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Suddenly Memories: Celtic
By Dac
In the darkness beneath the city lurked a man even superhumans feared.
Rumours and exaggerated stories spread from mouth to mouth, travelling across the city and then the country, rumours of a man so horrible and monstrous that the stories were exaggerated in the other direction, softening the blow of what he was to be more credible. Even the most gullible of listeners found the idea of the man hard to swallow. Such a person could not possibly exist, someone like that belonged in horror stories and nightmares. The words “he isn’t real” were passed around even more than the tales of what he did. But he was real. The stories of his misdeeds were horrible and incredible, yes, but above all they were true. There was one comfort in the minds of those who knew he existed, and one comfort only: he was kept in the darkness.
He was kept there. He did not keep others there. He was kept there.
An old prison, long since closed down and demolished was one of the buildings forming the foundation of the city. As the city expanded and buildings went up everywhere, the remains of the prison were built over, and it was discovered that some subterranean cells had not been obliterated. At first they were ignored, the expenditure to get rid of them too much.
Then he came.
Though it made national news, people still did not believe the story. Many considered it a hoax, unnerved by what they saw. For a long time it was dismissed, accepted and dismissed again. People found themselves unsure what to believe, but the truth was there was a man, and he was captured, his terrors ended, and he was locked in the darkness. The old cells were found to be useful. Deep beneath one of the towers, he was thrown, and with the exception of a small team of guards, the people of the world found it easier to choose he did not exist.
For those guards, though, the nightmare continued. They had to feed him. Tend to him. Treat him as a prisoner.
They had to talk to him.
The guards were all veterans. They had served in maximum security prisons across the country. They thought they had seen the worst humanity had to offer in all their years, thought they were inured to it, thought that life’s horrors could not throw anything at them that they had not seen before, that they were not prepared for.
Within days, every one of them was afraid of the monster beneath their feet.
***
Holroyd descended the stairs slowly. In his arms he carried a tray with their prisoner’s usual breakfast, a couple of slices of toast, already neatly buttered, a mug of tea and two eggs. Nothing lavish for him. Too much was expended in keeping him away from the rest of the world. Behind Holroyd, Longworth was holding a handgun and Cawley the tranquiliser. They knew the routine, had performed it every day for months, but they never got used to coming down here. Not when they knew the spider lurking in the darkness. Already they could picture him, the same way he would stand there as they opened the door, the salivating, patient sadism boiling in every syllable he uttered, the way he held his head so his eyes flickered with amused malice as they approached.
They reached the bottom of the stairs. Longworth pulled out the keys and unlocked three deadbolts on the door. Cawley pressed a button on the security console and the other three disengaged electronically. Longworth pulled the door open, and the three of them stepped inside.
The cell did not have bars. Instead he was held back by a partition wall of thick plexiglass, dotted with cylindrical holes to allow airflow. There was a single light in his cell, out of his reach even if he stood on the toilet, and made of the same toughened plexiglass. The only other feature was his bed, little more than a mattress, blanket and a pillow on the floor. If he wanted anything to occupy his time he had to ask when they delivered his meals or cleaned his cell. More often than not he was denied. The guards refused to respond if they could.
“Good morning.”
They all inhaled sharply, trying not to show it. His voice was rusty with disuse. They hated that voice, the way it wriggled into their ears like manic earthworms flailing to escape the fisherman’s hook. He never once raised his voice, but the sound of it set their eardrums aflame and their spines ran with ice. The guards tried not to look at him.
“You’re ignoring me again,” he said softly.
Holroyd forced himself to look at the man, and tried not to flinch at the sight that awaited him, though he knew what he would see. The sight never got any easier.
He was perfectly ordinary.
Of an average height and build, he was not a huge, hulking monster with slobbering jowls, nor a diminutive, twitching freak. He was calm, composed, his hair neatly combed. Even his grey clothes, a cheap parody of a prison outfit, was neat and unscuffed. He was smiling politely, his arms held at his side, but the eyes held all the horror. Shadows pooled beneath them, shadows unaffected by the light of malevolence dancing in the white of his eyes. The guards did not believe in evil, so to speak, but those eyes made them think twice.
“You know the drill, Celtic,” said Holroyd. “Step to the back of the cell and I’ll slide this through. Come any closer and Cawley hits you with the trank.”
“Yes, yes,” said Celtic, stepping backwards slowly. “Very tedious. You could try to mix things up a bit. Do you have any M&Ms for me? I keep asking and all I get are those confused glances.”
