Chapter 31:

Back to the Unreal Reality

Deros had been lodged in nightmares like he’d been stuffed into a dark hole with little to see but a distorted lens far, far at the top. He screamed and clawed and tried to get out at first, but it availed him nothing but frustration. It was a disembodiment much like when he’d first transported himself, only instead he was made helpless.

When he gave up all resistance and allowed his mind to wander, to dream, he caught more and more flashes of what was happening leading up to the Gateway and the immediate aftermath. Enough to scream at the insanity that transpired, enough to be felt by that other ‘self’ that had control, that hobgoblin of twisted subconscious desires he’d fed and fed with chaos, as he realized he’d done by his ‘shunting’ trick…

It was no trick. He hadn’t saved himself nor reality by it, only doomed both. He’d created a monster out of himself and then it broke free. Took over at what it regarded as the appointed time to act in full.

But when unconscious came, as that other was expending itself to try and crush the Ordení, it seemed to flee, relinquish right then, though he was also aware of something like digging, anchoring veins into his mind, like it wasn’t entirely letting go.

His lucidity waxed and waned from there, in his own unconsciousness. He wanted to wake up, but he felt weak and near death. Nightmares of fragmented form mixed with fighting himself, mixed with memories, mixed with self-loathing and regret. He knew he was a murderer, knew he’d slaughtered those men. And women. Ironbloods. What else would he do before the end? He hoped nothing, on some level. Hoped it would just be over with.

Briefly, he was aware of being at the back of some kind of wagon, seen through blurry eyes, and from his mind he felt chaos resonating still, along with the anchors of that separate self, a sense of a distant reflection… a terrible feeling of sickness, wrongness connecting, a lack of control, and endless seeping out, a river… he tried to speak but there was a stabbing sensation in his arm, and he went back under… back to nightmares…

Somehow, his weakness tapered off, and he began to improve. The strangest sensation he ever experienced suddenly came over him, like a thick syrup coated and saturated his brain. Everything cleared then. Blessedly cleared, emptied. There was no more fighting, no more anchors, perhaps not even the seeping at all. It was just all gone. And he could truly, finally rest.

He thought that it was death, and this time it didn’t seem so bad.

From out of that comforting darkness, though, his eyes did finally open. He stared upward at a drab, stone ceiling, laying on a bed that vaguely reminded him of a Hospitaller one, but contoured and of some strange, though still pliable material. His wrists, waist, and ankles had familiar, restrictive restraints anchored to the bed, confining his movement only to slight shifts. He was utterly naked and not even covered. His body ached and was weak, and he’d clearly been sweating profusely. His head felt like it had been put through a grinder.

Of course I’m not dead. Too easy.

As his eyes shifted around, he very much got the impression it was like a Hospitaller room — a surgical room or operating theater. Metal cabinets on wheels, surgical tool tables, a washbasin and sink, varieties of vessels, a skeleton on a frame, a lamp on a hanging cord above, another array of lamps on an adjustable tripod. A large metal cylinder was also nearby, anchored into a movable, heavy-duty cart. A vat of something, he imagined.

He realized he was seeing everything clearly. Wasn’t his eye injured? That made him look at his arm and leg — no wound was visible, though they still hurt and were raw. His hand felt pins and needles as he flexed it, as did his toes when wriggled. There was something still wrong about them, but they weren’t ruined as they should’ve been.

Seeing a subtle shift down past his feet suddenly, his eyes focused on a barred doorway and two suited Ironblood guards standing nearly like statues, though their armor looked smaller and was brown. They had carbines holstered on one side, and what looked like batons on the other.

Thinking of enemies made Deros quite suddenly consider his lenseye. And he soon realized he could not ‘grasp’ it at all. It was as if it were hidden in murky tar — he couldn’t even feel it. He couldn’t summon the farsense or daug’makar, and chaos was not vomiting out on the world, either.

He was relieved on some level, though it also was a hollow feeling of profound loss. Knowing that the thirst or hunger could not be satiated. Something that would inevitably feel worse and worse. There was the consideration that maybe he’d burned himself out, but the feeling in his head was utterly queer and bizarre.

