The hum of the energy field was her only company. Vigdis sat cross-legged on the cold floor of her cell, staring at the axe on the other side of the shimmering barrier. Its edge glinted faintly in the sterile light, mocking her with its inaccessibility. She didn’t know why the kid had left it there, except maybe to toy with her. It didn’t matter. She leaned back against the bench, closing her eyes to shut out the sight.
But the axe called to her.
Not in words, not in any way she could describe, but its presence was a weight in her chest, an itch she couldn’t scratch. Slowly, sleep took her, dragging her into a realm where the air tasted of blood and smoke, where the hum of the field gave way to the clash of steel and the distant screams of the dying.
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The first sensation was the squelch of mud beneath her boots—heavy, foreign. The world around her shifted like a fragmented memory: a marshy battlefield stretched under a leaden sky, smoke curling upward from unseen fires. Distant screams cut through the eerie quiet, mingled with the clash of steel and the whinnying of terrified horses.
Vigdis looked down at her hands. A sword—alien and weighty—rested in her grip, its hilt unfamiliar. Her arms felt wrapped in iron, her body constrained by armor she hadn’t donned. Even the rhythm of her breathing was off, the cadence alien to her own. Her steps were no longer her own, guided by a presence that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness.
The battlefield surged into view in sharp relief: Irish warriors darted between columns of English soldiers, their tactics chaotic yet devastating. Vigdis barked orders in a tongue that wasn’t hers but felt like second nature. Faces blurred past her, men she’d never known yet felt bound to protect. Their pride, their defiance, coursed through her veins, a righteous fury she didn’t entirely own.
“Hold the line!” she found herself shouting. The words carried a weight that reverberated through the scene, though she barely understood them. Her gaze locked onto a figure in the distance—a tall, armored man issuing commands with an air of disdain.
Sir Henry Bagenal.
The dream twisted as Vigdis moved through the melee. Every step felt heavier, as if the weight of history bore down on her. She felt the triumph of each strike, the searing pain of glancing blows, the mud and blood clinging to her armor like second skin.
The moment came. Bagenal stood before her, his sword raised, his sneer a portrait of English arrogance. Her wrath boiled over, a fury older and deeper than she could comprehend. With a roar, the sword in her hands surged forward, finding its mark between the commander’s ribs.
The world paused, the battlefield falling eerily silent as Bagenal’s body crumpled. Victory, fleeting and bittersweet, surged through her. The pride surged like a flood—followed by pain, white-hot and searing. A spear from the side drove into her ribs, wrenching her from triumph to despair.
The battlefield blurred and twisted, the edges of reality bending like ripples in a disturbed pond. Vigdis staggered, her borrowed sword slipping from her grip. Her vision swam, the figures around her dissolving into mist.
“Sir Patrick!” a voice called, sharp and desperate. She turned instinctively, her heart thudding as the world cracked apart.
“What?” she rasped, her voice not her own. The name hung in the air, alien and familiar all at once.
The mists parted, revealing a face—young, bloodied, and wide-eyed. “Sir Patrick!” the soldier cried again, reaching for her with trembling hands. His words tore through her like a blade. “We can’t hold without you!”
Her breath hitched, her mind clawing at the memory that wasn’t hers. Sir Patrick. The axe. The truth slammed into her like a war hammer.
The world dissolved, and she awoke with a gasp, her chest heaving. The hum of the energy field was back, the sterile light pressing against her closed eyelids. Her gaze snapped to the axe beyond the barrier.
It was silent, but she swore she could hear laughter—rich, lilting, and far too knowing.
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“Quite the memory lane, eh, lass?” Patrick’s voice chimed, light and teasing yet underpinned with something more—something raw.
Vigdis stared at the weapon. “That was you,” she muttered. “That was your death.”
“Aye,” he replied softly. “And you got to feel it. My pride, my failure, my end. A real party, wasn’t it?”
“What does it mean?” she demanded, her voice sharp despite the lingering haze of sleep.
“It means,” Patrick said, his tone grave now, “you carry more than a blade when you wield me. You carry a cause—a fight worth dying for. Yours or mine, it’s the same now.”
Vigdis exhaled sharply, her chest tight. She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. The weight of the dream settled over her like the mist of the battlefield she had just left.
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The faintest sound of the door sliding open caught her ear. Vigdis turned sharply, her green eyes narrowing as the familiar figure stepped into view. Jenny. Alone. Her blonde hair was damp and pulled back, and the dress she wore—a plain thing, floral and awkward—seemed wrong against the sterile backdrop of the Bunker. No guards followed her. No weapons either.
Vigdis leaned back against the bench, crossing her arms over her chest. The pieces clicked together in her mind, forming a picture she didn’t like. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” she drawled, her voice low and sharp. “You turned, didn’t you?”
