The fathomless darkness descended over him one again. He dragged his body by bleeding hands across the floor, through the curtain, until he tumbled into darkness. Immediately sensing no sounds (not even the magnificent whirring of the machine outside), no smells, and that heady dampening of all his senses (except for touch, thank-god he still had that), Aidan hurried to lift himself, to find a wall. Anything. Anything he could hold on to.
"You said you'd give me food!" he knew he screamed, he could feel his throat vibrating with the force of it, but to his ears the sound came out as nothing more than a muted whisper.
There was no reply.
Aidan dropped back onto the floor again, wincing as it came up too quickly, too hard. He let out the wince in a gush of air and bent over himself, fingering his toe. Bone. He could feel bone. Aidan's hands flew to his shirt, bloody fingers and all, and he tore a few loose strips of cloth from them, wrapping the first around his toe, then, awkwardly bandaging the stumps of his fingers with the other. That would have to do. He had nothing else. And his face...he'd just have to be careful. There was nothing he could do.
He rose to his feet, favoring his injured leg (pulsing with pain now, from where he'd smacked it repeatedly against those rusty, iron bars), and moved cautiously toward the right, looking for a wall. After five steps he stopped, unwilling to move further in that direction. He could be anywhere. Blind, deaf, and dumb, and he could be anywhere.
"Why are you doing this! For god's sake! I've bled for you! I've...oh god...I just want a wall." He let himself drop to the floor and dragged himself along, chest and face pressed to the cold, hard concrete. His tongue felt thick and woolly in his mouth, and he could feel his saliva, thick and hot but lacking moisture, gathering in the corner of his lips.
Water. All he wanted was a little water. It wasn't fair. It wasn't...it wasn't fair. He'd promised! He'd broken his rules! It's not fair.
He stretched an arm across the floor, fully meaning to use it to haul his body forward, but his knuckles banged against something hard and sharp. He retracted it with a hiss and snapped his head upward, straining his eyes through the darkness. He could see nothing, of course. Carefully he inched his body across the floor, letting his fingers dance across the floor like the legs of a spider. Eventually they reached the object again, his fingernails pressing against them. It felt...not cold, just there. He splayed his fingers and wrapped them lightly around the thing. It was cube shaped, elongated, and the sharpness had been from corners, not from blades. He pulled himself into a crouch and let his hand slide up its length until his thumb hit the underside of some...top piece. Aidan felt his way along the edge, curling his hands around the new corner. His other hand joined it and he pushed down, lifting his body into an awkward stand.
A table, or a desk. He slid his injured hand over the top, carefully feeling out the wooden top. (Could he eat wood? Perhaps, but there was no saying whether or not it was filled with rot and mould, he would already be fighting infection from the rust). His good fingers touched something cold and smooth. Round, he deduced, after sliding his fingers around it. Not dangerous. He lifted his other hand to the object and cupped it between his palms.
A bowl.
He lifted it to his nose and inhaled. No scent came from it. He set it back down and dipped the tip of his pinky finger into it. Cold, liquid, painless. Water. Probably. He lifted the bowl against and pressed the edge to his lips, tipping it back just enough for a sip to flow through his lips. Cold, refreshing...but tasteless. He waited, feeling his heart hammer wildly against his chest, churning like some god-forsaken worm sliding about between his ribs.
Nothing happened.
"Thank-god...thank-god..."he raised the bowl to his lips again and gulped down the precious, precious water. Immediately his head began to clear, the dull throbbing pain became more obvious but he ignored it (he had to). His hunger suddenly bloomed to the forefront of his mind as well.
The empty bowl clattered against the floor and he threw himself at the table, hands frantically dancing over its surface. His knuckles brushed against something else, thin and hard that slipped between his fingers. He whipped toward it, sliding his hand over the surface. It dug into something soft and mushy.
Food. Probably.
He didn't care. It didn't matter what it was. He needed to eat. Aidan dragged the plate across the table and dug his hands into it, shoving a handful into his mouth. It was tasteless, crumbly, but soft. He downed the entire plate, until his weak, gurgling stomach was engorged and he couldn't fit one more mouthful past his teeth. He shoved the plate across the table and wiped his hands on his shirt.
Now...a wall. He needed a wall.
Aidan sank to the floor and crawled along it, back the way he had come. He felt the curtain brush against his face, stinging his cheeks, and backed away a little. There had to be a wall nearby.
He grasped the curtain, pulling it forward so he would swing through the entry toward the pendulum, and slowly shuffled to the left, stretching one hand outward.
His fingers touched stone.
He inhaled shakily and dropped the curtain, letting it swing back to its doorway, and threw himself at the wall. He rose shakily to his feet, pressing his back and palms to the wall, and with tiny, shuffling steps made his way along it.
.:.:.::.:.:.
Two more days he spent wandering the empty, invisible halls, no way of knowing where he was going or what was in front of him. No sounds, no sights, no smells, not even the soft rumble of his own voice to keep him company. He ached, all over, and he was cold. Such an impossibly chilling cold that even his inner heat could not warm him. His teeth chattered silently, smacking against each other and tugging the deep scabs that surrounded his face with each vibration. It hurt, as they were slowly pulled apart, thread by thread, but he couldn't stop it. He was probably sick.
Aidan slept more than he walked, trying to fight off whatever infection plagued him (tetanus shot, he needed a tetanus shot, but what would he have to sacrifice for that?), and he lost count of the secondsminuteshours. He counted when he could, but it was impossible to judge how long he slept.
Two days, he'd decided. He'd been walking for two more days since the Machine. But there was no way to tell, no way to know. He could have wandered for an eternity.
