Fragment 9: Subject - The Shadow’s Bargain

The elevator rumbled, the rushing lights whooshing past as they travelled up and up.

Gravium pulsed through the metal, hints of purple glittering around them. Under different circumstances, Lorelai might have been in awe—an ancient warship relic, still functional. But her fingers curled uselessly in her lap, too numb to move. Her arms throbbed. Her legs barely existed, and the soreness was all she felt now.

Ego still didn't speak.

She just stared—silent, empty, unmoving.

Lore hated it. Hated the quiet. Hated the slow crawl of the Gravium-powered lift. Hated how she could do nothing but wait, trapped in a body that barely worked.

She almost missed Ego's usual torment. Almost.

Instead, forced to listen to the scrapping rails, she groaned. Fuck it, could they get it over with at least, kill her and wake her up when they arrived. She pressed her cheek on the glass, the material, like her skin, cold and unfeeling.

Suddenly, as if answering her wishes, the platform slowed and jolted to a stop. And in a hiss of steam, the overheated gemstones gushed her box and the Batrakins in a mist.

Finally, she was more interested in where she was going at this point. Craving anything that filled the boredom she felt. Before she could even react, a sharp sting shot through her neck. In lagged horror, she watched as a needle drained a thick liquid into her veins. She tried to scream, but the numbness spread fast, smothering her voice and freezing her muscles.

But screaming for her, Ego howled, but her voice, her words, blurred—the copy of a woman attacking the box with everything she had. But like vapour, her body blew into steam, unable to touch or interact with anything.

"Stop it!" she cried.

Lore stared at her own face, the woman's tears raining down her cheeks. She looked at Lore from crimson eye to crimson eye.

"Please… I don't want to disappear"

Lore stiffened. Ego wasn't real; she was a formless creature that only lived in her mind. But here she was—begging, crying, clutching at the edges of existence.

Why did it twist her heart?

Why did it look so real?

Cracks split Ego's face as the liquid entered Lore's blood; Ego clawed and slammed against the glass with growing desperation, her once sharp features crumbling like fragile crystals cracking under pressure.

The red of her eyes—too familiar, too much like Lorelai's own—widened in terror. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Her body crumbled, piece by piece, flaking into nothing, her fingers reaching.

"Princess."

And then, she was gone.

The drug entered Lore's system, and Ego's voice cut off as the woman dissipated like dust—

Gone.

Really… gone…

Lore slid her numb fingers up, but the tips of her index were stuck beneath her shoulder, and the last of the liquid drained out of the syringe. Her body fell limp, her droopy eyes watching as she got dragged out of the elevator—the dust of Ego getting left behind. A lump hung in her throat, her noodled form helplessly pulled away.

In a blur, Lore was exported into a dazzling bright room, her eyes flickering to adjust. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were pristine white, and the smell of fresh alcohol and what she guessed was disinfectant filled her nostrils.

"Test six hundred and sixty-one", boomed a voice, "gender: female, the estimated age: late two-hundreds, possibly older," The woman cleared her throat. "Moving on to condition, Bartolo, Dario, strip the subject."

Like a caged animal, Lore was poured out of her box, her body spilling onto the cold ceramic. Her heart thumped, her fangs gritting, and like a limp snake, she squirmed in defiance. But Bartolo or Dario, she didn't know, yanked her back. She slipped in her own sweat; the frantic thrash, hopeless.

"Get off," she kicked. "Touch me, and I'll gut you."

"How fascinating, the subject has more energy than expected." said the woman's voice. "Bartolo, you can release her."

Lore's wiggling legs thudded against the slick surface, and she breathed a sigh of relief. However, upon scanning the room, she noticed no trace of the woman, only the glassy, reflective walls encircling her. Where was the entrance? How had she even arrived here? She couldn't spot any obvious cracks, and the space seemed practically airtight.

To her confused ears, the sound of scribbles echoed through the chamber, the woman humming to herself. Lore shakily stood. The two mountains of muscle and crushing power behind her were like lifeless statues. She guessed she had found out who controlled them.

"Who are you?" Lore asked.