Jenny didn’t answer immediately. Her grey eyes darted around the room, scanning the corners and the ceiling, her expression tense. Vigdis frowned, following her gaze. She didn’t understand what the girl was looking for, but the way Jenny’s jaw set told her enough—whatever it was, they were being watched.
“Well?” Vigdis pressed, her tone hardening. “What’s the deal? You’re working with them now?”
Jenny’s shoulder stiffened, and for a moment, Vigdis thought she might actually walk away. But then the girl turned, her expression conflicted but set. “We don’t have time for this,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the weight behind it. “I’m here to make you an offer.”
Vigdis tilted her head, her lips curving into a humorless smile. “An offer, huh? Let me guess—play nice, and I get to stretch my legs outside the cell. Maybe even get a shiny new collar to go with it.”
Jenny flinched, just slightly, but didn’t back down. “If you want to stay here, rotting in this cell, that’s your choice,” she said. “But I’m trying to give you a better one.”
Vigdis let the words hang in the air, her gaze narrowing. “Why should I trust you?” she asked, her voice low and sharp. “If it weren’t for you and your pal poking around that Bunker door, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Jenny’s jaw tightened, and for the first time, a flicker of frustration broke through her carefully composed exterior. “You don’t have to trust me,” she snapped, then glanced quickly at the ceiling before lowering her voice. “But have you seen that kid? The Overseer’s son? Whatever I’m offering—it won’t be as bad as what he has planned.”
Vigdis leaned forward, her posture loose but predatory, her green eyes gleaming with distrust. “And what exactly are you offering?” she asked, her voice cold. “Because I’m not about to trade one leash for another.”
Jenny hesitated, her gaze flickering to the floor. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, her expression hardening. Whatever she wanted to say, she couldn’t—or wouldn’t. Vigdis saw it for what it was. A secret. A plan she wasn’t willing to share.
“I’m trying to help,” Jenny said finally, her voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Just... think about it.”
Vigdis sat back again, her smirk returning, cold and edged. “I’ll take my chances,” she said simply.
Jenny stared at her for a long moment, her grey eyes clouded with something Vigdis couldn’t quite place. Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the door. It slid open with a faint hiss, swallowing her silhouette as she disappeared into the corridor beyond.
The hum of the energy field returned, louder now in the empty room. Vigdis leaned her head back against the wall, exhaling sharply. Whatever Jenny’s game was, it didn’t matter. Not now. She had her own fight to plan.
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The sound of the door sliding open broke the silence again. Vigdis glanced up, her muscles instinctively tightening, ready for a fight. A group of guards stepped in—four, no, five of them—each armed and tense. Their movements were calculated, their postures rigid, as though one wrong step might set her off.
Vigdis smirked faintly, leaning back against the cold wall. “What’s this, then?” she drawled. “Takes five of you now? Guess I really left an impression at the door.”
None of them responded. Their eyes remained locked on her, focused and wary. Vigdis considered her options, her mind calculating. She could fight, of course. She could take two, maybe three of them before they got her down. But she was too far inside enemy territory now, and her axe was still locked away behind that damned energy barrier. With a resigned sigh, she rose to her feet.
“Fine,” she muttered, holding her hands out in mock surrender. “Let’s get on with it.”
The guards didn’t relax, even as they moved in to secure her. Shackles snapped around her wrists, cold and heavy, and one guard took a step back, his rifle held tightly in his hands. They gestured for her to move, and she complied, her smirk lingering as she noted the way they kept their distance.
Cowards.
The walk was a maze of corridors and staircases, sterile walls broken only by the occasional hum of machinery. Vigdis kept her head high, her sharp green eyes scanning her surroundings. The guards said nothing, their boots echoing in unison against the polished floors. She caught glimpses of other figures—Bunker workers, maybe—but they moved like shadows, heads down and silent.
Finally, they stopped in front of a small door. One of the guards stepped forward, unlocking it with a quick swipe of a card. The door slid open, revealing a strange, cramped space beyond. Vigdis frowned as they ushered her inside.
The room was plain, functional. Benches lined the walls, and rows of lockers stood on one side, their metallic surfaces scuffed and dull. A faint chemical smell lingered in the air, sterile and sharp. Vigdis turned in a slow circle, her brow furrowing. “What the hell is this?”
The guards didn’t answer. They stepped out, the door closing behind them with a soft hiss. She was alone.
Vigdis paced the room, her boots clunking against the tiled floor. Her unease grew as she studied the unfamiliar space. It reminded her of nothing she’d ever seen—too clean, too quiet, too... strange. Her hand brushed one of the benches, her calloused fingers trailing across its smooth surface. What kind of place was this?
A crackling sound came from above, cutting through the stillness. Vigdis stopped, her head snapping up. A voice followed, smooth and childish, laced with mockery.