They ignored the latter note, as he had come to expect. He continued his painfully slow walk backwards, pausing with each step, his smile never wavering. He was still only halfway to the rear of his tiny cell when he halted. Cawley stepped forward, pointing the barrel of the tranquiliser through one of the air holes.
“Keep going, Celtic,” he said. “Don’t stop.”
“But I want to talk,” said Celtic pleasantly. “You’re all very rude, you know. None of you will talk with me. You all ignore me. If I step backwards, you’ll give me the food. Your task will be done, and you’ll all walk out of here twice as fast as you walked in, pale and clammy, relieved that you don’t have to see me again until tomorrow. Let the afternoon and night shifts deal with me, and ignore me the same way. It gets very boring down here. I have no one to talk to.”
The guards all refused to meet his gaze, looking pointedly at his abdomen or his feet whenever they addressed him. It was Longworth who spoke first, forcing the words out when he’d much rather use the weapon in his hand and end it all.
“You get visitors all the time,” he said flatly.
“I get psychologists,” scoffed Celtic. “Egotistical educated types who want to make a name for themselves evaluating the monster. All of whom tend to leave after shitting themselves and never returning. It’s not the same. You are my guards. You are the only ones who know me, really know me. I really wish we could be friends, if you would let me.”
The guards said nothing, waiting tensely for him to step back. He didn’t, but nor did he make any movement forward. Cawley kept his hand on the trigger, ready to hit him with a dart if he stepped forward, but Celtic was smarter than that.
“You make this very hard,” said Celtic. “I hope you remember that when I’m out of here. I will come up there. It’s the only place I can go. When I come up, I will kill all of you. You know that. The pain you feel will be delicious to me. I will savour killing each of you, one at a time, and you will all be unable to stop me.”
The guards rolled their eyes. They’d heard it all before. They exchanged disdainful glances, but Holroyd had a strange impulse. He was afraid of Celtic, but not what happened if he escaped. He had no fear of that. The security measures in place to contain him were extreme. The impulse had been dormant in the back of his mind for weeks, and today it finally bubbled to the surface.
“If,” he said.
Celtic cocked his head, surprised that he had responded. He, too, knew the routines as well as the guards, and he was genuinely not expecting anyone to respond to his idle threats. “What was that, James?” he asked conversationally. “If what, exactly?”
“If you get out,” said Holroyd, still looking at Celtic’s thin leather shoes.
Celtic’s smile broadened. He felt invigorated, close to ecstatic even, that one of the guards had finally deigned to answer back. He almost couldn’t believe that it had happened, so used was he to the chilly silence that met his words so frequently.
“If, you say,” smiled Celtic. “I don’t think ‘if’, James. I think ‘when’. I can get out. I will get out. You know as well as I do, you can’t keep me here forever.”
“Then why don’t you escape?” asked Holroyd, feeling strangely bold. The other two were unable to hide their astonishment, staring at him incredulously as he went on. “Break out. Kill us. If you can, why haven’t you yet?”
“Oh, but that would be telling,” said Celtic. Abruptly he was at the glass, staring straight at Holroyd. Cawley cried out and dropped the gun, but Celtic smiled witheringly at him as he bent to pick it up.
“Oh, calm down, Brian,” he said. “I’m not leaving yet. That’s your problem, you know. You’re just so panicky. I don’t like that. It’s unbecoming of someone in your position. You don’t act professionally. You always put more darts in me than you need to, when you shoot me. I counted the puncture marks in my neck the other day, didn’t I tell you? You want so badly to overdose me with tranquilisers that I die, but you need it to look like an accident so you aren’t reprimanded, and that’s your problem. You’re a coward. You can’t just do it anyway and accept the consequences. I’ll kill you for that. You’ll die knowing you tried so often to kill me, but failed because you didn’t want to bear the blame.”
Cawley was frozen in place, the gun in hand but not aimed at Celtic. He stared in amazement, but Celtic swung his flickering eyes to Holroyd as though bored with Cawley. Holroyd took an involuntary step backwards.
“You, James, you have some measure of courage, which people could call stupidity,” continued Celtic. “You taunt me. That takes some courage your colleagues lack, but then, when it’s the courage to taunt a caged man, that’s not saying much. Would you have the guts to taunt me if I was out there with you? Well, don’t worry. You’ll get your chance. I’ll kill you for your arrogance, you can be sure of that.”
