Calamity's Call

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

It was the worst kind of torture.

Shelke sat alone in a room quite unremarkable to an outsider, save perhaps that it existed within a setting that was otherwise cold and sterile. This room was by contrast quite cozy, sporting a quaint twin-sized bed draped in an overstuffed lavender bedspread and topped with various decorative throws. The pine flooring was polished to a high shine, a circular cream-colored area rug and a few odd articles of clothing tossed haphazardly across over the glossy polyurethane. The eggshell walls were bare, aside from a set of large decorative wooden letters presented along the opposite wall in a familiar arrangement. None of the decorations would suggest that this room was for all intents a prison cell.

The girl, visibly no older than ten, sat on the wooden floor with her back against the sloppily-made bed. She raised her head and glanced across the room at a periwinkle writing desk, upon which she knew there to be few occupants save for a small collection of books and framed photographs. From her vantage she was unable to make out who looked out from within the various tiny frames; this spot was the only place in the room that obscured this view.

She’d rather be water-boarded.

Gritting her teeth, Shelke turned her luminous cyan eyes away from the desk and instead gave attention to the small tablet computer beside her on the rug. As was to be expected in a place like this, the gadget was secured with a password, one of which she was oblivious. She’d have attempted to guess the passcode, though this was simultaneously impossible and irrelevant due both to her skill at technopathy and the fact that she had promptly shattered the display upon finding the device. The lone blinking power indicator in the top-right corner affirmed that it was indeed still functioning. She couldn’t know if her message had reached the recipient; Synaptic Net Diving seemed to function here, though the full scope of her power seemed to be cut off. Unlike the true immersive clarity with which she was familiar, she now had to settle with blindly reaching into the void.

“Ms. Rui.” 

The stern monotone of the Agent brought instant revulsion as he stopped at the threshold. Shelke couldn’t be sure if she hated the man simply because he was in the employ of her captor or because he had a sort of familiar hateable quality about him. It was hard to tell; one finds it hard to be rational when they’re fearing for their life. ”What?”

Robertson stood silent for a moment, dead eyes taking in the minute details of her expression and the nuances of her body language. Apprehension. Anxiety. Fear. Humans had many descriptions for the spectrum of negativity they could feel. To an Agent, it was much more simple. “Have you completed your task?”

“Task?!” she exclaimed, exasperated. She had been transported only recently to this hell and left utterly alone, aside from the occasional intruding of Robertson to ‘check on progress’. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing! Why am I here?”

“Master Deus needs you to perform your task. That is all that is required of you.” The Agent’s gaze remained steady behind his dark lenses, trained on the distressed youth. 

“Hard to do something when no one tells me what it is,” Shelke replied, laying a hand casually over the screen of the shattered tablet and sliding it surreptitiously under the bed. Though no action had been raised against her for not meeting her goal, her messages on the Dataverse might well raise alarm if found and traced.

“It will come to you,” Robertson replied simply, stoic tone bordering on mockery. “Do not disappoint Master Deus.”

“That creep can bite me.” Her words were more bravado than anything. The mere thought of that thing shook her to her core; she’d never seen a creature like him before, and yet he seemed to know all about her. “What’s he going to do if I duck out of here?”

“I don’t think that’s a concern,” Robertson responded immediately. “There are no chains to hold you and this room lacks even a door. All of this, and yet you remain here. You cannot leave here. You are bound to Deus’ will.” Without another word, he turned and left. 

The young technopath’s jaw clenched at the Agent’s words, biting down hard in an attempt to stave off the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. Equal parts rage and misery mixed in her gut, causing her arms and legs to quake. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, chin digging into the coarse synthetic fiber of her leggings as she drew shallow breaths through gritted teeth. He was right. Try as she might, she could not will herself to cross through the doorway. 

Salty droplets dribbled down her pale face as Robertson’s footsteps faded to silence. Despite his supposed ignorance of her role in Deus’ schemes, he seemed to know more than he let on. It was infuriating trying to grasp the hidden meaning behind his deadpan communication. Instead, she turned back toward the broken gadget by her side. In the reflection of the spiderwebbed display she saw herself, swollen eyes framed by unkempt auburn hair. She was dressed in the all-too-familiar garb of her past, navy and gray cloth clinging tightly to her form under thick steel armor bearing the Deepground logo. She had been brought to the Omniverse in these trappings, though she knew not why. She could only assume that the creature who summoned her took pleasure in seeing her squirm. It would certainly explain the choice of decor.

Shelke tapped the tablet’s smashed display experimentally, wincing as the screen lit up in response. Despite the distortion caused by the shattered glass, she could clearly make out her own silhouette standing beside a taller woman whose arm was draped over her shoulders. Before she could dwell too long on the image she brought a fist down upon the device a final time, the screen immediately failing in response. The technopath sniffled as she looked up at the wooden shapes on the beige wall across from her. Tears flowed afresh.

SHALUA