“Specimen,” Elliot said, his voice oozing from unseen speakers. “How lovely to see you’re awake and cooperative. For now.”
Vigdis’s jaw tightened. “What do you want, kid?”
His laugh was light, almost playful. “Oh, this isn’t about what I want. It’s about the purity of science. And to maintain that purity, I need you to take off your clothes.”
The words hung in the air, cold and clinical. Vigdis blinked, her frown deepening. “Excuse me?”
“It’s quite simple,” Elliot continued, unbothered by her tone. “The ‘games’ require pure samples. No contamination. No fabric. I’m sure even you can understand the importance of cleanliness.”
Vigdis didn’t respond. She stared at the ceiling, her lips pressed into a thin line. The silence stretched, and Elliot’s voice returned, this time sharper. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Or did you forget the taser darts already?”
Her fingers flexed, the memory of those electric jolts sparking behind her eyes. She let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. “You think this is gonna bother me? Kid, I’ve fought raiders in a torn tunic. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Still, the command rankled. She moved slowly, unbuckling the straps of her armor, her movements deliberate. Each piece hit the bench with a dull clang, and when the last of it was removed, she tugged her shirt over her head, tossing it aside with a scoff.
Fully naked, she stood in the center of the room, her body lit harshly by the overhead fluorescents. Scars crisscrossed her skin, each one a story of survival. Her muscles, lean and corded, shifted as she adjusted her stance. She looked toward the ceiling, her expression unreadable.
“Happy now?” she called, her voice thick with sarcasm.
There was a pause, a faint hiss of static, before the second door slid open with a soft whoosh. Vigdis’s eyes snapped toward it, her posture shifting as she prepared for whatever came next.
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Jenny stood outside Silas Abernathy’s office, her nerves pulled taut. The cold metal of the doorframe pressed against her shoulder as she waited, fidgeting with the hem of the floral dress she’d put on. The short walk here had been uneventful, save for a few glances from passing Bunker citizens—mostly curiosity, but occasionally pity.
The door hissed open. Silas sat at his desk, impeccably composed as always, his casual attire—a well-worn button-up shirt and sturdy jeans—blending seamlessly with his relaxed demeanor. His smile was calm, deliberate, the kind of expression that promised warmth but never delivered.
“Ah, Genevieve,” he said, rising to his feet with an air of practiced charm. “Good to see you looking well. I take it you’ve taken care of yourself?” His eyes flicked briefly to her freshly washed hair and the clean lines of the dress she had reluctantly donned.
Jenny shifted her weight, uncomfortable under his gaze. “Yeah,” she muttered. “It’s good to feel clean again.”
Silas chuckled softly, gesturing toward a figure standing near the back of the room. “Excellent. Let me introduce you to Doug Ross, our resident doctor. Doug has some news for you.”
Jenny turned her head, her heart sinking as she recognized the man who had walked in on her earlier. He was tall, with dark, slightly wavy hair that framed a face too handsome for its own good—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and warm brown eyes that seemed like they should belong to someone more self-assured. His uniform—a dark blue variation of the Bunker’s standard attire with subtle silver piping along the shoulders—was neatly pressed, giving him an air of professionalism that clashed with the faint flush rising to his cheeks. He cleared his throat, his composure faltering only briefly before he straightened, clearly determined to project confidence despite the awkward circumstances.
“Miss,” Doug began, clearing his throat. He recovered quickly, his voice smoothing out as he continued. “We’ve been working on something for you. A prosthetic arm.”
Jenny’s breath caught, and for a moment, the tension in her shoulders eased. “A prosthetic?” she repeated, her tone incredulous.
Doug nodded, his tone shifting to a more professional cadence. “It’s still in development, and it won’t be an overnight solution. We’ll need to take precise measurements and monitor the healing process of your stump, but… it’s achievable.”
Jenny stared at him, the words sinking in slowly. The thought of having her arm back—or at least something like it—brought a flicker of hope she hadn’t felt in weeks. She didn’t care if it wasn’t real flesh and bone. The idea of being whole again was enough.
“That’s…” she began, then swallowed hard. “That’s incredible.”
“Good,” Silas interjected smoothly, taking his seat once more. “I’m glad you’re pleased. You see, Genevieve, we value loyalty in this Bunker. The kind of loyalty that makes progress like this possible.”
Her stomach tightened. She’d known this moment was coming. Silas wasn’t an idiot—he had to know her decision to accept his deal wasn’t out of conviction, but necessity. And now, here it was: the catch.
