold enough to bring memories of Dragonspine to mind. The creature floats closer, bringing a fist to the Wanderer's face, hovering just over his cheek. Instinctively, he tries to move away, but the pod is just as unyielding as before. Its hand opens like a grotesque flower, and the tadpole spins in its palm, the noise shrill in the Wanderer's ears.
It jumps onto his face, tiny tentacles latching onto the Wanderer's eyeball. His pain sensors are immediately on high as the thing digs razor-sharp hooks into his false flesh, and begins to burrow underneath his eyelid. It is nothing he hasn't felt before while under the Doctor's scalpel, but the violent intrusion makes him feel like his head is being split in half. The tadpole wiggles around in his head, settling amongst whatever makes up his brain.
The wretched tentacled thing seemingly nods in satisfaction, waving a hand to close the pod once more. The Wanderer fights against the cuffs once more, but he can feel his limbs growing heavy, weighed down from whatever just occurred.
The last thing the Wanderer feels is pure, unfettered rage.
--
The second time the Wanderer wakes, it is to a violent explosion rocking the room. Alert in a mere second—and cuffs miraculously loose enough—he slams himself against the front of the pod, shattering the veined glass. Gripping the now jagged sides of the pod, and ignoring the putrid silver liquid the broken glass is secreting, the Wanderer hauls himself up and out, dropping into a roll to lessen the impact. His Vision still ignores his will, petulantly refusing to grant him his normal flight. Internally cursing whoever he can think of to blame, the Wanderer stands and glances around.
Although he is in the same room, it is now largely on fire. The heat isn't as much of a deterrent as it is an annoyance—like most things—but it is unnaturally warm, especially compared to the chill that greeted him last time. Gritting his teeth, the Wanderer staggers towards the opening in the room. A blast of hot wind hits him in the face as he gazes down at what can only be described as a storybook version of Hell; all red stone and crimson skies and fireballs whistling through the air. He also quickly comes to the realization that he is very high up. Is he in some sort of flying ship? The Traveler mentioned coming to Teyvat in a "spaceship," so it wasn't out of the realm of possibilities.
Sighing, the Wanderer turns away from the gaping hole in the ship, and looks at the room once more. The only notable exit is the fleshy door the tentacled creature came and went through. He takes a step in the direction, only to pause as his foot hits something soft—or softer than the already spongey flesh-floor. He looks down. One of the tentacled freaks is dead on the ground.
The previous rage he felt bubbles back up again at the sight of it, and without hesitation, the Wanderer raises his foot up and crushes the creature's skull beneath his heel. The crunch of bones and squelch of brain matter is satisfactory, but not nearly enough for his anger to be quelled. He raises his foot again, a wicked smile tugging at his lips. A flash of blonde hair, red wings, and a pair of intelligent green eyes come to mind—soft, kind voices telling him to leave.
Logic wins over the rare appearance of emotion, and the Wanderer roughly wipes his sandal on the creature's cape. There are no answers to be found in this room.
As he approaches the door, it spins open automatically. The Wanderer wastes no time pondering how it moves; the doors at the Akademiya function similarly enough. He steps through the entryway, and focuses on the Elemental Energy inside himself, inside his vision, as he walks. Finally, a breeze resonates within him, and he lets loose a small Anemo blade. It cuts into the purple wall like butter. Satisfied he can at least still fight, the Wanderer enters the next room.
There's a corpse on one of the tables. He almost mistakes it for a Dendro Samachurl with its small stature and green skin, though there is no mask. The Wanderer isn't sure what exactly it is—or, was, at this point—but he feels a small pang of pity for the dissected thing. Turning away, he notices the strange rune tablets littering the other tables. Although he's no Haravatat scholar like that annoying Scribe or loud professor, the Wanderer is still familiar with many ancient languages. The perks of existing as long as he has, he supposes. Yet the lettering on them is completely foreign, with no clues as to what sounds or concepts the symbols represent.