Celtic turned again, this time to Longworth, who was at the rear of the group and ready to run for the door. Longworth flinched as the eyes bored holes into him hungrily. The others held their breath.
“And you, Michael...” he said, pausing as though to consider what to say. “Well, I just plain don’t like you. That’s what I’ll kill you for.”
Slowly, he walked backwards to the rear of the cell and leaned against the hard brick, smiling wickedly at his captors. All three of them were white and wide-eyed. Celtic felt overjoyed. He had wanted so long for one of them to give him the chance to spit words at them. Words were nothing but wind, but his had more power than a runaway train over his guards. Just a few small sentences had fossilised the lot of them. He relaxed. That had felt good. Now they could leave. Let them delude themselves a little longer, take them take comfort in the false belief that they had control over him. He could see them now, lying in bed impotent next to their wives as his words whirled around in their heads, haunting them until their dying days, growing ever closer.
“My breakfast,” he said. “I believe that’s what you came to give me.”
The three of them visibly shook as they fell back into the routine. He said nothing and did not move as they went about their task, and he could see they were grateful to him, their malign tormentor, just for the respite in his verbal attacks, even if they didn’t realise it. He smiled. It wouldn’t be long now. The three guards turned and walked back towards the door at a quicker pace than before. As they reached it, Holroyd turned to him, still sweating, but able to summon one last lame retort.
“You can’t get out,” he sneered. “You’ll rot in there until you die.”
“Oh really?” grinned Celtic. “Think for a minute. Everyone is afraid of me. Even superhumans are afraid of me. People with ability to level mountains and drain sees wet their beds when they have nightmares about me. Think why that might be, and then tell me what I say is impossible.”
Holroyd scowled, his face white as a sheet, and slammed the door. Celtic laughed in delight, and the sound echoed around his cell.
***
Celtic stood up instinctively as the door unlocked, and immediately his mind spun in circles. He had no clock, and his light spent 15 hours a day darkened, leaving him in constant shadow, but he had learned to time his meals, the brief visitation of his guards. The supply of useless psychiatrists had long since dried up, after one too many had been scared off by his unrelenting incisive attacks. He had a visitor, but who or why, he couldn’t begin to guess.
Two guards from the afternoon shift walked in. He knew their names. None of the guards had ever introduced themselves to him, but he had picked up their names anyway. He knew how to be observant. McKay and Thompson, he told himself. McKay was bad at keeping focused. Anything out of the ordinary tended to distract him. He was easy to manipulative, one of the easiest. Thompson was more grounded, and guarded himself carefully, but was the youngest of the guards and hopelessly gullible and naive. Their names and weaknesses came instantly to Celtic, who stood calmly as Thompson approached with a folding chair. McKay waited at the back of the room, unwilling to get closer than he had to. Celtic ignored him and focused on Thompson.
“Do I have a visitor, Sam?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Thompson. “He’s coming down now.”
“Wonderful,” said Celtic happily. He was, in his cruel way, fond of Thompson. He was no less afraid of Celtic than the rest, but his naďveté led him to speak to Celtic occasionally, in more than the forced, clipped dialogue the rest spoke with, and none of the condescending arrogance Holroyd and Sandell displayed. “May I ask who he is? Does he have M&Ms for me?”
“He’s a politician,” replied Thompson. “Do you prefer that to a shrink?”
Celtic hadn’t expected that. The surprise he showed on his face was minimal, but genuine as it came. He allowed the guards to see his emotions, just enough to remind them he was capable of it. It helped keep them unnerved; if they thought he was emotionally dead he’d be too inhuman for them. He’d be less than human, and little more than a rabid dog, not something to be feared. He had to keep them afraid.
“A politician?” he said. “Interesting. Is he staying long?”
“As long as he needs,” replied Thompson warily, sizing Celtic up. “We’ll be outside. He’ll yell if he needs us.”
“Of course he will,” smiled Celtic. “Sam, be honest with me. You enjoy this, don’t you?”
Thompson regarded him like a spider on the wall, something he shouldn’t bait, but Celtic knew him too well. He had a young man’s reckless curiosity, an impulse to see if the danger he’d heard of was real or exaggerated. He couldn’t resist the challenge.
“It’s work,” he said. “Good work.”
“Slaving in a cubicle is good work,” snorted Celtic. “You get paid better doing that too, I don’t doubt. No, you enjoy this. You enjoy having the power, don’t you? The power to keep something so much stronger in the dark, having dominance over something with abilities such as mine, don’t you? Don’t feel bad, Sam. If I were you, I’d love that dominance too. Holding something like that in my palm and crushing it with my fingers whenever I wanted. Keeping that power in the dark, having power over the power. I’d love that. I don’t blame you for that.”