Something… disturbing within…

It worried him, to say the least. He leaned his head back and wondered what exactly would become of him in the house of his enemy.

His depressing ruminations were cut short by one of the Ironbloods unbolting the door and slipping out, at which point the other re-bolted it and stood aside.

“Hey,” Deros called hoarsely, “got any news? Can I get some wat-”

Gruffly the Ironblood cut in, “I got nothing to say to you, burnty. Shut your gutterscum noki face or I’ll shut it for you.” He then patted the handle of his baton suggestively.

Deros barked a bitter laugh at the somehow all too familiar sort of retort from his ilk. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes, suffering in pain and nausea. He hoped he wouldn’t puke, though he was pretty sure there was nothing in his empty stomach to puke.

After several minutes, there was a knock at the door and an ‘open up,’ at which point the Ironblood unbarred and opened it to admit the prior guard, then someone else after him.

A slender figure swept in on the wisk-wisk of slippered feet, arrayed in smooth white robes, elegantly folded around and around and held up by a silver clasp at one shoulder. On the other shoulder was draped a separate piece, a sizable cape, running diagonally opposite to the robe, with a black and gold rune-like pattern on the hem. In the center was the spikey circle he’d seen on the ozmentus’s cape.

He could not completely place the gender of the person thanks to the shape-obscuring, beltless robe, as they had a rather androgynous face and a short tuft of white hair… but by their diminutive size, soft delicacy of features and subtler clues of femininity he guessed they were indeed female. ‘She’ was also Ordení, with pale purple skin that was almost white.

Her eyes immediately found his, regarding him impassively but deductively with strange, white pupils with black variation, as if monochrome. “You two may leave,” she said without really looking at the guards. Her voice was flagrantly feminine, crisp, and chiming.

“But Shaper-” one of them began.

“Go,” she repeated calmly, her head turning ever so slightly and her eyes shifting downward. Though devoid of real emotion, the word and subtle movement nonetheless exuded absolute certainty and obligation of obedience.

It was well-founded, as the guard ducked his head and murmured, "Yes, oh Ordení," while diligently exiting along with his comrade, soon shutting the door behind them.

Through all of this, her eyes had returned to Deros. He returned her gaze as impassively as he could manage. There might've been a tinge of humor in her expression at that.

Instead of saying anything immediately, she turned to the shut door and latched it. That done, she called inquiringly, "How are you feeling?" as she turned back to him and began removing the unusual one-armed cloak. It came away easily, apparently from a built-in cording that was untied.

Deros watched as she exposed a bare shoulder thanks to the remaining diagonal cut of the robes. She did not seem to have any breasts to speak of that he could see, possibly literally none, somehow — something the women of Deros's culture would consider a curse. But then, pregnancy tended to correct such things unless-

Gah!

Why his mind even went to that, why he even thought about breasts, how he could possibly care about her child-bearing capabilities, he could never know. Hysteria, likely.

Annoyed with himself and the situation, his head foggy with baleful things, he spat out, "Why do you care?"

The robed woman didn't react at all to the tone, instead hung her cape on a hook by the door, twisting to look at him and answer matter-of-factly, "Because I am your healer, young warrior."

She turned fully around, folding her fingers in front of her, hanging loosely at her waist. “Your physician and surgeon, also titled a ‘doctor’ usually. You are my subject. I am a Fleshshaper — Shaper for short, as you overheard. You may call me Dr. Rosen as well. I have already operated on you while you were incapacitated. I cleared your infection, replaced blood loss, and repaired the worst of those bullet wounds.”

Her tone and cadence were something he well recognized from Hospitallers. He’d even heard Palamera practicing such diction. She continued, “The eye damage was thankfully minor, but the elbow and leg were both catastrophically damaged. I did what I could, and all should function as well as heal correctly, but sadly the extensive nerve damage is not in my area of expertise to get perfectly right. You have pins and needles sensations in the limbs, yes?”

