Retribution
Disclaimer: All characters and places etc are the property of Yoshiki Tanaka, KKS and others. No money being made here.
An offshoot from the alternative scenario of “Little Cruelties”. Inspired by an ongoing discussion of said piece with RB.
Part of my Vampire: The Masquerade alternative scenario.
Islington,
Present day.
In the basement of a rundown house there is a laboratory, much like the sort that Shelly dreamed of when writing “Frankenstein”. There are rusted bits of equipment, bottles filled with various mixtures, a dramatic array of knives. There is ever a decrepit operating table, stained dark with blood and who knows what else. But sinister though it is, the overriding impression is one of decay, neglect. As if the macabre experiments no longer give their perpetrator any joy or satisfaction, as they once might have done.
No longer are the scalpels kept clean and perfectly sharp. The electrical equipment fizzles and dies arbitrarily. And more telling that that, some of the stains on the walls are clearly the remains of the contents of some of the bottles and jars, hurled in fury.
Above, in
the house itself, things are little better.
While rooms there lack heaps of rubbish or broken china there are piles
of old newspapers, ancient books covers in layers of dust, a TV that doesn’t
look like it’s been touched in years.
And in the living room, slumped in a ratty armchair sits a young
man. His expression is despairing, so
much so that he might pass as a disillusioned postgraduate from any of the
colleges of the
The young man sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. There is so little to live for now, all his entertainments have disintegrated into nothing. The complex rituals that he once embraced gladly are nothing but a curious formality and for a moment he contemplates what it would be like to cease to practice his craft. To sit here until he is too weak to even go search out a victim, till he has no choice but to let time and death take him. What would it feel like, if he were to die?
He doesn’t know and is once again wondering if he would want to. Is he really tired with his existence, does he really want to give up on eternity? Or is it just melancholy setting in? Because last night he dreamed of green eyes; that mocked him, that laughed at his pain.
“Broken so soon? Who would have thought…”
“So very weak.”
His own words thrown back at him.
“Pathetic.”
And that laugher that has become as familiar to him as his own, echoing, bouncing off the cold stones. Filling up the cell where he is kept, chained to the wall, unable to even tear his gaze away from the mocking figure.
And he’d woken up, in a cold sweat because what he dreamed isn’t true. Because that’s not the way it happened. They’d captured the Pulsian strategist, they’d been victorious and the green-eyed devil had been the one kept in the cell, helpless. Not standing over him and laughing, not filling the cold cell with that terrible laughter that sounded like it had risen up from the depths of Hell.
Sneering at the thought, the sorcerer pushes himself up out of his chair. The former servant of Silver Mask laughs softly to himself since there is something quite perverse in dreaming about dead Pulsians. Shaking his head at his own foolishness the man, who is rarely known as Bajon these days, reaches for his coat before heading for the door. The world will always have plenty more victims to offer up.
Highbury
& Islington Station,
The station is relatively busy with the evening rush when Bajon stops to by a copy of the Evening Standard. He doesn’t really look at the papers these days, just hoards them for some reason that even he can’t explain. It feels like he’s trying to mark the years, the decades, the centuries. Trying to place it all in some sort of perspective that will make sense. Unfortunately, he so often finds that any view he might hold of any given time is distorted, as if his body at least, knows that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have lived so long. Of course, there are stories of long-lived supernatural creatures but he has yet to find any proof. Always the old stories of vampires stalking the night and those cursed to hunt them. He’s tried it, of course, tried to find an immortal of that ilk, to see if it’s anything more than a pack of lies told to explain real evil. And if there were vampires, wouldn’t that be an interesting new type of experiment for him to contemplate?
Flicking
through the paper suddenly something catches his eye: a private exhibition at
the
As he
changes trains at
As paranoid as it might seem, Bajon doesn’t even try to convince himself not to look over his shoulder as he makes his way towards the museum. As a sorcerer, he knows to look for signs and portends, knows that certain things do not happen by chance. But this time it’s hardly possible that any of it can mean anything. Or at least, nothing to his detriment. The Devil’s Strategist is dead and nothing, natural or unnatural can refute that fact. And as far as his own powers extend it isn’t possible to raise the dead, even as mindless slaves. He knows; he’s tried. And no matter how much blood he’s offered up, how many innocent lives he’s taken, it is impossible to reach into the void and raise one single soul, one particular soul… While that in itself is a disappointment, he does have every confidence in his own powers that if he can’t do it, there probably isn’t anyone else who can.