Thompson said nothing, staring at him. Celtic’s eyes narrowed and his smiled twisted. He saw Thompson’s cheek pulled back, the beginning of a tiny smile of his own. A tiny ship, hopeful it might endure the storm. Celtic felt the delight broil in him, and determined to wreck that ship.
“Oh, don’t be mistaken,” he said. “I’ll still kill you. But not for that.”
Simple words, he thought, but effective. Thompson jerked as though he’d been shot, and without another word he retreated to the door. McKay joined him and they both hastily stepped out, leaving the dark, gaping mouth empty. Celtic fixed his eyes upon it, waiting for his guest. He counted the seconds eagerly, wondering what fresh challenges might be offered. An idealistic young opponent, easily malleable and quickly broken, or an old hardened veteran ready to throw the book at him, curse his monstrous soul and damn him to hell? He trembled with excitement as the prospects came to him with each passing moment. More and more possibilities flooded his mind, and he savoured all of them when his visitor walked calmly through the door.
Celtic halted. There was something about this man.
There was nothing remarkable about him at first glance. He was not tall, nor short, nor fat nor skinny. He had a dull black suit and a pair of sunglasses. He carried no files or notepads or anything with him, and his dark hair was brushed sensibly. There was nothing at all notable at him, but Celtic felt an inexorable pull towards him. His senses were ignited. There was something about him that piqued Celtic’s curiosity. He couldn’t tell if it was the way the man moved, the ease at which he kept calm at the sight of the caged monster, or perhaps even his average appearance. Celtic himself was physically nothing extraordinary either, he reminded himself. It was part of his mystique.
The man sat down in the chair and looked calmly at Celtic, removing his sunglasses. Celtic nodded politely.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Nice of you to come. Do you have any M&Ms?”
“Sorry, I don’t,” smiled the man. Celtic liked him already. His confidence was not forced or begrudging. He didn’t fear Celtic at all. Celtic could recognise fear as much as he could pain, and this man was devoid of it. He quivered with fascination.
“Don’t stand up on my account,” said the man. “Please, sit.”
“I don’t have a chair,” replied Celtic. “They keep refusing to give me one.”
“That’s disappointing. I won’t be offended if you sit on your bed, though.”
“No thank you. I’d prefer to stand.”
“If you say so,” said the man, sizing him up. His eyes raked over Celtic’s body, in an almost penetrative manner. Celtic wondered how that was supposed to feel, unable to register anything more than surprise at such close attention. “So you are the man even the superhumans fear.”
“I am,” replied Celtic pleasantly. “And you are...uh...sorry, I have no idea who you are. I don’t have a TV and the guards didn’t give me your name.”
“Call me Matthew,” said the man swiftly and calmly.
“That’s not your real name.”
“No, it’s not,” admitted the man without a hint of secrecy or shame. “But as long as you’re confined and isolated from the world, what does my name matter? I’ll return aboveground and leave you in here, where my name has no relevance. Down here, my name is whatever I say it is, and no one can correct me. Is your name Celtic up above? Or is it just Celtic down here? Is it what the guards decided to call you?”
“No,” said Celtic testily. “Celtic is my name. I see no reason to hide that fact, above or below.”
“That’s legit,” said Matthew. “But I’m sure you can respect my decision. I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to be called Matthew, and since it doesn’t matter here...”
“Say no more,” said Celtic easily. “I can call you Matthew down here. But when I get to the surface, will you tell me your real name then?”
The man did not hesitate for a moment. His smile came naturally, a genuine smile, and Celtic cocked his head in surprise as Matthew spoke. “Certainly,” he said, and left it at that.
Celtic let the silence drag on long enough to get uncomfortable, if indeed his guest was capable of feeling discomfort, before he spoke again. “You don’t think I won’t make it out?” he asked, unable to help himself.
“I know a lot about superhumans,” Matthew replied. “A lot. I’ve dealt with many in my time, and I know when to trust their instincts and their beliefs. I’ve run into a lot of them, and when every single one of them says your name in hushed whispers, like their own bogeyman, I know that you’re not going to be contained here forever. Someone that inspires fear like you do can’t be held captive.”
