BELOW: BIRTH 14 (Patreon)

And another day of posting! The backlog is burning down a bit since I'm only just finishing the rewrites for book 2, keeping publication on RfR, traveling, working out, taking care of the house, writing VISCERAE now and again, ough so many things. Still a good 15 chapters ahead, so I'll try to avoid posting anything over the weekend so that I can pull myself back up! Gonna probably keep to this double-dip tuesday-thursday plan for now, at least until we hit the big 20 and start pushing onto RR!

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The worst part about the sermons are how normal they are. Relatively speaking, at least. 

They’re not unique, alien things, not something designed around the existence of hell at all. They sound like every other cult meeting I’ve heard, ever seen put on screen for some fucking show or movie. Brainwashing by any other name. It’s not even set in a proper church, instead being held in the middle of the third floor, directly below where the commandments have been carved. Here, it’s unavoidable that it be heard across the entirety of the Home, echoing up and down so every word that the Masked Father speaks reaches every set of ears available. All that’s missing is the punch-bowl.

The one exception to this “normalcy” comes from the harm. 

More than once, one of the Wretches or other THAUMIEL-tier people in the crowd will be selected, occasionally volunteering themselves, to come to the front of the church. Sometimes it’s for punishments, other times, for rewards. Some are rewarded with extra meat, in full view for all to see, before being sent back to be seated, their prize bare in their arms. The few that don’t scarf it down immediately often don’t get to keep it for long. Others are criticized and disciplined in front of the entire “family”, a ritual of public humiliation. But sometimes, seemingly without rhyme or reason, the torture starts. 

If it’s a reward, the SINner in question is usually paralyzed, a spike pushed through their spinal column before they’re carved up. If it’s a punishment, they usually just hold them down. 

Claws and teeth and blades of bone come out, joining into a show of horrific violence as the blood is collected in crude stone bowls beneath the commandments above. Even  the paralyzed ones usually end up screaming. 

I focus on the inside of myself, thinking hard about what I’m doing for as long as I can. The SIN floats outside of that central tar-pit I can feel “behind” my stat sheet, only occasionally needing a nudge to keep it from falling in. Still, I watch it almost obsessively, using it to distance myself from the screaming. 

It’s true that I’ve only managed to gain a few SIN points. That I would definitely have more if I had time to just focus and breathe. But that’s all pretty relative. 

Without the system tallying the amounts outside that central hole within me, I’m not sure exactly how much I have. Not enough to reach a Threshold again, but maybe approaching it. It’s larger than the central pool, even. If I absorbed it all, I’d probably be able to do… I don’t know, a bunch of shit. 

But I’m waiting. There’s still more to learn, and in spite of these sermons’ grisly demonstrations and shitty brainwashing, they do occasionally sneak in tidbits of understanding about the BELOW.

“Do you see, family? Do you see how he squirms? How he suffers?”

A dozen other languages echo out all at once as Masked Father’s helpers, all of them SINners from the third floor, translate for the audience. It makes for a cacophony, one hard to even parse, but that’s probably part of the point. 

“That suffering, alone, means nothing! It is mere torment, visited upon us unjustly by a cruel, cold world! But here, when we are together, it can mean everything!”

One of the SINners in charge of the torture has slit their own wrist, holding it open over the long gashes carved into the volunteer’s torso. 

“Those with power offer it unto the worthy, those who have pushed themselves and demonstrated their loyalty to our Home, so that we may all rise together! What the words of damnation whisper to us as SIN can instead be a lifeblood, a conjoining of souls and spirits, that the parents might deliver unto the child fresh transformation.”

I watch the volunteer as the cacophony of translations echoes out across black stone, half of my mind drifting, half tracking every change. 

The blood of the torturer slips into the wounds of the tortured, and I think I notice… something. Just for a moment, and not in any way I really understand, as if a new artist took over drawing the same scene, the differences too minute to properly track but the hiccup noticeable. 