A thought of the Doctor crosses him mind once more. This bizarre place, the jars brains floating in vicious liquid, strange tablets he can't hope to understand—it feel all too much like a trick. But Dottore is dead, killed by the Traveler and Columbina. Besides, the Wanderer had erased himself from Irmunsul; there was no way for anyone to remember his existence, especially not a dead man. He sighs sharply, a false exhale from nonexistent lungs, annoyed by the whole situation.
"Save Us! Yes, save Us!"
Voices echo without warning in the Wanderer's head, overlapping one another as they repeat the same message. They are soft, almost distant, but not so quiet that he cannot make out their pleas. It reminds him of Lesser Lord Kusunali's telepathy, albeit much more unsettling.
"Yes! You hear Us! Above, above!"
Unable to resist the urge to glance upwards, he sees a higher platform where the voices must be coming from. There's a strange looking terminal on his level, on a slightly raised platform. Although he would ordinarily use his own flight, with the way his vision is acting it seems to be an unnecessary risk. Better to conserve energy for a potential fight. With a few quick strides, the Wanderer steps onto the platform and very carefully touches his hand to the leathery looking console.
It hums to life in his mind, and the tadpole squirms inside his head. The two things seem to be almost speaking to one another, communicating without his permission. Without warning, the platform begins to steadily rise up, slotting neatly to match the height of the upper level.
And he is immediately greeted by a human body.
It is gory and twitching, still clinging to life though it has none. It is draped on a wicked looking chair, head lolled back as if drunk, and rivulets of blood carve a path from its neck down its bare chest. It lurches suddenly, and the Wanderer watches in mild interest. He walks steadily around the chair, eyes never leaving the body. The top half of its skull is missing, exposing a pulsing brain, quivering in delight at his arrival.
"You've come to save us from this place, from this place you'll fee us! Before they return!"
The Wanderer stares in disgust and amazement for a brief moment. "What the hell are you."
"A newborn. Born new from this husk."
Its clear that whatever man this corpse used to be no longer exists. Disappointment unfurls in his chest. The Wanderer was hoping to find something useful, something that could tell him what this place is.
"Tell you more! Yes, Us tell you all we know!"
His nose wrinkles as the thing seemingly reads his thoughts. Crossing his arms, he stands firmly before the brain. "What is this place?"
The brain quivers again, in fear or excitement, the Wanderer can't tell. "Ship, the Master's ship! They create Us, then leave Us to die. Free Us!"
He stares down at the things, eyes narrowed. It has given him more information than anything else, but it's usefulness seems to have run out.
"Freedom...what a joke." Quick as the wind, the Wanderer summons a blade of Anemo and severs the head cleanly from the neck. It plops into the floor with a dull squelch. The voices cry out in his mind, but he pays them no heed, moving back to the elevator and taking it down. Spying an opening in the wall to the outside, with a pathway leading around, the Wanderer briskly walks until the voices fade from his mind. Something nags in the back of his brain; a familiar story he would rather ignore. The brain spoke of a creator who abandoned it, left it to die in the husk of a body. Annoyance, or something else, curls in his heart—and, not for the first time, he internally curses Beelzebul for giving him sympathy.
Though, that isn't quite right either. She gave him nothing but a body.
The Wanderer stops walking, abandoning his musings to keep an eye on his surroundings. The hot wind howls as the ship continues to fly at high speeds, and a flock of irritating looking creatures dive past with gleeful screams. A sort of battle is occurring down below, thousands of tiny figures clashing, shrieking for glory and gore. There is the sound of steel on steel—a sword being drawn—and a red dragon soars over head with an earth shaking roar just as a woman in armor flips down to land in front of him.
It is the same green woman from before, he notes idly, even as she points her sword with a fierce growl. She has strange brown freckles across her cheeks and forehead, covered at her cheekbones and eye sockets with quick swipes of black paint. Her eyes are as green as her skin, slitted like a snake's, and narrowed in anger. The Wanderer tilts his head questioningly.
"Abomination," she snarls, voice rough as if burdened with too much to carry, "this is where you meet your end." She leverages her sword to point directly at his neck.