Celtic’s eyes narrowed and he traced the line of his mouth with his finger. “Are you appealing to my ego, sir? If you are, don’t bother. I don’t have one. I know my abilities, I know my limitations, and I know my desires. That’s all I need. Ego has nothing to do with it.”
“The same for me,” replied Matthew. “I have no interest in ego. It’s like my name. Down here it has no relevance, correct.”
Celtic smiled. “You’re a smart man. Is that why you’ve come down here? To see the monster the superhumans tell their kids about over the campfire?”
Matthew reclined calmly and stretched his arms. “Yeah, basically. Actually, no, not basically. That’s exactly it. I’ve heard so much about you that I wanted to see you myself. I have the authority to do that, so here I am.”
“Here you are,” replied Celtic. “And here I am. Aren’t we quite the pair?”
Matthew chuckled. “Indeed. Me, a rising star in this country’s politics, and you, its greatest monster, holding the world record for the single largest mass-slaughter at one man’s hands.”
“Are you about to tell me that we’re not so different?” asked Celtic dryly. “I haven’t seen a movie in months but I remember that old line.”
“Actually, I was going to spare you that one,” said Matthew. “I was hoping you might indulge me. I’m curious about you. As I said, I hear your story so often, I wanted to see it in the flesh. Someone like you gets brought down purely by bullets?”
Celtic heard the disbelief masked in there, but didn’t feel stung by it. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have believed it either. “I have my limitations, just like any man,” he said. “And to be fair, it was twelve bullets across my, ah, abdomen. No one was more surprised than me that I didn’t die on the spot, and when that didn’t happen I thought they’d let me bleed out. Thank god the paramedics still have impartial integrity.”
“That still comes up in my political circles,” said Matthew. “The only reason you haven’t gotten the death penalty is because no one wants to think what will happen if it doesn’t work. I didn’t believe the twelve bullet thing until you said it yourself. Can I see the scars?”
Celtic shrugged and unbuttoned his shirt. Opening it, he pointed out each of the punctures where the submachine gun had ripped through him, from his left hip up to his right shoulder.
“Impressive,” said Matthew. “The stories you hear.”
“I don’t,” said Celtic, doing his shirt back up. “The guards don’t talk to me much down here, and the only other people I’ve spoken with are psychologists who try to profile me. The only stories they like to tell me are the ones about me.”
“Typical,” snorted Matthew. “I have no time for psychologists.”
“Good to know.”
“So given the severity of your crime,” Matthew went on. “The monster they know on the surface...oh, they never released your name to the public, I should point out...the monster up there has a lot of enemies. People who want you dead. You’re one of the most reviled people in history. Have you ever wondered why they never killed you?”
“They’ve tried,” grinned Celtic. “The guards have tried, but it doesn’t take.”
Matthew frowned, looking suspicious. “What does that mean?”
Celtic looked past him at the door. He knew they never bothered to put in a microphone under their surveillance camera, so they couldn’t hear him in the control stations, but he wouldn’t put it past the guards to listen at the door. He beckoned Matthew forward. Matthew didn’t pause. He stood and walked towards the glass, directly in front of Celtic. Celtic leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke softly.
“They can’t,” he said. “Subconsciously. Oh, they want to, and some of them do try, but a mixture of cowardice and righteousness stops them. They’re afraid of me, afraid of what might happen if I die on their watch, afraid of my anger if they try and fail. But more than that, they want me to suffer. They think I haven’t been punished enough, and death puts an end to whatever punishment they think I’m enduring.”
He stood up straight and smiled triumphantly. Matthew stared at him, not sure what to say. Celtic did not mind the stare. It felt good to be stared at after so long of guards looking away from him. Let the man stare. He was enjoying this.
“I’ve killed humans and superhumans alike,” he said. “I’m a danger to everyone. I can’t suffer enough, not to them.”
Matthew slowly stepped back to his seat and sat down. He entwined his fingers in front of his face and watched Celtic closely. For a long time he didn’t talk, but Celtic had gotten the measure of him. There was one question still in the men, seething like albumen from a cracked shell. He was nearly radiating it. The big question, the one at the core of all his visitors, the one he had expected from the start.
“You may as well ask,” he prompted. “I know you’re waiting.”
“Ask what?” said Matthew innocently. Celtic smiled just as innocently, not fooled for a moment.
“Those simple words,” he said. “‘What are you?’”
Matthew said nothing. His face was carefully blank, but Celtic could see the truth as clear as day hidden under his features. In a way he was disappointed, even though he had expected it. He had hoped that once, just once, his visitor might be interested in more than what he was. This clever, insightful human could have been that visitor, had all the potential to be, but as interesting as he was – Celtic still felt inexplicably intrigued by him – he was just like the rest. He wanted to know what made him tick.