A pause. The woman cleared her throat.

"Please strip."

"What?!" Lore jerked back, arms crossing over herself.

The microphone crackled, breath shifting closer to the receiver.

"Was I not clear?" The woman's voice was calm, clinical. "Remove your clothes at once. I don't have all day."

Lore's tail curled. Her frown deepened. "W-why should I?"

A buzz transmitted over the line. And the hulking statues behind her shifted, their glares ready to pull her arm from her body.

"Strip", the voice commanded.

Lore gulped, staring at the burly men, "Could I have some privacy?"

"Ignore them," said the woman, "it can be willingly, or do I need to force you?"

Lore gritted her fangs. What was this, if anything, but forced?

She could fight. She could refuse. She could spit at the glass, snarl at the woman's voice, dare her to send the brutes forward, let fangs chew bone.

But as she scrubbed the mark that those brutes had left on her skin, the imprint resembled a scorched burn. She had to handle this carefully.

So she exhaled shakily and turned. Her hands trembled as she slid her dress from her shoulders, her heart pounding with every inch of skin revealed, peeling away her armour, stripping herself of something more than mere fabric.

She felt their eyes on her, each glance like a cold prick against her skin.

They were watching. She could feel them watching.

This was no examination; it was humiliation. What reason, beyond some peculiar kink, made this scientific? What kind of pervert was she dealing with?

But she restrained her quip.

"Will you answer my question now?" Lore barked, "Who are you?"

"All of it." The woman said.

Lore hesitated, the male eyes behind her stabbing up her spine. Lore swallowed hard, resisting the urge to snap back. She needed to survive this, just until she found out why she was here. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

"Don't make me repeat myself, girl. Or have you forgotten how much I paid for you?"

Obsidium was a small fortune, hardly an equal trade for someone as clumsy as her.

The buzzer clicked, and the giant men stepped closer.

"Fine, fine!" Lore squealed. "Give me a minute."

"Make it a second," said the voice.

Lore seethed, fuck if she found that cow, she tightened her fist; she would show her the meaning of invasive examination. But eager to keep the brutes as far from her, raw skin as the wrench would allow, she plucked her undergarments, sliding them off like wax. The sooner this was over, the better.

The scribbles continued the sound of extensive detail, vibrating her heart. What the hell was the woman documenting? And for what purpose?

"Turn." Said the voice.

"Excuse me!" Lore stuttered.

"Turn," the woman repeated, her voice monotone, unempathetic.

"But."

"I assure you, your bits are nothing special, now turn."

Lore, as commanded, twisted her heel and faced the brutes' gazes, her fingers clinging to her body like glue.

"Remove your hands, please."

Her face fumed red, her eyes meeting one of the men straight on. Like the woman's voice, his expression was without care, worry or emotion. But why did that make it worse? Why did she feel the fool for caring about whom she showed herself to?

She peeled back her hands, the cool air contrasting with her sweaty palms like ice on burning skin. She clamped her eyes shut, letting herself be bare. Her heart drilled, her body exposed.

"Race: Valkar, Type: pureblood. Condition…" The woman continued to flip through the pages, jotting down notes. "Poor. Signs of malnutrition, torn and bruised skin, and overall fitness below expectations." She sighed, "I suppose we can proceed to the next part. Chances of success: low."

The hiss of steam jolted Lore, and she turned, startled, to see racks of weapons emerging from the walls. Blades of every size and shape gleamed, their points reflecting her own wide-eyed stare. No guns, no machinery—only the brutal simplicity of cold steel

"Pick one." Said the woman.

"Can I at least put my clothes back on?" Lore asked.

"Pick a weapon." The woman growled. "Or should I end this test early?"

The Batrakins grumbled at her, their stares making her squirm. Lore snatched a long sword, the curved blade heavy in her grip, her cut reopening as she held it. She winced and glanced at the Batrakins, too late to swap it for something lighter. The rack slammed back into the floor, the flush gap invisible to her eye.

"Now, before we start, have you ever conversed or spoken to a fragment?"

Lore frowned. "What the hell is a fragment?"

The voice sighed, Lore somehow feeling an eye roll over the mic.

