I drag myself down the dingy, tiled hallway toward Scalpel's workshop. My entire body feels hollow, like a gourd with the seeds and soupy, stringy bits scooped out. I've lost count of how many times we've met recently; I've grown adept at springing into action at the sound of her alarm. My brief nap is over. It’s time to get back to testing.
Day and night lose their meaning here. I don’t know what time it is anymore, but it hardly matters. I’m awake and somewhat rebuilt, so it’s time to keep going. Each footstep drags, as through my body is driftwood and dead weight. I'm slower than usual, as much from dread as exhaustion. Sessions with Scalpel dominate my time: a monstrous chain of grotesque connections stretching between us, each new link a cavalcade of catastrophe. Yet here I am, waiting outside the door to her workshop, just like she demands.
My breath rattles in and out of my lungs as I inhale and exhale through my nose, long and slow, trying to work up the courage to present myself for our next project. Gritting my teeth, I finally lift my hand and knock at the door, already sinking into the sea of numbness that acts as a buffer to shield me from the terror of our “work.”
The workshop door swings open soundlessly; my breath catches in my throat. Swallowing my misgivings, I step inside. Riding the crest of pluckiness, I wave at Scalpel in greeting. She doesn’t look up from her notes.
“Prompt is late,” Scalpel says in her ethereal, grating tones. All the while, she never stops writing.
I’d answer, but my jaw is still held fast with mana.
Abruptly, Scalpel snaps the notebook shut. She unfolds from her chair with her usual preternatural grace, each movement fluid and precise. There’s a deceptive languor about her most of the time, but when she moves, she’s shockingly fast.
“Looking better,” she announces, peering at me with her piercing black orbs.
My traitorous eyebrow lifts up before I can stop myself, eloquently declaring my doubt. I am skeptical that my Skill structures will ever amount to anything again, no matter how much soul surgery she performs. I don’t know the true name of her Skills and Class, but I’d like to think I’m close with my guess.
Without further fanfare, we’re both within the inner world of my core space.
I study the upgrades in grudging admiration. She is an artist, in her own terrifying way, as much as I hate to admit it. The twisted, wild shapes of my various Skills are taking on a strange sense of order. She has pared down the extraneous bits, refining and simplifying them to uncover the foundational functions. As bizarre as she is, her methods are starting to make some sense.
“Focus on your artisan Skillset today,” Scalpel commands.
My projected body nods as I drift closer to the construction zone. My Skills resemble each other more and more after Scalpel has systematically sliced away their distinctives. The pain is still scintillating each time, a bright and jagged sunburst in my mind, yet for each terrifying loss, a glimmer of hope appears.
I’m using magic again!
In order to test her hypothesis about Skills and the makeup of magic, Scalpel can’t just tear down; she has to build back up. She pumps me full of mana, delves in to research the minutiae of mana, and painstakingly recreates whatever she’s broken. I never knew such surgery was even possible. Her process is barbaric and humiliating, but I'm starting to think of it less like her stealing pieces of me, and more like she’s a crazy [Glass Smith] reshaping glass and fusing on new pieces after reheating it in the crucible.
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What will I look like when she’s done? I wonder as I survey the ever-shifting internal landscape. My innermost channels are still raw and unreliable, leaking too much mana for me to properly circulate it and claim it as my own. Even so, drawing in power from mana crystals and immediately channeling it through the Skill structures before the energy dissipates or has a chance to leak out is becoming easier with practice.
I’m looking forward to solving the mysteries bit by bit, although it’s hard to conduct any meaningful research when she won’t share her data and conclusions with me. The way I am attempting to piece together the information is like trying to assemble a puzzle while blindfolded. I could do it if my partner in crime called out directions, but she’s notorious among the other test subjects for her paranoia.
An angry shout catches my attention, ejecting me from my core space. Blinking and trying to regain my bearings, I turn in unison with Scalpel. The clatter of heavy boots presages a disturbance heading our way. A heartbeat later, a hooded man sweeps through the workshop door with all the self-assurance of a whirlwind. He stops a half step from Scalpel and unveils himself to reveal a crooked grin.
“Hello, fleshwarper.”
Scalpel flinches. Her segmented fingers flutter as an almost imperceivable expression of distress ghosts across her pale, bleached-bone face. She encircles my wrist with her many-jointed hand and locks me in place.
The man nods his head in my direction. “Unbind him. I have questions.”
She hisses in response—a frothing tea kettle of fury, boiling over. “I was promised this one. Let me be.”
“By whom?”
Her jaw clamps shut. I’ve never seen her so flustered before, and a thrill of vicious satisfaction courses through me, hot and addicting. I hope this gentleman sticks around a while.
“If you mean the [General]’s little trained monkey, then don’t get your hopes up. I’ve filed an injunction. I'll win my case, and you both know it. Don't make things difficult in the meantime.”
“Demonstrate our progress,” Scalpel demands. Her voice wavers slightly.
“No thanks. I have my own agenda,” the man replies with a wink. “Nuri, lead me to your quarters.”
I nod and scramble to oblige.
Thus it is that in the third week of my imprisonment, an elderly man with enough clout to unnerve Scalpel breaks up the endless monotony. He visits my cramped room in Scalpel’s mansion, following me as I jog in excitement. I keep glancing over my shoulder to confirm that he’s really following.
He’s short and stooped, with the distinguished silver wingtips over his temples that middle-aged men often develop as their hair fades to grey and then white. A complex map of deep wrinkles adorn his face. Yet he carries himself with absolute confidence, as though nothing can touch him—not even here.
As soon as he enters the room, a portion of his true power unfurls. My instincts scream at me to flee. It’s clear that he’s no junior officer or field agent. The strength of his presence reminds me more of Tem, although he's notch below [General] Tychicus. Nonetheless, the suffocating pressure is a clear step above Casella or the [Adjutant]. A moment later, he introduces himself and confirms my suspicions.
“Nuri Shahi? I’m [Chief Inquisitor] Xharrote. Welcome to the capital.” He smiles, but it’s a tired, thin thing, lacking warmth or friendliness. “I’m here to determine the truth of the allegations laid against you. Please note that I wish you no ill will. I am in a hurry, however.
“While you may have misled my colleagues, you cannot deceive me. Prepare yourself.”
An instant later, while my mind is still catching up with what my ears heard, he speaks his Skill aloud. The power contained in the name warps the world around me, bending it to his will. Searing fire digs into my skull as [Chief Inquisitor] Xharrote’s Skill takes hold of me. Unlike the [Adjutant], he needs no hallucinogenic to prepare my mind for infiltration. Sound distorts in my ears. My vision curdles at the edges. With a soft groan, I collapse backward onto my bed and my eyes flutter shut.