“Let’s cross off the basics,” said Celtic briskly. “The Human Mind 101: Understanding What Makes Us Who We Are. Me, I didn’t suffer a traumatic childhood. I wasn’t pushed over the edge by some midlife crisis. No, no, nothing like that.”
Matthew laughed. For the first time, Celtic felt slightly irritated, but continued on anyway.
“Losing my job? Oh, no, not that. Family member died? Nope, not that either. A burning need for revenge upon the world? No, not at all. Let me think...have I missed anything?”
He didn’t expect Matthew to respond, but he did. “I have one,” he said. “One that gets around quite a lot, especially among the superhumans. Have you heard this one?”
Celtic’s eyes narrowed. “Which?”
Matthew hunched over his chair, his eyes hungry. “I’ve heard that it’s because of your powers,” he said. “They say you got drunk with the power and went on a rampage.”
“Is that what they say?” said Celtic. He did not smile. He had considered that one before, and thinking about it, it was a logical assumption, but he had long since dismissed it as far more ludicrous than the rest. “People will rationalise anything,” he had muttered. “No, Matthew. Not that. The weapon doesn’t make the man, that’s the first thing everyone should learn. My powers didn’t make me what I am. You want to know what made me into what you see? The greatest monster of the world?”
Matthew’s smile flickered. He looked reluctant to speak, as though uncertain the answer was something even he, brave and unafraid as he was, didn’t want to hear. He complacently nodded instead, slowly and carefully.
“Simple,” said Celtic. His smile returned, all teeth. “Nothing.”
The silence was longer this time. Matthew waited, his mouth slightly open and his eyes curious, but Celtic folded his arms and held himself straight. It took several moments for Matthew to begin to stir, confused, but Celtic seized his moment just as Matthew’s footing was unsure.
“Nothing,” he said softly. “I am a murderer without motives, and my passions don’t have names. There is no diseased origin, no start of proverbial darkness. No history. No catalyst. I simply am. I torture and kill. It’s what I enjoy doing. Some people enjoy playing basketball. Others enjoy cooking. I enjoy causing pain. That is what I am, Matthew. That is all I am.”
He fell silent and stared smiling, unblinking, at Matthew, and as he did it was his turn to be astonished at what he saw. He had walked the path of fear, seen it lain out before him as he slaughtered so many people, including a dozen superhumans foolish enough to try and stop him. He had seen the explosive, absolute pain in their eyes, the fear that pain bred in their minds, as he silenced them. Simply being in his presence chilled people.
Matthew was not even pale.
He stood up and smiled calmly. He walked easily towards the cell again and pressed one hand against the glass. Celtic looked at it, then back at his face. There was no fear. Even as he stared into Matthew’s eyes, he was startled to realise something else, something so very against the nature he had just professed.
He had no desire to inflict pain on him.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had come across someone he didn’t want to inflict pain upon. The sensation was bizarre, like liquid nitrogen spreading through his veins and choking his body. He stood deathly still as Matthew smiled at him.
“You’ve been honest,” said Matthew. “I should be too. You don’t have motives, and you’re honest about that. You’re directionless, you’re not focusing your desire. That’s why you’re down here, playing with your food instead of eating it. You could decimate your guards easily, the cell wall here can’t stop your power, but you don’t. You let the charade go on. But you want it to stop. I can see that. You want something new. You want to kill again. I can see that.”
He leaned close and spoke under his breath, so softly even Celtic’s finely-attuned hearing could barely pick it up.
“You’ll get it.”
Matthew turned and walked towards the door. He gathered up the chair as he went and knocked on the door. The familiar unlocking sounds clattered around the room with a dreadful normalcy to them, a routine sound for a routine task. The sound abruptly angered Celtic in a way it never had before, and he pressed his palms against the glass as Matthew walked out, not even pausing to wave. The door crashed shut behind him, and the lights went dark. Plunged into darkness, Celtic felt rage burn through him, an anger he hadn’t felt since before his capture, or his killing spree, or even his arrival in this world. He couldn’t tell why he was so furious, but he was. Matthew’s abrupt departure and cryptic closing remarks awakened something in him, something fierce, and it didn’t calm for a long time.