He opens hims mouth to retort—with a scathing reply or to question her words, he isn't entirely sure—but the whole moment is undercut by the tadpole squirming once more. It moves so quickly and violently the Wanderer forgets where he is, closing his eyes and clutching his head as it throbs and tingles. Just before he does so, he notices the green woman having the same reaction.
Visions flash in his mind. A dragon's wing, red as blood, cutting a sharp line through the starry sky. She looks down at her green hand, a small rusty knife with the same red color adorning the tip. One day, she too will fly amongst the stars. She too will sail the astral seas on the back of a loyal red dragon.
A silver sword, gleaming as bright as the day it was forged. Sharp enough to cut down her enemies in one fell strike, to protect her god-queen, to elevate her to Kith'rak. This sword will slay a dozen Ghaik for daring to exist.
A strange man. Short, with clothes outlandish compared to the humans she has slain before. An enemy, infected with a Ghaik tadpole. Or, a potential ra'stil, if he is capable of resisting the influence as she has. His gaze is fearsome, dark and unknowable. Who is this man?
As quickly as the scenes played out, they are gone from the Wanderer's mind. They were so vivid, like true memories existing in his mind. Yet as he tries to recall them again, the details blur. He banishes the thoughts from his mind, taking a step back and opening his eyes. It seems like the green woman experiences the same disorientation, violently shaking her head to clear her mind.
"You—" she says, cutting herself off. Her eyes are still drawn with suspicious, but marginally less murderous looking. "Tsk'va! You are no thrall—Vlaakith blesses me this day! Together we might survive." She lowers her sword, barely enough to matter, but the Wanderer has the impression that this woman lowers her sword for very few.
He raises an eyebrow, both annoyed and confused. There are many questions the Wanderer would like to ask, but he settles on one. "A thrall?"
"A Ghaik slave," she says. Her left eye twitches. "An empty husk, wholly dominated."
He hums in acknowledgement. "And how do I know, you're not a thrall?"
The murderous look returns, though her sword remains where it is. "If I were a thrall, istik, you would already be dead. I am your only chance of survival." She gestures with her sword towards the opening in the ship, where the Wanderer can hear flesh being torn and feasted on. "First, we exterminate the imps. Then we find the helm and take control of the ship." Her words leave no room for discussion.
"Fine, then lead the way," he says, not in the mood to challenge this woman's expertise. If she is familiar with this place, then let her go first and deal with its problems.
"Hmph." She stalks toward the opening, the Wanderer just a step behind her. The small creatures—imps—are already a pale red, darkened in places by the blood soaking them. A crown of horns protrudes from their heads, and leathery wings extend from their backs. Three sets of beady red eyes lock onto the two. The imps let out shrill screeches and launch forward.
The green woman runs directly to them, slicing the foremost monster nearly in half from the force of her swing. Its severed body falls to the wayside, trampled by the woman as she pivots to target the second. The Wanderer ignores her for a moment to send three Anemo blades to the third. Two teal slivers curve around the imp, cutting off both it's wings at the joint, the third missing by a hair. The imp falls to the floor with a cry, but valiantly continues to scamper towards him. With a sneer on his face, the Wanderer sends a final blade to sever the head. It rolls and bumps into the other that the green woman has also beheaded.
"You fight well, sorcerer," she says, wiping a splatter of blood from her face. There is a bloodlust in her eyes, only heightened by the adrenaline of battle. "Let us continue before more arrive." The Wanderer makes a noise of acknowledgement, following as she steps toward another opening in the hull. After looting a few bodies and nimbly scaling the pink fleshy innards of the ship like a ladder, they enter another room.
Mere seconds after they cross the threshold, a loud thud echoes in the room, accompanied by an angry shout. Both are muffled, as if behind some barrier. The Wanderer's eyes zero in on another pod, though from this angle the occupant is obscured. The green woman hefts her sword and proceeds slowly into the room, following the right wall—away from the pod. She clearly expects him to follow, never turning back to see if he does. But the shouts from the pod continue, distressed and desperate.
He follows the left wall.
