Unhealthy

Shelke sat in her bubble of security and pondered.

Bubble. It was such a casual word for her shield. Perhaps protection.  Defence.  Shelter.

But those descriptions were too empty. They did not do justice to what she was sheltering from.

Outside the sphere, Oblivion eddied and swirled in inky, never-ending darkness.

She was lucky that she had this. Even if her strength was being sapped, like a bird struggling between the teeth of a cat; even if she could still feel the faint traces of emptiness tugging at her, pulling her apart – she was lucky she had this much.  Her ability to hide from the darkness was a gift.

Safety.   Haven.   Sanctuary.

Not for much longer.

Only a small part of Shelke was idly wondering over these trivial things.  The rest of her was drained, unable to think straight. Her mind still had a lot to deal with.

That’s no excuse, she berated herself.

Rarely was she so… so slaphappy. No, that was wrong. She had not been slapped – at least, not literally.  Not physically.

And she was not happy.

She was disoriented. Yes, that word suited the feeling. Beneath the disorientation lay a complex weaving of howling despair. Quite ironic – this was the case inside her and out.

She sighed to herself and lifted her head, scanning the nothingness laid out in front of her. Behind her. Above and below her. Looking into the void, it was suffocating and bare all at once. Perhaps she would go insane. She wouldn’t be the first. So it was possible.

She wondered how long it would be. Before her sanctuary disintegrated. Before Oblivion claimed her. Before she died. Maybe it would be a relief from the howling.

No, that was a dangerous path to wander down. The thought of relief.

Well, why not? Was she not past the point of danger now?


Shelke let the nagging, persistent thoughts that were pacing the edge of her consciousness in.  Left the door wide open. It was a strange feeling – alien to her. She usually blocked off emotion when under stress. It was a combination of survival instinct and years of rigorous Deepground training.

Her first instinct was to cover her face with her hands and whimper.  With her coldly analytical mind, she had already considered this escape. But she had not considered the irrational longing that smothered her now.

She wanted to let go of her sanctuary.  Her only anchor to sanity. To life.

Not just to save time and possibly pain. Not just to make it easier.

She wanted Nero.

As soon as this desire bloomed in her mind - unhealthy, like a black rose - she threw up the walls. All such longings were banished.

Shelke felt the rising sense of terror and laughed quietly at herself. Did normal people have such difficulty embracing themselves?

Was it just Deepground? Just her? Just because she loved the darkness?

It didn’t matter.  The overwhelming desire had left behind debris. Traces. The want, the need, was still there. More cautiously, she explored deeper. It still surprised her how machine-like she was. It was just like retrieving data, only a hundred times more vivid, and a thousand times more powerful.

She wanted Nero.

That hurt.

She was surrounded by Nero.

That also hurt.

It wasn’t enough that he had ordered her death. It wasn’t enough that he had come to find her. It wasn’t enough that he had her now, trapped and lost and bleeding.

No, he had to leave her in this place that was practically his essence. Was he trying to drive her insane? Once again, possible. She thought he’d keep a small measure of mercy for her. But perhaps not. It didn’t matter. Not to him.

Stolen moments. Gone now. Insignificant.

The tears were not forthcoming. She sighed again. It was the emptiness that halted them, combined with her own strict discipline. She had never been one to show such weakness.

Maybe she would surrender. Just to feel the cold. The darkness. Maybe it wouldn’t be so torturous. Maybe those eddying swirls would feel like caresses against her skin, from a time long past.

Or maybe she was crazy. Either way.

‘What about the others?’ a slightly more rational part of her whispered. Vincent, particularly. What about the ones counting on her?

Well, what about them? She was going to be obliterated either way. They wouldn’t be happy if she simply gave up, true.  But would they ever know?

The longing choked her violently, but she persisted. It was the principle involved, she reflected sadly. She would know the truth. Well, not exactly, since she would cease to be.

Could she simply give up? Could she lose it all?

The shock, the disbelief, the horror in that small, longing part of herself when she discovered the betrayal had almost been too much to bear. No amount of locking it away and hiding from it could make her forget. How could he? How? She wouldn’t.

Clearly, though, that wasn’t her decision.

Her disturbing revelations were interrupted by a sharp cracking noise.  She glanced up.

Her sanctuary was disintegrating. Finally, her strength was faded. She was going to fall into the darkness.

She tried to fight back the perverse pleasure at the thought that it was no longer her choice to make. Her own destruction should not cause her happiness. It was wrong.

But he was so close…

“So this is… the end,” she whispered to herself. These would be the only words over her grave. Her epitaph. Strange that she would be the one to speak them.

It was close now. She could taste it. Taste him.

And then…

The unmistakeable sound of footsteps, echoing, impossible and heartbreaking.