Firmly decided in his mind that both his dreams and the figure on the platform mean nothing, he continues on his way. This time not bothering to turn at every sound. Which is why he doesn’t see the shadows gathering, doesn’t realise that the deliberate footfalls behind him belong to the same man he saw earlier, barely even notices until the limousine that has been slowly gliding up the street is actually beside him. Bajon only comes to a stop when one of the tinted windows rolls down and the car pulls up to the curb. Even then he doesn’t really suspect anything: just some rich visitor to the city who’s certain that his chauffeur is lost or who wouldn’t mind the company of an attractive young man for an evening. He’s been propositioned before and some of those gentlemen have mysteriously gone missing afterwards. So he moves over to the open window and bends down to look inside, though the interior is too dark to see anything.
He smiles into the darkness. “Hmm?”
There is a chuckle from inside the car.
“Can I help?” He asks in a cheery tone.
“Oh, I do hope so.” And the voice is so loaded with implications that it takes him a moment to realise that it’s familiar, very familiar indeed. The same voice that has dogged his dreams for centuries. And in that moment the shadows swallow him, before he even has the chance to scream.
A
basement complex,
He wakes slowly, groggy, as if he’s been drugged. Hanging in chains from a cold tiled wall, in an obvious mimicry of the conditions he kept his prisoner in. And disturbingly as he looks around the room, there is a faint echo of his persistent dreams. Though of course the dreams were never this elaborate. The room he is in looks like some sort of dissection room. There are glass-fronted cabinets containing bottles and jars, several worktops with various pieces of equipment on them, a dissection table… And it is all brightly lit, operating theatre lighting where everything is thrown into stark relief. The light is relentless, even when he shuts his eyes he can see the red vessels pulsing. So he remains where he is, trying somehow to gauge time or even day, knowing that it is impossible.
He doesn’t know how long they leave him before he begins to feel hunger pains, just a faint headache to start with, not yet the cramps that might occur over days or weeks. Surely someone must be watching, waiting to see his response? Unless, unless he’s going mad and that suddenly looms close as a possibility. But before he can fixate on that thought the door opens, admitting a cold gust of air and with it the strategist who should be long dead.
Narsus comes to stand in front of him, looking surprisingly healthy in his modern-day finery. Court silks have been replaced by designer suits, there is a touch of makeup on the too pale face, the faint scent of some Chanel fragrance. And Bajon notes, a little hysterically, that the tie Narsus wears is the sort sported by King’s College alumnus. Then he feels a long-nailed finger hook under his chin, tilting his face up to meet that amused gaze.
“How are you enjoying your accommodations? Do they meet the expected standards?”
And Bajon chokes a little at the sound of his own words being thrown back at him.
“Oh, won’t you make conversation now? Or would you rather I got straight to the torture part? I’ve really gotten quite handy with a scalpel since we last met.”
And the strategist’s voice never rises, is nothing other than pleasant sounding, though into the trapped sorcerer’s ears it drips nothing but poison.
“How?” Bajon manages to swallow and gasp out, only to receive a teasing smile in response.
“I shan’t tell you yet. If I did, it would spoil the game.” And Narsus puts a finger to his lips, suppressing something that sounds obscenely like a giggle.
So the insane game begins. Bajon doesn’t know how long he’s been kept in the room, doesn’t remember how many times he’s been cut into and then healed, doesn’t even know what else it is that the strategist does to him that warps his skin and even his bones. He’s drunk acid of some sort and sundry other medical concoctions, one of which left him with no control over his bowel movements and inadvertently saved him from one torture session because Narsus was laughing too hard to concentrate. They’ve taken him down from the wall on various occasions, sometimes to allow him to recover a little, though there is never any chance of escape. Only once has he managed to get his hands on a knife and used it to slash partway through Narsus’ left arm. Though the strategist did nothing but laugh before ceasing Bajon by the throat and throwing him against the far wall.
And as much as he hates being chained to the wall, he’s come to dread being strapped down to the dissection table even more. Especially now that he’s discovered that the man at the station, who looked so very much like the dead Pulsian General is actually said General. Left to the General’s ministrations, Bajon finds himself wishing that it was the clinical bite of a scalpel that marred his flesh, that it is yet another misadministration of some drug that has him in agony. Because somehow those pains are more bearable mentally, perhaps because of the tender hands that stroke his face afterwards, the gentle, meaningless whispers in his ear; talk of immortality and damnation from the lips of the Devil’s Strategist.
The General gives no such comforts. He brings only a cold gaze and the tools of medieval punishment to bear. From his hands, it is not intricate torture; there is no questioning, no method to his madness. Just the steady, unwavering beating of a whip against Bajon’s back, the shattering blow of a flail that breaks bones and on rare occasions a meaningless backhand across the face.
At some point it occurs to Bajon that while the General’s punishments are meaningless, the strategist seems to be moving towards some sort of conclusion. And it isn’t hard to figure that every moment of pain and suffering that he receives from those hands is somehow recompense for the same amount of pain and suffering that he delivered in the past. Just like the shallow comfort, the words are only matched to the actions he once performed, the fragmentary comfort that he once gave. That, he has decided, is Narsus’ game. Paying back his every suffering at Bajon’s hands; nothing more, nothing less. Soon it must end.