"A fragment, ego, shadow, soul, god, they have many names," The voice explained. "The key part is that they are only seen by their host. In rare instances, it's visible to others."

"Ego," Lore muttered.

"Archdemon: confirmed," Said the woman.

"Wait," said Lore, "I'm not an Archdemon; this must be a mistake."

"Continuing test," the woman said.

The line buzzed, "… survive five minutes."

Lore faced the thugs, their knuckles cracking and lips puffing steam. Her throbbing wound burned as sweat seeped into it. She clenched her fangs; the blade grip needle-sharp on her skin. Yet, she couldn't release it; her throbbing hand clutched the sword, her sole protection against the two Archdemons.

The larger Batrakin barreled toward her, a wall of muscle and speed.

She flung herself aside with a yelp, barely avoiding death.

The ground shattered beneath the Batrakin's landing, the force of impact shaking her bones. Where she had been standing a second ago—nothing remained. Just dust and splintered shards of her old box.

Lore gulped. One second later, and she'd have been part of that wreckage, flat like a crimson pancake.

But not giving her a break, the second man fired a punch at her. The immense cannon of an arm slammed her sword, the metal not even resisting as the fist shattered her sword like it was glass, the momentum almost knocking her off her feet. She backed up, her frantic footwork earning her a near miss as the arm swiped past her. A blow that might have taken her head off.

She flicked her now dagger and regarded the men. Slow but lethal. If she had a chance, she needed to take advantage of it. But then, in a flash of sparks, the Batrakin, using his other arm, hammered her gut. The surge of electricity bolted through her, and the fingers that hung in her stomach launched her into the wall in a crash.

Her spine met, ceramic, and a rain of red flakes littered her sight. She coughed, her lungs refusing to refill; her hands looked to her chest, the blender of organs, bone, and who knows what else slimming her touch. Her knees gave out, and her body, too heavy for her arms, slipped in blood.

Her breath came out wet—thick, her pained breath searching for glimmers of air. Hell, she was dying; no, it was an execution. It didn't take an expert to know she couldn't survive this; she was no self-healing archdemon.

But it wasn't over as getting yanked by her horn, she screamed. Her numb hands were unable to do anything but lay at her side. The Batrakin gripped her horn, the sharp pull wrenching her head back, forcing her to meet his empty, lifeless eyes. This was it. This was how she would die—broken, humiliated, a failure.

She could barely keep her lash open and even questioned why she should, some part of her wanting to stare down death. Resist just like Ego did. Ego always fought. Ego was better than her. However, instead of Ego, a wispy shadow reflected in her sight. The dark form was not alone, as many of them swarmed around her. Eyes like bottomless voids, faces smooth yet undulating.

The Batrakin gripped her arm and squeezed, her scream roaring out of her broken lungs, blacking her sight of the strange crowd that circled her, watching in interest. Whatever they were, creatures of the void or not, it didn't matter.

"HELP ME!" she tried to say, her fangs laying limp to her call.

But that didn't mean she couldn't think about it. Her tears and mental screams howled for someone, anyone, to give her what she needed.

"Please, grant me power," she thought, her mental scream piercing the darkness. The shadows paused, seeming to glance at one another with unspoken understanding, their smooth faces unreadable.

"Forty-Five point three seconds," said the woman, "looks like another failed attempt. Subject status:…"

Lore screamed.

The shadows answered.

They did not slip inside—they tore their way in.

Engulfed in black, every pore and nerve stretched taut as shadowed fingers—too many, too long—forced themselves into her flesh, burrowing, writhing, filling her up.

Hands, arms, and entire forms forced themselves inside, tearing through her body in a torrent of searing pain and mental white noise.

Hundreds and hundreds of them forced, tore and scrapped their way in, her sobs, her pain, her mind splitting as every pore, every orifice cracked open.

She was hollow, and they were making themselves at home.

She felt herself slipping away, consciousness a thin thread fraying at the edges. Who had she let in? Who...had—

She fell limp, her body hanging in the Batrakin's tight grip.

The woman cleared her throat, "Subject status: deceased."