Dies Irae: Worm/Dishonored (Patreon)

Alabaster died on June 17, 2013.

When he came back like he always did, a chuckle forced its way through his throat that had just been torn out a short four seconds ago. “You didn’t get the memo, did you? Torture doesn’t work on me, and if you’re trying to kill me, you’re going to have to get a lot more creative—”

His words died a bloody death as a length of steel slid through his windpipe. He felt the pressure and hear the crunching pops as his vocal chords were torn to shreds, but he didn’t feel any pain even as the weapon left the back of his neck. He stared up at the figure above him with a deadpan expression, watching as the lenses of the roughly-hewn mask glinted with the tilt of his killer’s head.

Alabaster died again on June 17, 2013. It was the twenty-fifth time that night. When he came back this time, the sword was still lodged in his neck. A twist, and that was number twenty-six.

In his mind, he wondered if this chick even knew who he was or if she was just some sick serial killer looking to get a thrill. The way she killed his men was like something out of a slasher movie. He was pretty sure she cut Tim’s head off. He liked Tim. The guy didn’t talk too much.

A pressure on his temple. Then, his thoughts were blown out of the back of his head alongside the bullet that dislodged them. When he came back this time, his throat was empty and he was facing the ceiling. The chains around his arms and legs scraped against concrete as he was dragged along the warehouse floor. He craned his head up, but couldn’t catch sight of anything besides the bloody ends of his killer’s coat.

“So, can I get a name for my new friend?” Silence answered his question. “I’ll just call you Alice. The only other Alice I knew was a raging bitch, too.”

His face smacked into the ground as he was dropped. Something heavy scraped across the ground in front of him, the sound of sloshing liquid brushing against metal almost deafening in the silent warehouse. Alabaster pulled at the chains wrapped around his arms but found them locked tight. If they were lower, he could break his fingers to get them off, but they’d been wrapped higher, around his elbows and biceps.

“So, Alice. Mind telling me what you’ve got against little old me? Don’t recognize your mask from the Teeth, and you ain’t the right color to be one of those squint-eyed fucks.” He managed to catch a glimpse of a hand as he jerked his head up. “Nice tattoo, by the way. Maybe I’ll keep it after I skin you alive for killing my boys.”

Another gunshot echoed in his ears and he sighed as he came back. “You must have a fetish for wasting ammo. Those are some pretty big bullets, too. They’d probably hurt a lot if I could feel them.”

He looked around at the hole he’d been shoved into while he was regenerating, recognizing it as the grave he’d had his boys working on earlier today. It was meant for a snitch who’d been selling E88 secrets to the Teeth, but it took so long to dig the damn thing they never got around to finding the bastard.

A thread of nervous energy worked its way up Alabaster’s spine. She was gonna bury him alive, huh? He knew from experience that it wouldn’t kill him, but it would take him a long time to get back up, especially with his hands tied.

His killer squatted down on the edge of the grave. She was silhouetted by the shitty warehouse lights, making it hard to see any features underneath her hood. He could barely see the outline of her mask—a ragged metal piece that looked like it had been welded together by the world’s shittiest shop student. He had to admit, the thing was pretty damn scary.

“Do you remember what you did in this place three years ago?”

Alabaster blinked slowly at the question. “Bitch, I barely remember what I ate for breakfast this morning. Why the hell would I—”

Click

The sound of a dry trigger echoed through the warehouse. The woman raised a gun to her mask. His gun, he realized belatedly.

He flinched as she tossed the weapon down into the grave with him, the cold metal smacking him the face. It didn’t hurt—couldn’t, really—but he still felt the impact. He shook his head, glaring up at the woman as she stood to full height. She turned and he heard a strange sound, something slimy and suctioning, followed by loud metal scraping. A small cement mixer came to a stop just before the lip of the grave, sloshing with heavy liquid. Alabaster’s heart skipped a beat as he realized that she didn’t intend on burying him at all. At least, not in the dirt.

The woman crouched down again, staring at him from behind her mask. “How long do you think it will take to find you under three feet of concrete?” She asked. “A month? Maybe two or three? A year, even? Your power can’t free you; it can only make sure you stay alive. It makes me wonder, can you breathe even when your lungs are full of rocks?”

Alabaster jerked in his chains, ripping the skin on his arms and spraying blood down his back and all over the inside of his grave. A moment later, it was gone, and he was still just as trapped as when he started. He snapped his head up, snarling through pure white teeth, “Who do you think you are? You think you can just fuck with the Empire and get away with it? Even if you put me under, they’ll find out you did this and then you’re fucked.”

The woman merely reached up and pulled the lever on the mixer. Cold, chunky concrete dropped from the lip onto Alabaster’s legs, sliding down to drop into the hole. It was filling fast. Only a few seconds after the flow started, he could already feel it creeping up the back of his head. He jerked it away, heart beating fast in his chest.

“What the hell’s your problem? You got a deathwish or something? You can’t do this! It’s against the Rules! C’mon! This is fucked!”