When the end to his torment does come, it is unexpected. It’s so utterly sudden when it stops, when the hands that have destroyed him are tending his injuries. The medicines applied now are helpful, offsetting any lingering effects he might be experiencing. And they have moved him, to some other underground room, where he has a bed and a light that doesn’t hurt his eyes. He’s not allowed to go free and from what Narsus whispers, he may never be. But there is no more pain and for the moment that is enough.
Bajon doesn’t know how long it takes for him to recover; though he judges that it probably doesn’t matter. But now that he is healed, rested, he can’t help but ponder on the possibility of exacting some remuneration. And interestingly when he does, Narsus is quietly compliant. The strategist doesn’t protest against the rough handling, not when the clothes are torn from his body, not when he is forced down onto the bed, not even when Bajon’s hands are around his throat. He lies there like some broken doll as he is violated, doesn’t raise his hands to defend himself, just fixes his gaze on the ceiling, lying there like a corpse. And though Bajon forces himself to finish, there is little satisfaction because the strategist’s body beneath him is a little too cold and suddenly Bajon is aware that there is no heart beat.
Yet he isn’t spared the time to think about it as the door crashes open and the General strides into the room, pulling him off Narsus’ body and slamming him against a wall. Though it isn’t as if Bajon doesn’t want to throw up anyway. He’s just… just… He can’t even finish the thought and as wicked as he’s ever though himself to be… He can only stare at the corpse lying on the bed, at the stains trickling down its thighs. He’s close to blacking out both from sheer horror as well as the pain but before the darkness claims him those green eyes suddenly shift their gaze to fix on him. And as unconsciousness claims him, Bajon would swear that the strategist was laughing.
This time when he wakes, he is upright, seemingly fixed in position. He can hear music and opening his eyes he can see a CD player on a table near by. There are also innumerable pots of paints and lumps of clay, it appears to be some sort of artist’s workshop. But that doesn’t hold his interest for long, he’s suddenly thirsty but for what he doesn’t know. It worries him as he tries to pull free from what ever is binding him, though it is to little avail. In fact he can’t even bend his neck to see why he’s trapped.
“Really, darling, you must not squirm so. It spoils the overall effect.” Comes the familiar voice from behind, before Narsus starts to laugh.
Bajon tries to turn but it is impossible, all he can do is stare straight ahead, in fact he’s not even sure that he can blink.
“Not much of an effect if you ask me.” Comes the General’s voice as he moves to peer into the face of the immobile sorcerer.
“Well, I’m not quite finished yet.”
“You’d better get a move on then, if you want to exhibit at that damn antitribu thing.”
“No, silly. This isn’t for Madam Alexandra’s salon.”
“It isn’t?”
“Really, Daryoon, one would think that you don’t listen to a word I say!”
Then Narsus is standing in front of Bajon as well, dressed in a lab-coat stained with paints and wearing a pair of surgical gloves. He frowns, tilting his head first one way then the other.
“Do you think he needs both eyes?”
And Daryoon throws up his hands as he walks over to the CD player “I don’t know, don’t ask me about art.”
“Probably not… Oh, do put on something else now. I’m sure we’ve been listening to this CD for hours.”
“I like the Avalon soundtrack.” Daryoon grumbles, though he begins to rifle through the stack of CDs on the side.
“Definitely not.” Narsus mutters to himself, reaching over to somewhere outside of Bajon’s line of vision. Then he leans forward and there is a flash of metal in his hand.
“Hmm… the left eye, I think.” He continues to mutter to himself, then he hesitates seeing the flash of fear in the sorcerer’s gaze.
“Don’t worry, it won’t kill you. In fact I’m sure it will take quite a while for you to die.” His smile becomes a smirk. “You have immortality now, or at least a reasonable portion of it, young Canite.”
And as the pain overwhelms him, the sorcerer tries to understand the words so recently spoken. Canite. Vampire. Can the old legends really be true?
“You might even survive till the end of the exhibition.” Narsus says contemplatively. “An object d’art inside an early Achaemenian sculpture. A Lucitanian sorcerer wasting away inside a cage crafted by a Puslian artiste.”
Then the strategist steps back to admire his handiwork.
“Lovely.” He sighs and the dreamy expression on that face is the last thing that Bajon will ever see.
UCL is short for University College London, while the
hospital referred to would be the attached
The King’s College mentioned here is similarly, King’s College London.
The
The Achaemenian period of Persian history was between 550BC – 334BC, which included the rule of one of the most famous Persian Kings: Darius the Great, between 522BC – 486BC.