Chapter #18Viritrilbia Comes to Oswego by: Seuzz   You quickly through the forest, your feet hardly touching the carpet of leaves and needles and twigs. It's not really a forest, of course, just an incursion made by the surrounding woodland into the outskirts of the town. But it's better to approach from this angle than the road, even though it is already quite dark. You glance over your shoulder as you top a small crest, and through a gap in the trees you see the surface of Lake Ontario twinkling under the moonlight. You follow the bend of the hill, until your destination looms over the trees.
The long-abandoned State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It's a gaunt shadow, and even less inviting in the dark than it is in the daytime. Even under the noon-time sun the dark stonework—unbroken even by windows—grimly deflects the gaze. At night, the walls are an obsidian nightmare.
You stand under the eaves, sucking on a tooth. Another figure materializes beside you. He is your twin, but only until he wavers into the form of Matt Medoff, investigative journalist. Your twin makes even less noise than you as he hurries across the open space between the woods and the walls of the asylum; through his eyes you spot Shackelford loitering in the shadows. You call softly to him.
"Jesus, Medoff," he hisses. "About fucking time. What are you--?"
"I snuck through the woods. Those guys here yet?"
"No," he says. "You were cutting it close, though. Come on."
He leads you along the wall, crouching and feeling at the tall weeds, until he finds what he's looking for. He kneels and pushes the grass away, exposing a dark, basement window. It squeals as he pushes it open, and squeezes through. "Come on," he calls. Your double clambers through as well; you feel nothing of course, for your double has no substance.
Shackelford has a flashlight, and by its dim beam the two of you pick your way through the abandoned office and into a dusty, airless hallway beyond. At the far end, a set of winding steps take you up to the first-floor atrium. "There's an operating theater that way," he says, indicating the end of a hallway.
"How do you know?"
"I broke in earlier this afternoon." The floor creaks as you approach a pair of heavy doors. Shackelford advances toward them, but before he reaches them you push your insubstantial twin over him. He won't notice, but anyone else will see Matt Medoff. And though you loiter still outside the asylum, you can still see through your double's eyes and hear through his ears.
"He's right behind me," Shackelford murmurs, and your twin's mouth moves in synch with his.
Lights snap on, and his friends, who were huddled on either side of the doors, seize him.
Out in the woods, you laugh softly to yourself, despite being gobsmacked by the attempted double-cross. But you can afford to laugh, since the undercover cop who has betrayed you to the drug dealers is himself now their prisoner. You jog around to the front doors of the asylum even as Bradley and his friends bustle the uncomprehending Shackelford across the operating theater and hurl him into a chair. "The fuck are you doing?" Shackelford yells as the others throw a rope around him.
Bradley cracks him across the jaw. "The fuck do you think you're doing, Medoff? Where's our shit?" He punches Shackelford again. "Where's our shit, asshole?"
You enter the atrium and scout the nearby offices, but they are all empty. You glide over to the doors of the operating theater, and are able to slip in without using your cloak, for the others have their backs to the doors.
"Are you guys high?" Shackelford burbles through a bloody mouth. Another punch silences him. Now, from the back of the theater, you drop your cloak over everyone in the room.
"I can keep softening you up until there's nothing left of your face," Bradley says. "And then we can start moving down to soften the rest of you up. Where's that shit you stole?"
"What are you asking me for? Medoff's the one that took it!"
"And here you are! So where's—?" Crack. "Our?" Crack. "Shit?"
You have to bite a knuckle, it's so funny.
Then, since you're invisible to them, you sneak into the pit and dart around behind Shackelford, and when Bradley punches him again, you lay your palm on the back of the hapless traitor's neck. He sags and his head lolls.
"Fuck, you've done it now," Rocheford growls, and kicks at the unconscious cop.
"Hand me that water bottle," Bradley snaps. Ellenburger tosses him a plastic bottle, and the boss pours the contents over Shackelford, but the man doesn't respond.
By now you're back at theater doors. You snagged his imago when you touched him, and you search most recent memories. They'd forced him to drink something from that coffee urn down in the operating pit, and after that—
There's nothing.