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The room was clinical, bathed in sterile white light that reflected off the polished metal walls. Vigdis stood in the center, her tall, muscular frame unflinching against the oppressive sterility of the space. The light glinted off the dark scars tracing her sun-bronzed skin, each mark a story of survival. Her shoulders, broad and strong, caught the light, the faint shimmer of sweat outlining the powerful sweep of her bare arms. Despite the vulnerability of her nakedness, she held herself like a warrior unyielding before battle. The faint hum of vents surrounded her, and a sharp hiss filled the room as the air grew thick, carrying a sickly-sweet tang that burned her nostrils and clawed at her throat. She resisted the urge to cough, her chest tightening with each breath.
Above her, Elliot's voice crackled through hidden speakers, saccharine and mocking. “Ah, the brave wastelander, face-to-face with civilization's mercy. Do you know what’s in this air, dear specimen? Chemical residue, fungal spores, particulate matter... You should feel right at home.”
Holographic projections flickered to life around the chamber. They were disturbingly lifelike, depicting clean, glowing Bunker citizens watching her with expressions of disdain and pity. Her bare form, with its solid, statuesque build and the sharp definition of her muscles, stood in stark contrast to their pristine, clothed appearances. “See?” one sneered. “They thrive in their mess. It’s what they’re built for.”
Another projection chimed in, its tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Poor thing, she doesn’t even know what clean air feels like. No wonder she looks so... rugged.”
Vigdis gritted her teeth, her green eyes scanning the room for anything to fight against. But there was nothing—no weapon, no foe—just the suffocating air and the smirking faces of phantoms she couldn’t touch. The chill of the metal floor against her bare soles reminded her of her exposed state, yet the solid curves of her legs, honed through years of battle and survival, remained planted firmly. Her fists curled defiantly at her sides as she took another breath, the burn in her lungs spreading like fire.
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“Fascinating,” Elliot mused, his voice laced with childish glee. “She’s coughing already! How long before she collapses? Any bets, my dear observers?” His laughter rang out, unrestrained, as if he were hosting a game show.
Vigdis swayed slightly, her vision swimming as the room seemed to tilt. A sharp sting bloomed in her nose, and she swiped a hand across her face, glaring at the smear of blood on her knuckles. Her lips pulled into a grim line, and she straightened, her back a solid line of strength as she forced her legs to steady beneath her.
Elliot’s voice faltered briefly, his mocking tone giving way to a flicker of disbelief. “Still standing? Impressive. Though, of course, it’s not endurance—it’s adaptation. Wastelanders survive by being... defective.” He practically spat the word. “Inferior lungs, weaker systems. It’s no wonder they cling to their filthy homes.”
One of the holograms stepped closer, its face warped into an exaggerated sneer. “She’ll collapse soon. They always do. It’s just a matter of when.”
Vigdis met the image’s gaze, her own burning with defiance. A sharp cough wracked her body, but she didn’t falter, her stance steady despite the storm inside her. Her nakedness, rather than a symbol of weakness, became a testament to her resilience—unarmored, unhidden, yet unyielding. Her powerful frame, every muscle taut and ready, was a silent reminder of the wasteland’s demands.
The hiss of the vents stopped suddenly, and the air seemed to clear, the weight on her chest lifting just enough to let her draw a ragged, unsteady breath. Elliot’s voice returned, this time colder, quieter. “Interesting. You’re more stubborn than I anticipated. But don’t mistake survival for strength.”
The holograms faded, their taunts lingering like ghosts in the stale air. Vigdis’s knees trembled, and she sank against the wall, the cool metal pressing against her skin. Her breaths were shallow and wheezing, her body battered, her blood still dripping faintly from her nose. But she was alive.
And she wasn’t done yet.
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“I’m aware that your choice to join us may have felt... abrupt,” Silas continued, his words measured, his tone almost fatherly. “But I believe actions speak louder than words. To truly understand our mission—our vision—you need to see things from our perspective.”
Jenny shifted her weight, her good hand resting on her hip as she forced her expression into neutrality. “What do you need me to do?”
Silas’s smile widened, but his eyes remained cold. He tapped a button on his desk, and a holographic map sprang to life. It displayed the surrounding wasteland, a scatter of settlements and ruins marked in faint outlines. A single red marker blinked near a jagged ridge.
“We lost contact with one of our lieutenants,” Silas explained. “He was leading an important survey mission in this area, gathering vital intelligence. His last transmission indicated he had discovered something significant, but we haven’t heard from him since.”
Jenny stepped closer to the map, her gaze narrowing as she studied the terrain. “Significant how?”
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The hum of the vents faded, leaving a heavy, ringing silence. Vigdis leaned against the cold metal wall, her breathing labored and raw, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself. A faint metallic click cut through the quiet. Her eyes snapped up, narrowing as the far wall shuddered and slid open, revealing another chamber bathed in a harsh, amber glow.
She pushed herself upright, forcing her legs to steady despite the trembling that lingered in her muscles. The doorway yawned before her, an unspoken challenge that made her jaw tighten. Elliot’s voice returned, light and mocking, spilling over the speakers like oil.