***
The door unlocked. The lights went on above his head, but Celtic did not sit up. He had abandoned his habits of taunting the guards. He didn’t know how many days it had been since Matthew had visited him, but his mood had turned sullen, disappointed with himself for feeling so frustrated and with Matthew for his departure. He no longer rose to taunt the guards, nor did he care if they still feared him. He suspected they didn’t. He could imagine the rumours among them now. The politician had rattled him, they’d be saying. He couldn’t bring himself to sneer any more. The politician with the silver tongue had gotten under his skin, they’d be saying, and robbed him of his fire. Celtic spent days struggling to care when he heard a new sound, unfamiliar to him, but closer. For a moment he barely processed it, but looked up in confusion when it sank in.
His cell door was open.
He sat up in wary surprise, his eyes barely slits as he stared out into the room beyond his cell. It wasn’t just one shift of guards waiting for him. They were all there. Holroyd, Longworth, Cawley, Thompson, McKay, Baker, Coleman, McIntyre and Sandell. The names came flooding back to him, and a moment later their weaknesses that he had spent so long cataloguing. Arrogant. Indecisive. Cowardly. Naive. Distractible. Egotistical. Uninterested. Depressive. Stupid. All of them condensed to their key personality traits, lit like neon signs above their heads, as he stared at them. He masked his confusion and stood up as he used to. Several of them had guns on him. Sandell had a pair of handcuffs at the ready, and Celtic walked slowly, cautiously, towards him.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?” he asked pleasantly.
“You’re not our problem any more,” growled Sandell, locking his wrists behind his back with a snap. Celtic had to laugh.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said. “Shall we? I think I was unconscious on the trip down. I’ve always wanted to see how I got here.”
They led him through the door, and he felt his old self again. He threw out passive insults at them, pleasantly mocked them, and feigned delighted curiosity at every security measure they came across. The huge flight of stairs, the elevator ride and the three inner security rooms before they reached the standard basement of the building above. All the while he kept his eyes constantly moving, watching them get steadily clammier the more they dealt with him, and the less comfortable they got. As they travelled, a suspicion built in the back of his mind, and when they finally reached their destination, it was confirmed.
Matthew stood waiting for him. At his side were a pair of men with unpleasant looks. One was a lanky man with a manic grin splitting his face in half, the other a stocky man sitting on a desk. The guards filed into the room behind him, while Matthew walked towards him and lay a hand on his shoulder.
“Good to see you again,” said Matthew quietly. He indicated the guards back off and led Celtic over towards the other two men, but stopping short before they reached them. He kept his voice low so only Celtic could hear. “You’ve been down there too long. You’re getting tired. I’ve gone through every tape of your surveillance. You were getting complacent down there.”
“That happens,” said Celtic thinly. “You’ve been waiting a while to pitch this to me, I can tell. You don’t have to try to impress me, just getting me out has done that. Say what you want to say.”
Matthew smiled. Celtic had to hand it to him, he was handling himself well. He was prepared for anything Celtic could say. He glanced at the other two. He could tell from the casual postures they were superhumans. They’d take him down in an instant if he did anything Matthew didn’t like, but Matthew had judged him earlier and knew him already. Celtic was being read like a book, but for this manipulative bastard, he realised he didn’t mind.
“Fair enough,” said Matthew. “There’s no one in this world better and more prepared for dirty work than you. As it happens, there’s a lot of that which needs to be done, and it’s fallen to me and my people to do it. I want you to help me out. You work for me, my own personal monster, performing your activities on the people I tell you to. How does that sound?”
Celtic felt a small reluctance, but it was being heavily outweighed by his desire to act again. Now that he was out of the cell, he felt like he had stagnated, and the weight of it was crushing him. He wanted to act.
Even so, he couldn’t make this too easy. “How will you convince your voters to accept this?”
“None of them will know you,” Matthew assured him. “I told you before your name was never released. That’s because I suppressed it. I’ve also spent a long time systematically obliterating any footage of your attack that shows your face. The public won’t know who you are. No link will exist between your past deeds and your future ones.”
Celtic fought the urge to laugh. He should have guessed it. There was a lot to this wily, slippery man, more than even he, excellent judge of character that he was, could ever have guessed. He idly wondered how long Matthew had been planning this before he asked the next question, which seemed more formality by this point. “What’s in it for me?”
Matthew chuckled. “Why, Celtic. You get to kill a lot of people and torture even more. How does that sound?”
Celtic’s eyes danced. He quivered with excitement, but kept the movement under control. He was ready to snap at the bait, but he was so exhilarated he couldn’t help himself. He had to spar a bit more. Test his new friend’s good humour.