That wasn't Shackelford who met you outside, you realize now. Oh, sure it was his body. But there is something manipulating him from without, working him like a puppet.
You grimace a little at putting on the imago, for it suddenly feels like putting on underwear that someone has been dirtying up. But the confusion to be had will make it worthwhile.
* * * * *
Bradley does a slight double take as you materialize at his elbow. "Shackelford! Where the fuck were you?" he demands.
"Waiting outside. He must have come in while I wasn't looking." Ellenburger gives a little start, and opens his mouth to speak, but you lay a finger against Bradley's hand. "We need to talk." A shiver passes through Bradley, and he nods. "Out in one of the offices," you command.
Bradley shuffles after you, a puzzled expression playing over his face. You take his arm in yours, and clasp your hand in his. Thanks to Viritrilbia, you can be very persuasive when you've got your hands on someone.
You lead him into a nearby office. "Take off your clothes, Bradley," you tell him softly, and caress his hand. He frowns, and shudders. You release his hand, but move swiftly behind to knead his neck. "You trust me, right, Bradley? It's for the best." He swallows, and slowly complies, peeling off his jacket and shirt and t-shirt. "Everything, Bradley. I need all your clothes." He pulls off his shoes and socks and pants and underwear. "Nighty-night, Bradley," you say, and bring the sigil up in your hand. You lay him on the floor.
* * * * *
You're in another office when Ellenburger finds you. "Where'd Shackelford go?" he asks.
"Sent him packing." You look up from the desk, where you're writing out a full confession--in Bradley's own hand--of the gang's nefarious doings. "Go find the others, tell 'em to go home."
"What about Medoff?"
"Sleeping beauty? I'll take care of him. You just go home and wait."
"Are you sure?"
"Look, who's in charge here? That stuff in the urn isn't working, not the way that old groundskeeper told us it would."
"As soon as we get some of that special stuff he said we need—"
"I don't trust him, and I don't trust that shit we've been feeding to people. I thought you said you saw Shackelford talking to Medoff."
"I did."
"My point exactly. Shackelford denied it. Something's screwy, so we forget all about it until we get it sorted out."
"But—" He stops when you give him a hard look. "Alright, you're in charge," he grumbles.
"Fuckin' straight. And I don't need any 'mind control' shit to get you to do what I tell you, do I?" He shakes his head. "Good. Go tell everyone to make themselves scarce."
He leaves, and you finish writing up the confession.
* * * * *
"Neat work, squirt," Rick says as he peers into the urn. He grimaces and closes it again. He pours a little of the viscous liquid it contains into a Styrofoam cup and sniffs it. "You take a look in this thing?"
"I didn't have to. Bradley did." You shudder at the memory of what's inside. "Asshole was smart enough to tell the others not to go poking around in it."
"Too bad he wasn't smart enough to leave well enough alone. He thought it only made people susceptible to his own suggestions?" You nod. "People stop thinking when money is on the line. That's how come there aren't more rich crooks running around."
"What do we do about him?" You nod at Shackelford, who's still tied up.
"Keep him knocked out for a few days, until we get this thing taken care of." He picks up the coffee urn, and gives you a sidelong glance. "You'll be glad to be rid of the competition, won't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's a persuasive little fucker, isn't it?" he says softly, and gives the urn a shake.
* * * * *
"You don't look happy, son," Charles says.
You shrug. "No. That kind of stuff—doubling myself like Joe, getting people to do what I ask them to do—" You give Reilly a dirty look. "Did you have to make Rick say that at the end?"
"I don't make anyone say anything in these exercises," he says, and pats the washcloth across his forehead. "It just evolves from what the three of us subconsciously decide while the scene plays out. If Rick were here, we'd probably get a slightly different vision."
"You mean these visions aren't true?"
"Call them 'veridical,' son," Charles says. "Truth-like. Certainly there's a world in which things happened just the way we've seen. But it's not necessarily a world that you'd find yourself in."
To wake from this reverie: "The Boy from Before Everything, Part 2"   You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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