She didn’t actually wait for him to answer to nod and continue. “Yes, and I’ve tried to schedule the only specialist available here, but I’m afraid the matter has been brushed off with him so swamped with higher priorities. The same goes for your brain issues. I cannot help at all there, and I’m not sure it’s feasible to fix. You had a seizure that interrupted your surgery, for one. You puked as I held you to the side and it passed, but I am concerned.

“Until you can be seen, if you can be seen, I will do all that I can. Which includes some touching up and re-finishing on your repairs. That you are awake is a wonderful sign that you are recovering at least and can handle the final adjustments.”

Deros took it all in with grudging interest. Brain injury... that made sense. The headache, the block, the agitation, and the out-of-sorts feeling. But whether this woman helped him or not, he felt no debt to her. He was a prisoner. A slave again, after he'd been lucky enough to escape once.

I am the greatest of fools.

Turning his head to the side, he said, "Do whatever you want, I couldn't care. I have no choice in the matter, anyway."

"True enough," she granted, and he could hear her slippers lightly click across the floor as she came around to the bedtable. "Just as I have no choice but to do my duty, looking after this body of yours."

Something in her tone made him turn his gaze back to her, now standing at his bedside and looking him over judiciously. Inspecting. This caused him to flush with embarrassment and shame from his nakedness.

When her eyes returned to his, it made it worse, and he took a breath as he dropped his head back flat and stared at the ceiling. Damn her. Damn this place. Damn that he had never had a tremendous need for experiencing the hospital himself. He was aware of how intimately Hospitallers sometimes needed to know the bodies of the infirm. It was a running joke between him and Palamera, even.

A brief uncomfortable silence persisted, then the woman said, "You have a sensitivity with nudity? I'm afraid that's not something we consider. Or is it the imbalance between? Would you prefer I also be naked — would that help with your comfort?"

Despite himself, his shock caused his head to whip around and stare at her agape. She seemed wholly serious. He felt heat on his face and fumbled for a response. "Wha- no, that- if you- why would that... that would just make it worse!"

Her expression was blank and utterly impassive. "Would it now? Understood."

Despite her lack of obvious cues, something subtle made him feel as if she were mocking him, joking at his expense, while well knowing what his response would be.

Damn her, she's probably done this to others already just to screw with us! Insufferable scum, all of them.

Frustration and anger getting the better of him again, he blurted, "You know what? I've changed my skrófing mind. I think it would help — go right ahead. Disrobe." Let her back out of her ridiculous offer!

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But Dr. Rosen simply inclined her head and said, “As you wish,” while reaching up to her shoulder to undo the clasp there and the knot of sorts it made, with one smooth but special sort of motion. When she did this the whole length of wound fabric about her body unraveled with an ease that seemed designed, falling to the floor and leaving her entirely nude.

Somewhat horrified but utterly stunned by the impropriety, Deros could not help but stare in fascination. Her pale purple body was as unblemished as her shed attire, smooth and bare of any visible body hair. Her chest was equally flat and featureless, even lacking nipples. This wispy 'lack' seemed to persist in her overall form — soft, delicate, and almost entirely lacking curvature. Androgyny with the dial turning back feminine as you went up or down.

Deros’s eyes were drawn to her navel, where the only break of smoothness resided, in a vertical row of jewels, the largest an iridescent, rainbow-like gem filling the actual cavity. Above it was a small white pearl, and below were two black ones. Her fingers came down to touch them as his eyes lingered.

"These inform of sexual matters,” she said in her clinical tones, “and interests in such settings where the navel is bared. For me, the two black pearls inform the most — they say 'no thanks' in an absolute way. It is the chosen symbology of not just the chaste, but those with altered and suppressed libidos. So, suffice to say, my nudity is not to seduce you. I could say it would be true of most in Cajhor, but in the presence of someone alluring known to consider it significant — such as yourself — well, all bets are off."

The heat of embarrassment quickly caught up to Deros as her mention of him made him self-aware again, and he turned his head away and closed his eyes. Unfortunately, the nude image was still in his head, and he could feel his own annoyingly raised heart rate.