“Onward, specimen. Your next test awaits! I do hope you’re ready. The air was just a warm-up—well, relatively speaking.”
Vigdis wiped the blood from her nose with the back of her hand and stepped forward, her bare feet pressing firmly against the cool metal floor, the faint imprint of each step visible on the slightly misted surface. The room beyond was a stark contrast to the last: its walls glowed faintly, radiating heat, and the air shimmered with waves that distorted her vision. At the center stood a single metal platform, its surface scorched and blackened.
The door hissed shut behind her, trapping her in the oppressive heat. Almost immediately, sweat beaded on her skin, rolling down her temple and tracing the curve of her jaw. She squinted against the glare, her breathing shallow as the temperature climbed.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Elliot purred. “This chamber simulates the wasteland’s harshest deserts, though I’ve made a few... enhancements. You’ll find no shade here, no respite. Just pure, unrelenting heat. Perfect for testing your so-called resilience.”
Vigdis stepped onto the platform, her soles stinging against the heated metal. She turned slowly, scanning the room for any sign of relief or exit, but there was nothing. Just the inferno pressing down on her, suffocating and heavy.
Elliot’s voice crackled again. “Oh, and before I forget—no water, of course. Wouldn’t want to contaminate the data. Let’s see how long you last before dehydration sets in. I’m betting not long.”
A panel in the wall slid open with a soft hiss, and a glass of water appeared, glistening and cold. Vigdis stared at it, her throat tightening involuntarily as the sight teased her parched mouth. Elliot’s laughter filled the room, sharp and biting. “Oh, that? Just a little... motivation. Go ahead, take it. I’m sure it’ll make all the difference.”
Vigdis didn’t move. Her green eyes remained locked on the glass for a long moment before she turned her back on it, her lips curling into a defiant smirk. “Try harder, kid,” she muttered under her breath.
The temperature climbed higher, the air so thick it felt like breathing through cloth. Sweat poured down her face and body, tracing the defined lines of her shoulders and arms, her muscular form gleaming under the punishing light. Her vision blurred at the edges, and her legs trembled, but she refused to kneel, refused to give him the satisfaction.
“Fascinating,” Elliot murmured, his voice taking on an almost clinical tone. “She sweats like us, but look at the rate of dehydration. Is this the legendary wastelander toughness? Or just stupidity?”
Vigdis stumbled slightly, catching herself on the edge of the platform. The searing heat gnawed at her resolve, but she gritted her teeth, her mind latching onto the smallest slivers of focus. One step. Another. Just keep moving. Keep standing.
The glass of water disappeared back into the wall, replaced by Elliot’s voice, dripping with mockery. “Oh dear. Too proud to accept help, are we? That’s fine. This is just the beginning, after all.”
The room seemed to close in around her, the heat pressing against her like an iron weight. Her skin burned, her lungs screamed, but still, she stood. A faint laugh echoed through the chamber, soft and almost admiring.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” Elliot said, his tone shifting slightly. “But persistence without purpose? That’s just an animal’s survival instinct. Nothing more.”
The heat began to fade, the air cooling marginally as the walls dimmed. Vigdis sagged against the platform, her hands braced on her knees as she sucked in shallow breaths. The sharp hiss of another door opening filled the chamber, and she forced herself upright, her movements slow but steady.
“Next round, specimen,” Elliot called. “Let’s see if you’re as impressive in the cold.”
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“Documents,” Silas replied. “Recordings. Data that could change the way people see the wasteland—and us. These materials cannot fall into the wrong hands. I need you to recover them, Genevieve. And if our lieutenant is still alive, bring him back. If not...” He gestured vaguely. “You know what needs to be done.”
Jenny’s mind churned. It was a straightforward mission on the surface, but her instincts told her there was more to this than Silas let on. The terrain alone would be a nightmare, and the chance of the lieutenant still being alive felt slim. But the cache... that was something she couldn’t ignore.
She took a steadying breath, forcing her voice to stay level. “I’m going to need help.”
Silas’s brow arched. “Of course. I can assign a team to—”
“No,” Jenny interrupted quickly. “That would be too obvious. A squad in the wastes draws attention. I need someone who knows the terrain better than your people. Someone I trust.”
Silas leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “And who, exactly, do you have in mind?”
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The door before her slid open with a hiss, releasing a wave of air so cold it hit like a physical force. Vigdis flinched, her sweat-soaked skin prickling as the temperature plummeted. She stood at the threshold, her breath fogging in the frigid air. Beyond lay a stark, icy expanse, its walls coated in frost and shimmering with an eerie blue glow. The floor was slick with ice, glinting like jagged glass under the dim light.
She stepped inside, her bare feet sliding slightly on the frozen surface. The door behind her sealed shut, the metallic clang reverberating through the chamber. Instantly, the oppressive heat of the last room was replaced by a biting cold that seeped into her bones.