The Wretch on the ground is whimpering. Their paralysis is total enough that their body doesn’t move, and I’m not sure how much pain they’re actually feeling, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was still some going through them. If I could feel someone’s fingers inside my skull, unmaking my grey matter, then there’s no reason why a spinal injury or nerve damage would remove pain here in the BELOW. 

Masked Father doesn’t seem to even notice. He just keeps speaking, the long hairs that grow in tails throughout his body swaying almost like robes as he walks around the front of our “Family”. 

“A WOUND is a thing of horror. Of pain, and torment! And yet, did not our first savior bear a wound for our sake? Do the marks of the nails on the cross not stand as a symbol of his love? Just as those wounds stood as proof of his love for us, so do your WOUNDS show your love for your family, for your Home. Take our newest addition, for example!”

My focus almost slips out of controlling my internal SIN-stuff as dozens of heads turn my way all of a sudden. 

Masked Father has stopped, a long, almost-human finger pointing directly at me. 

“See how their face has been lost! Their voice, taken! Even their name removed from their ability to communicate! And yet, who can say they do not work tirelessly for us all? Who can claim that their efforts in excavating a better Home for us have gone unnoticed? By their WOUND, they have distinguished themselves!”

He’s on me in two steps, before I’ve managed to even properly react. His hands come down on my shoulders, holding me gently in that way someone does when they want to remind you how much stronger than you they are. He holds me as his translators turn his speech to a roiling mess of sound, washing over us.

“A gift to our Home. A blessing to our family.”

I keep the SIN from collapsing, keeping the mental construct moving. It doesn’t care for anything besides my willpower, ignoring the fact that I’m fucking terrified and furious, moving as it always does, like molasses in water. 

The preacher of this strange little corner of hell continues to hold me for a moment. A silence comes over us both as dozens of other SINners stare at this show he’s putting on. 

I feel like he’s waiting for something. Trying to confirm something, maybe, or see something in me. The sensation of being watched, of being violated by another’s attention, grows until it feels almost unbearable. 

And then, it’s gone. 

He pats me on the shoulder, just once, smiling with that mask of his. 

“Yes, a shining example. They’ve dedicated all of their efforts into aiding their fellows, working hand in hand with our children of the first floor, and should be commended!”

Fuck. I think I can tell where this is going. 

His smile seems wider, somehow, as the translator’s chorus quiets. 

“In fact–”

The SINner on the floor starts screaming again. 

They stopped after the knives and claws did, kept their silence as the blood was poured into them from the quill-skinned SINner with digitigrade legs that opened them up. But now they’re screaming again, trying to writhe, their face contorting in a show of agony as they struggle and shift and try to escape themselves. 

And the gaping cuts in their chest are writhing. 

The blood has pooled in them, and rather than be absorbed or leak back out, has started bubbling, shifting, coiling like water filled with worms. Their screams climb higher, higher, reaching past a pitch that I can easily recognize. 

I stay totally still. I do nothing to call attention to myself, nothing to disrupt the awkward little illusion I’ve created. He doesn’t let go of my shoulders, doesn’t turn to look for a long, horrifying instant, watching me even as every other set of eyes turns to the shrieking victim before us. 

I do my best to act like I’m also curious, also looking past him. Anything to keep him from being interested, annoyed, or threatened by me. Anything to buy a little more time. 

IF U SEK SHELTR, FOLLO AND OBAY

My obedience is too high a price when shelter is not safety. Selfish? Sure. Demanding, in a world of no good options? Yes. 

But from the first moment he touched me, I knew that I would not be safe here. Not even if I gave myself to him. Not if I offered him what he wants, and not if I don’t.

Just a little longer.

His mask leaves me as he at last turns to watch the transformation.

The bubbling has increased. Where there were terrible gaps, torn open into one’s anatomy, now there are strange pits that wind, deeper and further than they should, down into the Wretch’s flesh. Almost like tunnels, or some sort of sinkhole, replicated all over the holes carved into him until he looks like a fleshy beehive. 