The woman just watched, unaffected by his words. The mix reached his earlobes and he jerked his head away. His chest and arms were covered by now. Only his head was still above the rising concrete.

“I’ll get out eventually,” he promised, panic turning to anger as the liquid rose without any sign of stopping.

“Eventually.” He heard as the mix reached his ears again. Just before they were filled, he heard her say, “But I’ll be done by then.”

The concrete mix rose above his ears, and then his mouth. He sucked in, letting the mix fill his mouth and lungs. It was uncomfortable, but when his power reset him, his lungs were empty. He did it again, drinking in as much as he could and then letting it disappear.

His power wasn’t fast enough. Soon, he was drinking more than he was breathing, and even that wasn’t good enough to match the flow. It rose above his mouth, his nose, his eyes. His last sight was the woman's mask as she stared him down.

Alabaster died on June 17, 2013.

And he kept dying every four seconds until eventually, he forgot how to count them.  

Lacey glanced at the nearby clock, a worried look creasing her face. She looked across the length of her table to her husband who was frowning deeply. 

“It’s almost midnight. She should have been home by now,” Lacey whispered. “Should we call the police?”

Kurt’s frown deepened, but he shook his head. “Give her a couple more minutes. You know she can’t leave work until her job’s done, and she always finds more stuff to do.”

Lacey chewed her lip worriedly. Spread between them, the birthday cake that she’d meticulously prepared from scratch was growing soggy outside of the fridge. “What if she got stopped by someone. You know she’s in the bad part of town; something could have happened to her. We really should call someone.”

“This would never happen if we’d just get that girl a phone,” Kurt commented. Lacey gave him a harsh look. He knew good and well that she’d never touch one of those things again, not after everything she’d been through. He seemed to realize how bad his own words were a moment after he said it, and turned away, ashamed. 

Lacey knew that he didn’t mean anything by it. Her husband understood more than anyone how much that poor girl had been hurt.  He’d felt it too, after all. They all had.

A little while later, Lacey glanced at the clock again. Midnight had come and gone, but Taylor still wasn’t home. Kurt was starting to look worried too.

“Did she tell you anything when she left this morning?”

Lacey opened her mouth, but the sound of a key turning in a lock cut her short. Lacey and her husband turned as one, peering over the kitchenette as the front door creaked open and a tall, dark figure appeared. Lacey’s heart lifted as Taylor stepped into the house, carrying a bag over one shoulder and a tired look on her face. The young woman lifted her head, a single brow furrowing in confusion as she saw them there, before she gave them a tired smile, though only half of her face rose with it.

“Hey. Sorry I’m home so late, work was… really something.” She trailed off as she came around into the kitchen, stopping at the threshold and staring at the cake on the table. She seemed surprised. “What’s this?”

Kurt and Lacey shared a look, before Lacey let out a little laugh. “It’s a birthday cake, Taylor. Don’t tell me you already forgot.”

Taylor stared blankly at her for a long moment, before comprehension dawned on her face. Lacey felt bad for the discomfort she felt at the sight. It wasn’t the expression herself that did it, more the memory of what such a look would have looked like just a few years ago, before everything happened.

Because back then, the whole of Taylor’s face would have lit up instead of just the right side. Back then, there wouldn’t be an eyepatch covering what was left of a ruined socket, or the mottling of burnt and melted skin concealing what should have been the features of a young woman in the prime of her life. Danny’s death had hurt them all, but Taylor carried the most visible scars. And likely even more that they couldn’t even see.

Taylor stared at the cake, then looked at the two candles beside it. A one and an eight, freshly bought and not yet burned, sat cold. Waiting for the moment they’d christen the moment a girl came into adulthood.

“I… I guess I did. Sorry, It’s been a really long day I….” Taylor shook her head, though her eyes never left the candles. “Sorry.”

Lacey put on her best reassuring smile, gesturing towards the end of the table. “It’s fine, sweetie. We’re just happy you’re okay. Why don’t you take a seat so we can sing and dig in? Kurt’s been eying the  cake since I pulled it out of the oven.”

Her attempt at a joke drew a half smile from Taylor and the girl gingerly dumped her bag near the doorway and shucked off her heavy coat. Her t-shirt did little to cover the burns layered over her left side, but nobody present paid much attention to them, or the glove Taylor insisted on wearing over her burned hand. According to her, the nerves there were especially sensitive.

They sang happy birthday and ate the cake together. They got Taylor a card and whatever cash they could spare at the time. Taylor rejected the gesture, but both Lacey and Kurt insisted. 

And when Taylor cried, telling them both how thankful she was for both of the, and how much she wished Danny were here, they cried right alongside her.

“So, fate brings us together again. Though, it isn’t fate that brought you here, is it?”

The whispering drawl wormed its way into the depths of my mind and filled it full to bursting. A chill passed through my body, and I knew where I was before I even opened my eye. It felt like only a moment ago I laid down for bed, yet I found myself standing without even realizing it.