Elliot’s voice returned, cheerful as ever. “Welcome to the tundra, specimen! A little taste of what your kind would call hell—though I suspect you’ve seen worse. Or have you?”
Vigdis didn’t answer. She pulled her arms close to her body, her teeth clenching against the creeping numbness. Each breath burned her throat, the cold air slicing through her lungs like knives. Her soles pressed cautiously against the ice, the slick surface threatening to send her sprawling.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Elliot continued, his voice laced with curiosity. “How the human body responds to extremes. Yours, in particular, intrigues me. Does the wasteland grant you thicker blood? Stronger bones? Or are you just too stubborn to die?”
The temperature dropped further, the walls shimmering as icy tendrils began to creep across the floor, coiling like living things. Vigdis’s fingers grew stiff, her movements sluggish. She stopped, her breath coming in short, visible puffs as she scanned the room for any sign of escape.
“Ah, but we can’t make it too easy, can we?” Elliot’s tone shifted, a cruel smile audible in his voice. “Let’s add a little... incentive.”
A panel in the far wall slid open, revealing a small firepit. Its flames flickered weakly, casting faint warmth that barely reached her. Beside it, a bundle of furs lay neatly arranged, the sight mocking in its simplicity.
“There you go!” Elliot chirped. “A chance to prove your resourcefulness. Or your desperation. Will you crawl across the ice for a little comfort? Or will you freeze where you stand?”
Vigdis stared at the firepit, her lips curling into a grimace. She took a step forward, then another, her feet sliding as the ice groaned beneath her weight. The bundle of furs beckoned, but she knew better than to trust the boy’s kindness.
She stopped a few feet short of the fire, her body screaming for relief, and turned her gaze upward. “That all you’ve got, kid?” she called, her voice hoarse but defiant. “I thought you wanted to break me.”
The room seemed to grow colder, as if in response to her challenge. Elliot’s voice darkened, losing its playful edge. “Oh, don’t worry. We’re just getting started.”
Frost began to creep up her legs, clinging to her skin and biting deep. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and her hands trembled as she forced them into fists. The firepit flickered weakly, its warmth a distant taunt.
Elliot’s tone shifted again, light and analytical. “Look at her, dear observers. Such determination! But is it strength? Or just the mindless endurance of a beast clinging to life? Either way, the results are... illuminating.”
Vigdis’s knees buckled, and she caught herself on the icy floor, her palms scraping against the frozen surface. Pain shot through her fingers, but she pushed herself upright, her breaths ragged and shallow.
“You’re like cockroaches, aren’t you?” Elliot mused. “Impossible to kill, but utterly without grace. Is this the legacy of the wasteland? Resilience without refinement?”
Vigdis staggered to her feet, her vision swimming as black spots danced at the edges. The firepit sputtered and died, the bundle of furs disappearing into the wall as if they had never been there. She let out a bitter laugh, her voice hoarse and broken. “You’re a real piece of work, kid.”
The room fell silent, the air growing impossibly still. Then, with a sharp hiss, another door opened. A faint rush of warmer air spilled in, though it felt more like a cruel tease than a reprieve. Elliot’s voice returned, soft and mocking.
“Impressive, specimen. But remember—resilience is not strength. Onward, then. Let’s see what you’re really made of.”
Vigdis stumbled toward the open door, her body shivering uncontrollably. Her muscles screamed with every step, but she forced herself forward, her green eyes blazing with defiance. The cold clawed at her even as she crossed the threshold, leaving the icy hell behind.
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Jenny hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the hologram. “The... the woman in the cell.”
“Ah,” Silas said, his tone sharp with interest. “The specimen.”
Jenny winced internally but nodded. “She’s strong. She knows the wasteland better than anyone I’ve met. And I can handle her.”
Silas regarded her for a long moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken calculations. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. But understand, Genevieve—this mission is as much a test of your judgment as it is of your loyalty. Don’t disappoint me.”
Jenny clenched her fist, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I won’t.”
Silas’s smile returned, thin and razor-sharp. “Good. Doug will make the necessary arrangements for your arm. In the meantime, prepare yourself. You leave at first light.”
He leaned back slightly, his tone turning almost conversational. “Though you might want to hurry. I believe Elliot is nearing the end of his... experiments. Rarely anyone survives those.”
Jenny’s stomach tightened at his words, but Silas’s expression remained calm, as if he had just commented on the weather. “Off you go,” he added, waving her toward the door with a dismissive flick of his hand.
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Vigdis pushed herself forward, her breath still coming in shallow gasps, her skin raw and trembling from the freezing chamber. The faint rush of warmer air from beyond was deceptive, its promise of relief masking whatever fresh torment awaited her.