Masked Father steps away from me, standing over the transforming SINner. His hands are cast wide, making a performance of it, dragging attention away from the horrific mutilation and instead ot himself.

“See, children? See how the worthy are blessed! See how the blood of the strong, offered to the chosen, blends to create a new manifestation! Behold a WOUND, born of our family and gifted to one of our siblings!”

The transformation doesn’t end so much as peter out. Slowly, gradually, the blood dissolves or is absorbed, fading away until only that pockmarked flesh remains. Gradually, the Wretch’s screams dwindle, going from an active suffering into a more quiet horror as they look down at the butchery of their body, cemented permanently. 

“Once again, children. A blessing. Come, my child. Rise!”

I see it then. Again. That feeling, like the world shifted but so subtly that I can’t point out any details. Something between the Masked Father and the SINner on the ground changes, and suddenly, the Wretch’s limbs spasm, gaining mobility again. 

Before he has the chance to try and scramble away or make a show of his pain, Masked Father’s hands have shot down, grabbing him by the wrist and shoulder and lifting him to his feet, holding him steady. 

The rest of the sermon focuses on the changes we just saw, the benefits of family, the wonders of Home and how we’re stronger together, beneath a strong guiding hand. It’s easy enough to tune it out, shifting my attention away. 

Like I said. Valuable information. A lot of guesswork, but still, valuable.

More evidence, to my mind, that Masked Father (and probably others) can see my SIN total. Maybe my whole sheet, even. He sensed my SIN the moment it escaped my body, back when I was first experimenting with it, but since then, he hasn’t had any more moments where he showed that much excitement about me. Consistent attention, sure, but he was nearly drooling over me then. 

But he also takes any excuse to touch me, and I don’t think it’s just a power move or manipulation. My theory is that he can only see my stat sheet when he’s touching me directly, same with any SIN still inside my body. His senses are sharp enough to sense even one point of SIN escaping into the air, all the way from across Home, but not sharp enough to make it through my body, apparently. 

But I came up with that theory on my first day here. If I was just confirming that, I wouldn’t need the sermons. 

Together, they made a new WOUND on that Wretch. And that sensation, that strange feeling of weirdness? I’m willing to bet that it was SIN being transferred, first through blood, then through sheer force of will. 

So. SIN can be transferred. WOUNDS can appear without needing to pass a Threshold, without entering a whole evolutionary fugue. 

And, maybe most importantly of all, WOUNDS can be made. They can be built, formed out of the act of harm (and maybe other acts, too), and catalyzed by SIN. There’s a formula to it, as well as, potentially, something else that I can spend my accumulated points on without just dumping it into my stats. 

Aspects are universally powerful and universally useful, and I’m sure that, going deeper into them, I’ll find more specific advantages and effects. But the thing that makes me stand out, above even some of the older SINners here, are my WOUND and GNOSIS. They’re distinctive, specific, overwhelming advantages, something more than just raw numbers. 

Admittedly, I don’t have a lot in any of my Aspects. Chances are I’m underestimating how essential they are, even. But if it comes down to dumping points into a mechanic I don’t understand at all in the hopes of success, or actively trying to build something I can control or understand, the latter is absolutely more worthwhile. 

Especially since, no matter what I choose, the Masked Father will know about it right after. Whether it’s pumping my Aspects high enough to try something or trying to build a specific tool, I won’t be able to keep it a secret for long. 

The swirling mass of disgusting dark inside me keeps churning, held just barely apart from my resource pool. Waiting. Even as my control has gotten better, I can tell that I’m reaching a sort of critical point where I won’t be able to keep them apart anymore, not without a major change. I’ll have to make a decision soon. 

The echoing chorus of translated voices echoes, Masked Father’s words carrying by force throughout the entirety of the Home. Beneath the blood-painted words of the commandments, he preaches his gospel of malformed family, beneath the fourth floor’s unknown higher SINners and above the hidden pit I know is below, I sit, and wait for the right moment. 

Soon.

I just have to pick my moment.