Gods Above! These people are entirely insane. And here he was, gawking at another woman's naked body. At least, he thought she was a woman. Who could know, in a strange, alien world of altered definitions? What he did know was it shamed him immensely and he regretted his challenge. He’d screwed up again.

In a strangled voice, eyes still closed, Deros said, "What are you- why are you telling me all of this?! I don't care about your navel decor!"

Completely nonplussed, she intoned airily, "What am I?” Seizing on his first, interrupted words, which he didn’t even mean like- “A woman, I suppose.”

Her voice changed slightly, coming from lower down, as from related sounds she was probably picking up her robe and removing her slippers. He was not about to look and verify. "Sex is of relatively small importance to me, however. I chose significant reductions in exaggerated sexual characteristics, though some go to even greater lengths.

“I could not quite relinquish all femininity. This is my identity, such as it is. Those of sufficient status, and even the lucky ones not so, get to choose such things as they wish on Cajhor, such is our technological supremacy in biological matters. Power over the misfires of evolution and birth — remarkable, no?"

He didn’t bother answering. She continued, “Unfortunate that not all can be given such an opportunity, but so it goes. As to your ‘why,’ I am merely instructing you on things you need to know. Like it or not, you are stuck in our society, hmm? You will need to know as much as possible to avoid problems and pain. Quite the transition, I know. Such as seeing nudity as nothing when you find it relevant. Technically it is even an insult for you to react negatively… it’s just that the novelty will amuse most, regardless.”

Like a certain pervert in this very room, lady! I’m not buying the libido thing… Why, why did I look? Why did I say that?!

She continued, “But you can either adapt or be bent into form. If you will not be bent you will be broken. Such is life for the quarin. Trust me, the sâmqû, the peasant class, have little more to speak of. All of these things, I’d prefer you know, for the same reasons I prefer you whole physically. I am your doctor. While you are under my care, your well-being in all manners is foremost, so much as is possible under the constraints of higher orders.”

Information. He had to suppress his annoyance and think about what he could obtain from her. That she was offering freely. Among other things she seemed to be offering freely, despite her talk of- Nevermind that, damn it!

He needed to absorb as much as possible of their ways. In that sense, she was right. Though not to adapt. Depressed as he was by events, he’d never give up on freedom. Especially freedom for Palamera. That he was alive meant there was an opportunity, slim as it was.

He opened his eyes slowly to glance at the doctor. She appeared to have laid her robe over a stool and was standing next to it in her general fingers-folded stance. He did not focus his gaze anywhere but her eyes. Her eyes. "What do you know of peasants? You are obviously one of the elite and privileged."

So was I, but more balanced than this hellhole…

"The lowest variety, but true enough. Not always. I was born sâmqû and placed in certain development communes at certain ages — inevitably slated for labor churning the never-ending engine of expansion and progress, as Cajhor is re-populated far and wide according to the Central Directive of the Prime Governor, the Sectorian Premier, may he judge and execute to infinity.” She stated it rather flatly. “I did not know my real mother nor any family. By design.”

“Surely that comes with power and wealth?”

Dr. Rosen shrugged. “If you want such a thing, there is the freedom to, but I entirely squandered it. Those of my status can advance and build up a powerful career, family — empire even — but me? I never had the desire. I drowned myself in hedonism for a long period, making playthings, making myself a plaything, then grew disenchanted with it. Now I throw myself into The Art. I sought out this post when most would run from it. Because of the challenge and unique skills potentially acquired. Being able to confer with the researchers involved. I wouldn't mind being on that cutting edge."

"The cutting edge of what?"

"Study of a separately-developed sapient genome. Experimentation. Doing my part in the advancement of science."

Deros shivered. She was talking about the Hamaleen. He remembered an entry in the dictionary, about a small animal used by the ancients for such things. Not hiding his disgust, he murmured, "Laboratory rodents."

She crooked an eyebrow and nodded appreciably. "Very good. You are well-read, somehow, I think. But yes. That is a reasonable analog."

Scowling, he said, "How can you do such things to people?"