She stepped inside, her bare feet crunching on the gritty floor. The room was larger than the others, dimly lit and eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of unseen machinery. In the center stood a low table, its surface gleaming under the sparse light. Spread across it were tools—scalpels, clamps, syringes, and other instruments she couldn’t name but instinctively distrusted. A faint chemical smell hung in the air, sharp and sterile.
Elliot’s voice oozed through the speakers, smug and honeyed. “Ah, welcome to the grand finale, specimen. This chamber is where science and art collide. Here, we test not just the body, but the mind. Your pain, your will, your limits—all laid bare for us to see.”
Vigdis’s green eyes scanned the room, catching sight of a faint shimmer in the corners—automated drones, their lenses glinting faintly as they hovered silently above. She clenched her fists, her muscles still weak but her resolve hardening. “You’re not even trying to hide the sadism anymore, kid.”
Elliot’s laugh was bright and childlike, as though she’d told a delightful joke. “Oh, come now. Pain is just data, specimen. The most honest kind. And you...” His voice dipped, laced with cruel excitement. “You’re going to give us so much.”
A sharp hiss signaled the release of something into the air—a faint, acrid tang that burned at the back of her throat. Vigdis staggered slightly, her vision swimming as a low, rhythmic sound began to pulse through the chamber. It wasn’t mechanical; it was biological. A heartbeat. Her heartbeat, amplified and distorted, echoing through the room like a war drum.
The low table shuddered, its surface tilting upward to reveal a series of jagged obstacles—razor-edged metal, electrified panels, and what looked disturbingly like bones polished to a glassy sheen. Above it, a panel in the wall slid open, revealing a small vial glowing with faint, golden light.
“Your prize, should you reach it,” Elliot cooed. “A restorative serum. The same kind we use to heal our own. Wouldn’t you like a taste of real civilization? Or will you collapse before you even touch it?”
Vigdis’s lips pulled into a grim smile. “You’re really betting on that, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t bet,” Elliot replied lightly. “I observe. And if you fail... well, I suppose I’ll have a new specimen to dissect. Either way, the data is mine.”
The hum of the drones grew louder as the obstacles began to shift, the electrified panels sparking intermittently. The first few steps were straightforward enough—flat metal plates that vibrated faintly underfoot. But as Vigdis moved forward, the temperature began to rise again, the air thick and oppressive. She grit her teeth, focusing on each step, her body aching from the relentless strain.
A sharp jolt of electricity shot up from one of the panels, catching her off guard and sending her sprawling onto the cold floor. Pain radiated through her body, but she forced herself upright, her breaths ragged.
“Careful now,” Elliot chided, his tone sing-song. “You wouldn’t want to lose before the fun really starts.”
Vigdis pressed on, her bare feet scraping against the jagged edges of the obstacles. Blood dripped from her palms where she’d gripped a sharp edge for balance, but she ignored the sting, her eyes locked on the glowing vial ahead. The pulsing heartbeat sound grew louder, almost deafening, matching the pounding in her chest.
The final stretch was the worst—a narrow beam suspended above a pit of sparking, exposed wires. Her legs trembled as she balanced on the beam, her arms outstretched for stability. The heat, the noise, the ache in her muscles—it all blurred together into a single, suffocating force.
Her body betrayed her. A misstep sent her foot slipping off the beam, her shin scraping against the edge as she caught herself. The pain was blinding, but the alternative was worse. She pulled herself back up, her breaths coming in desperate gasps as blood trickled down her leg. Her vision wavered, darkness closing in at the edges.
And then she felt it—a flicker of warmth, deep within her chest. It wasn’t natural. It was alien, primal, and impossibly old. Her eyes flared green, the color catching the faint glow of the chamber lights as a surge of strength coursed through her veins. It wasn’t her own—it was something borrowed, familiar yet distant, a power she had felt before.
The battlefield surged back into her mind, unbidden. The clash of steel, the sting of mud and blood, and the righteous fury that had burned through her in that dream. Sir Patrick’s wrath, his determination, his final triumph before his fall. It was the same—the same pulse, the same relentless drive that had guided her blade to Sir Henry Bagenal’s chest.
Her body moved without thought, her hands gripping the edge of the beam as she propelled herself forward, step by agonizing step. Each motion was a memory, a reflection of Patrick’s battle, his defiance, his refusal to yield even as the odds closed in. The weight of his purpose, his cause, pressed against her like an unseen force, driving her onward.
The pain in her leg, the fire in her lungs, the shaking of her arms—all of it fell away, consumed by that ancient flow. It wasn’t just survival; it was vengeance. It was the unyielding cry of a warrior who had refused to let death take him quietly.
Her fingers closed around the vial as the beam gave way beneath her. The electrified floor surged up to meet her, and pain erupted through her body, sharp and unforgiving. But the vial stayed in her grasp, clutched to her chest as though it were the only thing keeping her tethered to life.