Now he stumbled against the wall, clinging to them like a child to its mother, keeping both hands pressed to it and taking impossibly small steps. Seconds passed before he'd make a foot (roughly, no way to tell. No way to tell anything). It was hard and slow, but not only did it stave off the possibility of falling again, but it would take longer for him to stray across any more...games.
And oh, how heavy his die was, weighing him down with each slowly trodden step.
Noise.
Oh, god. Noise.
The thought popped into his head before he registered the sound. It was muted, as everything was, but it was there. He couldn't even tell what it was, so muffled, but he heard it. He heard it!
But what if it was a game? Another machine? Another sacrifice for water and food?
Aidan froze, pressing himself as tightly as he could against the wall.
The sound deepened, approached.
Humming.
A voice. Not The Voice. But a voice.
"Oh god, thank-god,"Aidan moved into the hall, leaving only on hand pressed to the wall,” I thought I was alone."
The humming ceased immediately.
"I've been here for...god, I don't know...five days I think. Or a week. I don't remember. Can you help me? Do you know how to get out?"
Then he felt it, the warmth coming from another body, moving closer and closer to him. His breath caught in his throat. Why weren't they speaking? Could they understand him? Maybe...maybe they weren't English. Maybe they didn't understand.
"J'ai été ici pendant cinq jours. Pouvez-vous m'aider?"
Still no response, but the warmth got closer, and he could almost make out the quiet, muffled sound of breathing.
"Ich bin hier fünf Tage gewesen. Können Sie mir helfen?"
Nothing. Just breathing, quiet and close. If he shut his eyes and concentrated he could even feel their breath wafting against his face. Something brushed against him, jabbing him in the stomach. He let out a whoosh of breath and stepped back.
A poke, that's all that was. Not very polite, but he could understand. Had to make sure he was real. Perhaps...perhaps it was some sort of code. Aidan poked back, feeling his finger push against spongy, naked flesh. Skin. It was skin. Ordinary skin.
"Oh, god, thank-god. My name is Aidan."
A hand (skin!) curled around his left wrist. The fingers moved up his arm, slowly and carefully. He stood very still, feeling his lips stretch with a grin. He wasn't alone. There were people here!
There were people here.
People who had been here for god knows how long, fighting for food and water. They, like him, would probably eat anything them came across. Doesn’t matter what it was, doesn't matter that they couldn't taste it. It was food.
He was food.
Aidan yelped and leapt backward, slapping the hand away.
A voice, so quiet he couldn't understand it. The heat bloomed before him again and he shrank backwards. His heart slammed against his chest, the blood rushing and twisted, convulsing, within his arteries.
"Stay away from me!"
He felt something heavy slam into him, pummeling him to the floor. He cracked his head against it. Let out a scream but refused to succumb to unconsciousness. He wouldn't be eaten. He wouldn'tcouldn'tnonononono.
"I have family!"
The voice laughed, quiet and almost inhuman. More words, too quiet. The weight pressed into him, smothering him. He shoved at it, squirming and flailing his limbs. It was impossible to tell where anything was. Hands, fingers, crept up his torso and curled around his throat, pressing. He gasped and curled his hands around foreign wrists, digging overgrown nails into the skin and pushing at them. They didn't budge. He bucked, and the weight lost its balance, tumbling a little to the side, but its grip stayed. Aidan moved backward as far as he could, but one hand left his throat and gripped his wrist, dragging him back. The weight dropped onto him again.
He was going to die! He was going to be cannibalized!
He drew back his arm and threw a fist at the weight. His knuckled dug in, and he heard a sharpquiet intake of breath. The weight pushed deeper, tightening its grip around his neck. He punched again, but it didn't budge.
No, no, no! He didn't survive that machine to die like this.
Nothing worked. Nothing worked. He was going to die. Nothing he could do. Nothing! Oh God.
But there was. In the haze of his nearly unconscious state, his head spinning his body feather-light, he remembered. So weak...so weak...what if he couldn't....but he could. He had to. He wasn't going to die like this.
Gasping fruitlessly against the hands, Aidan arched his spine throwing his arms back. In a sudden burst of heat his body became inflamed. He felt himself dematerialize into ash. A second passed, and he rose up again from the ash, small and slender.
There was a scream, quiet but high pitched like a nail screeching against metal. He couldn't see his fire. And suddenly, he couldn't feel anything either. Panic set in, and his heart drummed against his chest. His eyes flickered wildly around the darkness but there was nothing. And still the scream continued. Then there was the smell. The scent of burning flesh filled the air, slow and hot, filling Aidan's nostrils and clouding his eyes.
Slowly, ever so very slowly, the scent dissipated and the scream ceased.
Dead. That...person was dead. Burnt to death. The image flashed in his mind, clearly as if he had actually seen it. A face covered in black, ashy scars, her whole body breathed in dimming embers, white and red and covered in some nameless liquid. Skin bubbled up and split, cracked and bleeding. Blood boiled and congealed, deep, deep red.
The image went away, as did the smell, and he could feel once again.
Shivering, Aidan shifted back. His clothes long gone, burned in his flames. The cold set in again, worse than before, and he dropped to his knees, cradling his head in his hands.
He'd never killed before. Never.
He shifting, breathing shakily, and crept along the floor.
Something brushed against his hand. He jumped back, eyes wide and searching fruitlessly. Cautiously he let his hand reach out toward it again. Soft, at first, and smooth. Rubbery when he came nearer to the floor. It was elongated, ovular, and he could feel cool leather press into his palms from along the top. And cloth, thin, round strips of cloth.
His shoe.