"People are animals, same as the rodent. They do to each other what they can get away with. Are you treated well? It is to an end. As I treat you for my own varieties of satisfaction, professionalism, and higher directives. Sometimes one is led to an unfortunate end, as the rat is led to the poisoned treat for study. Or the man… there is no difference."

Deros's anger bubbled up to overflowing. Overpowering, in the fog. He leaned toward her as much as he could manage, looked her in the eyes intently, and said, "Yes, there is. A world of difference. I will show it to you when I am free — I'll show you all an end, that which you deserve for your atrocities. But I will show you all the courtesy you have not to us, in proper civility.

“No torture, no slavery, just a spear through the heart — a throat cleanly sliced. When this place is burning and choked with the smoke of your dead bodies, the debt will be paid. I will not even wait for the ashes to fall before my people and I leave this vile nightmare hellscape forever. And I’ll find a way — one way or another — to ensure you never cross that threshold again. Pray it isn’t by turning your whole moon to dust."

With that he almost slammed back down with his head upright, staring at the ceiling with his blood boiling and his limbs throbbing where the wounds had been. It pained him more that he could do nothing to prove his threat, but he meant every word. If they thought he would bend or break they were gravely mistaken. He was only biding his time.

"I see," was all the infuriating doctor said, leaving a lengthy pause.

Deros just stewed and breathed in and out, keeping his eyes upward.

Eventually, Dr. Rosen queried calmly, "What is your name?"

Deros sniffed derisively. "Do you really not even know this about me? My name is well known."

"I'm afraid not. It has been a hectic few days for everyone here, especially those with trauma experience. I haven't yet investigated your full information. I also prefer not to know until certain of survival."

What is this mix of caring and dispassion? She’s abominable.

“Deros,” he snapped finally.

“Just Deros, then?”

Suppressing a bubble of agitation, he met her eyes. “Deros Îýteron.” He left out his father’s name. That was information he’d never give them. Or he’d lie.

She squinted in thought, eyes casting away. “ Îýteron… Î… ýteron… It sounds familiar…”

He studied her. Why did it matter? Did it matter why it mattered? He mentally shrugged and replied, "My star name. A star in our sky. Whichever star is at the zenith at the time of birth, as determined by the precise record given to the Observatorian, is part of my name."

"Fascinating," she said in a rare actual tone from her, of legitimate intrigue. "Yes. Îýteron, part of the old Hammer of Mastakon constellation. It is not visible from Cajhor. But I believe it would be quite so on Alantar."

“Where and what is Alantar?”

She regarded him with her brow slightly furrowed, something in her expression suggesting shock. Or possibly... sadness. "It is everyone's origin, Deros. The now lost homeworld of all Alantarians. Our species. Yours and mine."

He stared at her and he wanted to immediately deny it. Deny any similarities with aliens. But the truth was clear in the Ironbloods being so similar to Hamaleen, and all the various connecting dots and pieces of the puzzle he knew.

His people had come through that eternal gate, that practically invulnerable artifact that Founder or those after had seemingly tried to destroy or bury, for the spite of what was beyond. They only passed on what knowledge they wanted to, and left Hamellion with great ignorance of the truth. Replaced it with lies. Especially of their origin itself. And so he believed the doctor spoke the actual truth. Or something closer to it than he ever knew.

Turning his head completely away from her, Deros muttered darkly, “We are nothing alike. And never will be.”

“I see.” A long pause stretched, but finally she continued, “In any case, I need to touch up and finish my work on your body, I believe. First thing’s first…”

She picked up some sort of enclosed rectangle, then brought it over to him, opening it to reveal a mirror that he was soon looking at himself in.

Deros did not much like his reflection, now seen more perfectly than he had in a long while. His face was thinner, tanned, and darker in multiple ways. Haunted. The eyes felt like a stranger’s. And one really was different — it had been damaged by the bullet, as he recalled, and the color was faded and cloudier, the pattern changed.

Further, the scar from the bullet’s path was evident, a streak and indent at the top bridge of his nose and streaking across the eye to the other side, like a brushstroke of marring violence.