The chamber fell silent, the heartbeat sound ceasing, the echoes of Sir Patrick’s voice fading into the stillness. She lay on the ground, trembling, the memory of the dream still burning in her mind. The connection was undeniable. The strength she’d felt wasn’t hers, but his—and somehow, through the axe, through the bond they shared, it had become hers to wield.
Elliot’s voice cut through the silence, smug and clinical. “Impressive. You’ve proven... stubborn, if nothing else. But tell me, specimen—was it worth it?”
Vigdis didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her body refused to move, every muscle locked in agony. But she was alive, and she had the vial.
The door hissed open, spilling a faint breeze of cooler air into the room. With the last of her strength, Vigdis dragged herself toward it, the vial still clutched tightly in her hand. Her blood smeared the floor as she crawled, her vision blurring with each passing second.
She collapsed just beyond the threshold, her body trembling violently. The corridor beyond stretched into darkness, and for now, that was enough. She was out. She was alive.
But at what cost?
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The door to the observation room slid open, and Jenny stepped inside, the chill of the sterile air brushing against her skin. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim lighting, focusing on the figure seated in the center of the room. Elliot. He was spinning lazily in a swivel chair, his legs stretched out, one hand draped over the armrest. The multiple monitors surrounding him displayed scenes from Vigdis’s trials—each one a brutal snapshot of endurance, pain, and defiance.
“Are you... serious?” Jenny asked, her voice sharp and low, disbelief cutting through her usual restraint. “You’re really sick, you know that?”
Elliot stopped spinning, his chair creaking slightly as he leaned forward. His youthful face twisted into an exaggerated pout. “Oh, Jenny. Don’t be so dull. It’s science! And look...” He gestured dramatically to one of the monitors, where Vigdis had just collapsed beyond the threshold of the last chamber. Her body lay bloodied and trembling, her breath labored but steady. “She survived. Isn’t that... fascinating?”
Jenny’s stomach twisted. She turned away from him and headed for the door that led into the corridor beyond the chambers. She didn’t wait for Elliot’s permission—his smug commentary was already fading behind her as she stepped through.
Vigdis was exactly where the monitor had shown her, crumpled on the floor just outside the final chamber. The harsh lighting highlighted the sheen of sweat on her skin, the streaks of blood that marked her hands and legs, and the violent shivering that wracked her muscular frame. But her chest rose and fell, slow and shallow. She was alive.
Jenny scanned the area, her gaze locking onto a metal shelf nearby. A folded blanket sat atop it. She grabbed it without hesitation and knelt beside Vigdis, draping the fabric over her battered form. The woman didn’t stir, her breathing unchanged.
Her eyes fell on the vial clutched tightly in Vigdis’s bloodied hand. Golden liquid gleamed faintly under the fluorescent lights, an unsettling glow that seemed both miraculous and suspect. Jenny’s jaw tightened as she glanced back toward the observation window, half-expecting Elliot’s smug face to appear.
“This thing,” she called out sharply, her voice echoing in the sterile corridor. “It’s real, right? It won’t kill her?”
Elliot’s reply crackled through the speakers, laced with disappointment. “What’s the fun in poisoning someone who’s made it this far? No one’s ever survived this long, Jenny. It’s quite... unprecedented.”
Jenny narrowed her eyes, her fingers brushing the side of Vigdis’s face. The touch was gentle, steadying her head as she murmured, “Come on, big girl. Don’t make me do all the work here.”
No response. Vigdis’s head lolled slightly, her skin cold to the touch. Jenny sighed, uncapping the vial and positioning it carefully over Vigdis’s lips. The first drops spilled out, sliding down her cheek and pooling on the floor. Jenny cursed under her breath and adjusted the angle, trying to steady her shaking hand.
“Don’t choke,” she muttered, tipping the vial again. The liquid slipped into Vigdis’s mouth, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, finally, a faint cough broke the silence. Vigdis swallowed, her throat working as the liquid disappeared down her throat.
Jenny let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She leaned closer as Vigdis’s eyelids fluttered open, her green eyes hazy and unfocused. A weak cough escaped her, and her lips parted, as though trying to speak.
“Hey, big girl,” Jenny said softly, her voice a mixture of relief and caution. “Don’t hit me, okay? You’re alive.”
Vigdis blinked, her gaze sharpening just enough to meet Jenny’s. For a moment, her lips twitched, and Jenny thought she might actually try to smile. Instead, her head fell back against the floor, her breathing deepening as unconsciousness took her again.
Jenny sat back on her heels, her hand still resting on Vigdis’s shoulder. She glanced toward the observation window, where she could just make out Elliot’s silhouette. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing, her focus returning to the woman before her.
They weren’t out of this yet. But for now, she had done enough.