The center of the room has some sort of console, with a few bodies slumped over in the chairs surrounding it. They seem to be hooked up to the machine. Having no intention of messing with something he does not understand, the Wanderer gives it a wide berth. Through the veined glass of the pod, he can now see the occupant—a pale woman with jet black hair. She makes eye contact with him, pausing mid-hit against the glass in surprise, but quickly recovers and gestures to the right. A second console, just as tentacled and creepy as the previous ones he's encountered.
"Istik!" The green woman stalks over, having apparently realized the Wanderer wasn't following. "We must make our way to the helm, not waste time on lesser beings."
He resists the urge to roll his eyes. "What we need, is backup. Do you plan to just waltz into the helm without any forethought?"
The woman turns a slightly darker shade of green. "Of course not. But this woman may be a thrall attempting trickery."
"Then we'll kill her." The Wanderer turns back to the console and hovers a hand over it. The connection is instantaneous—the tadpole in his head squirming to life once more, delighted. But it seems to do nothing more than a few spins before relaying the information he needs. "We need a key. It should be in another other room."
"Tch." And with that, the green woman stomped towards another fleshy door, and disappears through it. He choses to believe that is not the way to the helm. A muffled tap draws his attention to the woman in the pod.
"...getting...key?" Her words are heavily muffled, but he makes out a few.
He shrugs. "Hopefully."
The woman gives him an unimpressed look.
The fleshy door spirals open once more, and the Wanderer deftly snatches the key out of the air that the green woman chucks at him. If he were a regular human, he imagines catching it at the speed she threw would have hurt. Sliding it into its spot on the console, the Wanderer puts his hand above it again. This time, the connection is different; he feels the authority coursing through his mind. He looks down at it in disgust, and wills it to open.
The Wanderer suppresses a shiver. He feels oddly sated.
The pod shudders, and then slides open. The dark-haired woman spills out, just barely avoiding crashing to floor before the Wanderer catches her with Anemo, slowing her fall. She quickly stands, wobbling slightly.
"I thought that damn thing was going to be my coffin. Thank you—" she begins, but then there is a pain in his head, the sharp twirl of the parasite, and he is thrust into the woman's mind before he can even try to halt it.
Darkness—it should be cold yet soothing. But instead it is boiling and malicious, a disgusting mixture. The strangely dressed sorcerer opens the coffin, freeing her from certain doom. But to be accompanied by a Gith? And powerful enough to command her? This man is dangerous.
Just as suddenly as it happened, the Wanderer is ejected from her mind and back into his own body. He schools his face into stillness, though internally still perturbed. Just what are these parasites for, to allow the infected to view each other's thoughts? He shares a quick glance with the green woman, whose lips are curled in anger. His gaze slides back to the pod woman. Her eyes are narrowed in wariness.
"You keep dangerous company," she says coldly, clearly sizing the two of them up. Her pointed ears twitch, something he hadn't noticed before. A fae or an elf perhaps? Perhaps her people have a history with the green woman's own.
The Wanderer scoffs at her lack of foresight. "Dangerous company in necessary for a fight." Seriously, did both these woman think so highly of themselves to be able to escape this situation alone? The Wanderer may be a loner, but even he knows when allies are necessary. The Traveller's image comes to mind again, which he stubbornly ignores.
"Hm," she seems discontent with his answer, but pushes no further, instead switching to the sumpter beast in the room. "These parasites are connecting our minds somehow. But that can be solved later. First, we must escape."
"A matter we can agree on, istik," the green woman snaps. "We must get to the helm. We have wasted enough time on your pathetic life."
"Enough," the Wanderer interrupts, weary of the questionably motivated jabs. "Survival is all that matters."
"Indeed, but just a moment." The pod woman reaches back into her pod, grabbing something and slipping it into her satchel to quick for him to see what it is. She turns back to them and nods. "Let's go."
"Tch," the green woman spins on her heel, and proceeds to the second fleshy door without second glance. The Wanderer is almost beginning to get used to her brash behavior. The pod woman scoffs, but follows quickly.