I opened my eye to an abyss washed with lifeless grey, as if an artist had sketched the outline but forgotten to fill in the details. A chill swept through me, but I looked down to find myself fully clothed, even though I’d only gone to bed wearing shorts and a t-shirt.

Goosebumps raised across my skin at a whisper behind me. I turned, and came face to face with two pitch-black eyes. The man they belonged to smirked, seeming to find some amusement in my confusion. 

“Surprised? You never thought you’d find yourself here again, did you? You convinced yourself it was nothing but a dream. That you were like every other wretch wandering the street with only hate in their hearts to keep them warm at night.”

He chuckled, stepping to the edge of the obsidian platform we were suspended on. “Well, allow me to break the illusion. This place, me? We’re very real. And we’re a part of you now, as inextricable as the heart that should have stopped beating on that day.”

He vanished into smoke before I could say a word. I stepped toward the edge where he had lingered and found more rocks dangling in the void. Ash curled across blackened stone, dusty fingers licking at my ankles as if welcoming me back.

I’d been in this place before, I knew. Though I’d convinced myself that it couldn’t have been real. It was a world only I knew.

“Why am I back?” I asked the endless void. My voice echoed into nothingness, and was returned with more silence. I looked around for the man. “Did you bring me here?”

I looked down at my hand, at the mark carved in cruel, jagged ink among the burns. I clenched my fist, and then reached forward.

Tendrils of shadow lifted me from my feet and pulled me towards the next platform. I landed heavily and rose, watching as the world shifted around me. Shadows rose and fell, fire flickering to life from nothing. I stepped back without even realizing, the blaze casting my shadow long across the stone as I stared at the scene before me.

Two chairs were situated among the blaze, fastened tight to the ground. Bound to the scene almost as tight as the figures tied to the chairs themselves. One of them was a man with thinning hair and rectangular glasses. His head was slumped at an odd angle, blood leaking from a gash in his scalp.

The other was me. A younger me, who thought a friendship ending was the cruelest thing the world could come up with.

“Three years.” I stiffened as the man appeared at my side, hands behind his back as he watched the scene alongside me. “Three years since those men decided they wanted something they couldn’t have. Men with the power to take what isn’t theirs. You died in that blaze, remember? Burned to ash and scattered into the void, nothing but bits of memory soaked in despair. Your father would be so sad to see you now. Or would he?”

The flames climbed, consuming the scene. I turned away, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Why are you showing me this?”

But the man was gone. Yet, his voice followed me as I continued on.

“It’s a different age. A different city. But the rot stays the same no matter where you go—bad men and broken dreams. I used to wonder what drove men to power, that spark behind the engine that sets everything into motion. Love, hate, cruelty... It goes by many names. But it is a powerful force indeed.”

A new scene sprouted to life as I landed on the next platform. A long table, surrounded by capes. I recognized every single one of them. It was the Empire’s cape roster—most of it, at least. And at the head of the table, flanked by his two valkyries, was Kaiser himself. 

My chest burned at the sight. I wanted to reach out and strangle him to death with my bare hands, to watch the realization of death set in moments before it claimed him. And then I wanted to do the same to the rest. 

The black-eyed man appeared beside Kaiser, leaning over his shoulder to look down at the map the man was gesturing to. It detailed Brockton Bay and the various gangs’ territory. As I watched, the red of the Empire bled into the grey of the Docks.

“The strong grow and fester off of the suffering of the weak. Some might call it nature. Most call it unfair. You certainly would.”

A new scene. A girl covered in bandages from head to toe, sobbing into her pillow late at night. I remembered that day, though not how it ended. Until now.

The man appeared at my side. “Suffering breeds suffering. That’s where you found me, in that dark pit of despair where no light can reach. I gave you the power to build yourself back up and take your revenge, just like I’ve done countless times before. I wonder if your ending will be different than theirs were, or if you’re just another train rolling down the same old track.”

He turned to me. The mark on the back of my hand—his mark—burned so intensely it forced me to my knees. I looked at him through a teary eye as he leaned down toward me.

“One name out of over a dozen. Will you be able to strike them all off your list? More importantly, will you still be you when the final drop of ink stains that bloody page?” He tilted his head, obsidian eyes sparkling with interest. “I look forward to finding out.”

My eye drifted closed as the pain grew unbearable. When it opened again, I was laying in bed, soaked in sweat and breathing like I had just run a mile.

I shakily lifted my hand, the mark burned into the back of my hand glowing like a fire poker. After a few moments, it faded back into pitch black lines, but the itching remained.

I stared at the mark. Alabaster's face came to my mind, those scared white eyes disappearing beneath the muk. The bodies of his men washed away in waters so deep, nobody would ever find them.

Yesterday was my birthday. I was eighteen and already a killer, bloody hands and all. But I didn't intend to clean them any time soon.  

I’ll get every last one, dad,” I promised in a whisper.