“Three more things,” he said quietly. Matthew leaned in obediently as Celtic whispered in his ear. “First I want a cape.”
“Heh,” grinned Matthew. “Everyone wants a cape. Done.”
“Second, I want M&Ms,” said Celtic hungrily. “I miss M&Ms. All that time down there on bread and water and whatever other garbage they were generous enough to pass down to me? M&Ms, and lots of them.”
Matthew’s eyes flicked uncertainly, but his smile didn’t waver. “Sure. And the third thing?”
Celtic stood up and inhaled deeply. On the other side of the room, the guards seemed to ripple with discomfort. His gaze flicked towards them for a second, only a second, but Matthew caught the movement. He gave a tiny nod, and in that moment Celtic was his. His grin seemed to light up like a firework and he turned bodily towards the nine assembled guards.
“Hey boys,” he called. They all started, as though shocked he was still there, having apparently hoped he had forgotten them. He ignored the movement and walked slowly over to them. Those who had weapons raised them uncertainly, looking to each other for support. None of them were sure what to make of him.
“Hold it, Celtic,” said one. Celtic didn’t see which, nor did he care. He was free of them now.
“No,” he said flatly. That got their attention. The guns levelled at his chest. He smiled sweetly. “Oh, boys, that didn’t stop me before. Don’t be like that. I just want to say goodbye. I’m going now, and I’ll never see you again. I’d hate for you to think our time together meant nothing to me.”
“Just get the fuck out, freak,” growled someone. Celtic still couldn’t see who spoke. He felt a slight pang of curiosity. He couldn’t seem to distinguish between them. Their faces were gone. Their names were gone. He couldn’t remember any of them. All he could bring to mind were his own words.
“I made you all promises,” he said. “I promised something when I was locked up. I have to keep my promises.”
They paused, but his face cracked into a psychotic smirk. They all breathed erratically, not sure what was going on. His eyes wildly flew between them all, nine indistinguishable men without recognisable features. He used to tell them apart by their weaknesses, but that was all for nothing now. Their names and weaknesses were lost. He was free now. They were all one person with one weakness, and that weakness was simply living.
He soon put a stop to that.
The room echoed with their screams as they fell to the ground as one, clawing at their foreheads as they all scrabbled around helplessly, the pain searing across their frontal lobes far worse than anything they had ever known. One of them put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger before Celtic could focus on him long enough to stop him. He immediately paralysed all the rest who held guns, so they clattered to the floor. One had ended his suffering early. The rest wouldn’t get off so easily. Celtic strolled among them, kicking them as he went, seizing the keys to his cuffs and laughing as one, delirious with pain, unlocked them in the hope it would gain him a reprieve. It didn’t, but Celtic had to laugh at the gesture. Just as before, he paralysed them with pain from his power, but he still found nothing more fun that getting his hands dirty, in more ways than one. He reached down to one and jammed his thumbs in the man’s eyes. The man thrashed and his screams pierced the air, but Celtic didn’t even blink. He smiled serenely as he strangled another man where he lay until the man grew still, and visited each of the men in turn to inflict something unique on each of them.
When it was over he stood. Matthew and the other two men were staring at him. The two men seemed uncertain; the lanky man’s grin was gone, and the other man was watching him with a predatory, calculating gaze. Matthew was emotionless, unreadable, and Celtic had a feeling he would have gotten it wrong if he’d tried. He walked over to Matthew as though nothing had happened, though his hands were slick with blood and saliva. Matthew nodded.
“I’m going to need that,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get you to your new home.”
They walked towards the exit, where the two men fell into step behind them. As they emerged into a parking garage, Celtic looked at Matthew sidelong, remembering something.
“Hey,” he said. “We’re back in your world now. You owe me your name.”
Matthew looked confused for a split second before laughing bodily. “So I do, so I do,” he said. “Call me Data.”
Celtic froze in his tracks. The man looked back at him, amused, but Celtic’s face was wracked with uncertainty.
“Data?” he said.
“That’s right,” came the reply. “You may have heard of me.”
Celtic had. Deep in the pits of his stomach, he felt something churning, but he forced himself to keep walking, as though it had just been momentary confusion. He had that feeling for the rest of his days, and desperately hid it from everyone he met. No matter what he did or who he spoke to, he kept that sensation hidden, but couldn’t stop himself from feeling fear.
12/16/2011 4:35:03 PM
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