The door spirals open, and the ragtag group is immediately greeted by a raging battle. One of the tentacled monsters—a Ghaik, according to he green woman—wraps its tentacles around the head of what can only be described as a devil, red-skinned and with large horns protruding from its forehead. Quick as a blink, it snaps the devil's neck. Further back, another Ghaik is over taken by imps taking turns clawing at its exposed brain. But the ones closest to them, sending a wave of energy at a larger devil, turns to the Wanderer almost with expectance.
"Thrall, connect the nerves tot he transponder. We must escape now." A deep voice echoes in the Wanderer's mind, leaving no room for discussion. His lips curl in distain, ready to launch an Anemo blade at the cursed thing. But the green woman snarls in his ear first.
"Do it. We will deal with the Ghaik after we escape." Her voice quivers with anger, a barely contained rage towards the tentacled monsters held back only by logic. He's almost impressed that a woman with so much hatred for their captors can think straight in this situation. A quick glance at the pod woman shows that she is in agreement.
"Fine," he says flippantly. "Deal with the imps."
The Wanderer doesn't wait for a response. Although flight may be out of reach for now, his regular speed is nothing to be scoffed at. He launches three Anemo blades ahead of him, taking out a large pig creature, and then dashes forward through the opening it makes. Next to him, the green woman lets out a rallying cry, and launches forwards to kill the startled imps. The pod woman slips by as well, casting a yellow light towards another imp, strange words leaving her mouth as she does so.
Weaving between mutilated bodies, he keeps his eyes on the central console far ahead. The Wanderer blindly sends another Anemo blade behind himself, slicing into an imp that got away from his allies. He doesn't have time to look back and see if it killed the creature, but the burst of flames and sick scream that follows implies that the pod woman used more of her magic to keep it down. Another one of the pig creatures rounds the console, stamping its hooves and charging towards him. The Wanderer prepares to dive out of the way, but the green woman leaps—a frankly impressive distance—and stabs her swords directly into its spine. Its legs buckle and it slides out of the way, with the green woman still attached by her sword.
He's close now, so close. Freedom is at hand.
With a final mad jump, the Wanderer into the console, grabbing on to two of the tentacles. He shouldn't know how the thing works, but the tadpole in his head does, and that's what matters now. He pulls them towards each other, a herculean effort, and they finally snap into place.
The ship shudders violently, as if under the weight of something enormous. A snarl echoes in the chamber, and a curl of smoke drifts in. The Wanderer turns his head, something akin to fear freezing him in place. The gigantic head of a bright red dragon peers at him, lips curled almost into a smile, and its maw opens. His eyes widen, seeing the sparks in its throat.
A blaze hurls through the opening, igniting something near the console, the resounding explosion throwing the Wanderer against the wall, the ship tilting violently in response. Groaning, he tries to adjust to the gravity shift. But the ship does not care, and he barely registers the drop in his stomach before the red skies disappear, replaced by a starry oblivion whizzing by. It's beautiful, but equally terrifying.
Gravity shifts again, and he begins to fall towards the front of the ship—towards the openings in the front. The Wanderer attempts to throw himself towards the console with Anemo, boosting his fall just enough to the right that he can grab onto its side. Groaning from the strain, he reaches up, so close to pulling on the connected tentacles. The ship is falling apart around him, he has to get it now.
Just a little more—
His fingers curl around the tentacles—slimy, sticky things—and he pulls with all his might.
The result is instant. The infinite sight of blue and purple skies is replaced with a normal nighttime one, a midnight hue. The ship jerks and stutters as it is pulled from it's journey through the stars, throwing the Wanderer once again against the wall, very nearly tossing him through a hole in it. He gasps for breath that he doesn't need, the pain receptors in his ribcage protesting every movement. He has no idea where his allies might be anymore. All he can do is try and ensure his own survival. His head falls to the side, and he makes eye contact with the Ghaik that called him Thrall. Its beady orange eyes glare at him in accusation. The Wanderer huffs out a laugh, and manages to give it the finger.
A chunk of ship sails towards him in his peripheral vision, and smack him in the temple before he can think to dodge. He feels himself tilt sideways, directly into and out the hole in the ship.
As he once again falls from grace, the Wanderer can only think that this was a disappointing way for it to end.