Deros’s eyes met the doctor’s perfect monochrome ones, very close, and he shook his head. “Why are you showing me this?”

With a little polite smile, holding eye contact, she replied, “I can change it easily. Cosmetics, morphological features, these are child’s play to me. I preserved scars because I didn’t know your preference. Ironbloods for instance love their scars and would be insulted to have them removed. So, would you prefer to keep it or fix it? Scars? Eye color? I can change the color in both, as well.”

Staring at her incredulously through it all, he scoffed and set his head back down, breaking her disturbing, always subtly sensual eye contact in the process. “I don’t give even one shit about that. Leave it. Another reminder.”

“As you wish.” She withdrew the mirror, closed the case-top, then returned it to a countertop.

The doctor walked up very close again, that he turned to look as her hand was reaching over to his chest. He flinched, but there was literally nothing he could do being bound in five spots. As her hand splayed out flat and cold upon him, he felt the telltale pulse through his body, like a Hospitaller would conduct, but stronger, more thorough. Sadly, he could feel virtually nothing farsensically, only the tiniest hint of the makar’osa as it touched his brain. Heavy, intricate.

“Yes,” Dr. Rosen declared, then lifted her hand and immediately turned to walk toward the cart with the vat. Deros looked away as his eyes caught her bare ass. “You’re healing well, Deros, but I can ensure those firm, strong muscles are like new, except for the likely persistent nerve issues. You’ll have to adjust there and we’ll hope for the best. It’s like fifty different tangled-up threads to me, I’m afraid.”

Deros’s eyes finally cast back her way, seeing the vat brought nearly up to the bed. Dr. Rosen put her hand on the top, which had a handle of sorts, and turned it — as soon as she did the top part popped up, and pressure released with a long hiss and a tiny puff of perhaps cooled air. As this was happening, the doctor walked over to the washbasin and doused her hands with what he was sure was antiseptic, shake-drying them before returning.

Is it because I know, or is her butt quite feminine? But he deliberately pushed such bizarre thoughts away. Idiot! Irrelevant. This is all ridiculous.

The doctor returned to the bedside, a very slight, possibly knowing grin flashing at Deros before she turned back to the vat. She began turning a knob on the front, which seemed to control a little sealed hole that opened with a slide of metal. But her other hand closed a palm over it even as it opened, pressing firmly. After a few moments, she turned the knob again, then pulled her hand away.

In her palm was what looked like a big glob of goo that soon turned into a perfect half-sphere before his eyes, by her obvious manipulation. It was red with white streaks and meat-like, like flesh just shy of liquified.

“Before you freak out too much,” Dr. Rosen offered, “no, this is not ground-up people or animals. We grow the Model Flesh — or in common parlance the pureflesh — as its own thing. It is still alive, in the most base and simple way a slowly dying yeast is, for example. It’s a great combination of raw ingredients. It will be transmuted into your flesh by my expertise.”

Despite the oddity, Deros stared at it without reaction. He’d seen plenty of guts and gore in his life as a hunter, as well as significant interest and curiosity in Palamera’s creed.

It’s nothing compared to seeing Raetmus’s inside-out hand. I’ve done worse myself, essentially.

“Some methods are perhaps better off not knowing the details of,” Deros commented. As uncomfortable as it was, he’d be a fool to inhibit his own wholeness. Regardless of how it looked, he needed it functioning.

Dr. Rosen chuckled. “Fair enough, man of the distant wastes. In fact, it’s better that I sedate you for this. You’ll awaken in a cell where you can move around some, hmm? I’ll see you again later on for the final analysis and test movements.”

Deros said nothing, just closed his eyes and waited. It wasn’t long before a hand touched his chest, and he felt a warmth pass through him, exceptionally comforting, that grew and grew until he was swallowed by it into an unconsciousness that he welcomed.

Let me reset and awaken more prepared for this madness. I have to act more logically. I’ve beaten back my foolishness before and escaped. I can do it again. And I'll find you, my love, I'll free you, I promise...