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Suddenly Memories: Syrix
By Dac
The sky flared blindingly as a red light cut through the air. EagleMan sped overhead, firing optic blast after optic blast as SpiderWolve and Syrix crept across the ground. Their hands were empty and their clothes badly ripped. The sound of was erupting continually around them as they sneaked through the rocks of the mountainside, peering around every corner. They could hear Pete teleporting around the area, delivering furious blows to their enemies, and more than once they saw a handful of hero hunters being swatted into the air by the unseen Jedipoet. SpiderWolve led Syrix around a large rock and held up his hand. Syrix froze in place. SpiderWolve beckoned him forward and Syrix peeked around to see what he had seen. Three enemy soldier sat there, facing the opposite direction. SpiderWolve nodded to Syrix. He was bleeding slightly at the temple from where a rock had caught him.
“We need the weapons,” he hissed. “I’ll drop them through a portal. You be ready to run and stop the guns from going through.”
“Got it,” replied Syrix, getting ready to run.
SpiderWolve stretched a hand out and a large black hole of nothingness opened at the feet of the soldiers, who felt the pull of gravity and cried out in alarm. Syrix was already moving, running as fast as he could to close the distance between them. He snatched at two rifles that were disappearing to the gulf and flung himself over the portal just as it sealed. He landed in a heap and rolled into a nearby boulder, clutching his hard-won prize. He raised them above his head in victory.
“Yeah!” he cried. “Who’s the fucking man! Got them, Spider!”
He got to his feet and checked the ammunition. The rifles still had enough shots to last them. He grinned and hurried back to where SpiderWolve was hiding, grinning like a madman. His face fell when he came around the rock. SpiderWolve was nowhere to be seen. Syrix looked around in confusion.
“Spider!” he called. “Hey, Spider! Where are you?”
In response, two more faceless enemies appeared over the ridge and spotted him. Syrix jumped in shock and hastily aimed one of the rifles.
“Shit shit shit!”
His first shot flew wide and the rifle bucked in his arms. The soldiers dived behind cover, giving him enough time to cock it. When they reappeared he was ready, catching the first through the neck as he emerged and sending the other scrambling back behind cover. He tried to run from the other side of the rock, but Syrix hit him easily and sent him sprawling to the ground.
“Yeah! Take that, you son of a bitch!” snarled Syrix, lowering the rifle. “Yo, Spider! Where the hell are you? You fall into your own hole?”
“No,” said a sinister voice. Syrix felt a sudden chill. He turned around and came face-to-face with a thin, dark figure. “He fell into mine.”
A blinding pain lanced through Syrix’s chest. Looking down, he saw the handle of a long knife protruding from his flesh, blood dribbling around it. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly and he fell back. His attacker smiled serenely.
“You lose,” said the figure.
Syrix didn’t even hear him. His mind went dark, only one thought penetrating it like a small sound echoing a vast, empty cavern. He watched the blood dripping from his body, but barely comprehended it. All he was aware of was cold steel stabbing through him. It felt unnatural, icy, biting. It felt wrong. A violation. The vast cavern became replaced with a place just as dark, but suddenly sounds began to return: screams, high-pitched screams of tortured souls. His screams.
It wasn’t for another minute that he realised the screams weren’t just in his head. He was still making them, even as he ripped the knife from his chest. It did not belong there. It was not wanted there. He was filled with revulsion for the thing in his hands, staring at it with the most unadulterated abhorrence his mind could conjure, and then his eyes lit on his attacker. His attacker smiled uncertainly. He didn’t know what he’d done, how it made Syrix feel.
Two words broke into his mind: ‘he will’.
His screams went from horrified to savage, and with unnatural strength and speed he launched himself at the figure, tackling him to the ground and thrusting the knife at him. The figure cried out in shock and twisted away. Syrix shot after him, stabbing relentlessly, his eyes wild with fury.
“What the FUCK, Syrix?!” cried the figure. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Syrix gave a bestial cry of rage and slashed through the air. The figure dived again and got a hand on Syrix’s leg, and suddenly the pair of them seemed to fall into darkness. Syrix didn’t feel the strange sensation, like being sucked into tar, when the both of them fell into the Outcast briefing room. The figure dashed to the side as the few people gathered in the room started in shock. Syrix continued as though nothing had happened, racing after the figure with the bloody knife in his hand. He didn’t hear the shouts as they all stood up, and abruptly he flew backwards and slammed into the same wall he’d just emerged from, pinned there by some unseen force. Jedipoet had his hand out, holding him in place, and the various Family members and Outcasts stared in disbelief.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Jessibelle. “Shadow, what the hell happened?”
“I don’t know!” exclaimed Shadow. “I took him out with the knife and he flipped out!”
“You stabbed him?” echoed SpiderWolve. “Jesus Christ, Shadow, Marshall said we were only meant to have blank rounds! Why the hell did you have a real weapon?”
“He’s a healer!” protested Shadow. “I didn’t think it would matter!”
Syrix screamed incoherently. Shadow took a step back, looking shocked. The others all exchanged uneasy glances. Jedipoet looked over at Jessibelle darkly.
“Who’s still in the game?” he asked.
“EagleMan, Pete and Ren,” she replied. “Against 30 more simsoldiers.”
“OK,” he said. “Spider, get Syrix down to the medbay. Eagle, go with him. Rest of us wait here for the sim to end.”
SpiderWolve looked uneasily at Syrix, who was no longer yelling, but had swapped out to panting and baring his hackles at Shadow, who by now was up against the back wall. SpiderWolve moved slowly forward and approached Syrix, laying a hand on his shoulder. Syrix looked at him, a dark look on his face.
“Come on, bud,” said SpiderWolve. “Keep it calm.”
Another portal opened up and SpiderWolve pulled Syrix through them. Eagle followed quickly. The portal sealed up and Shadow sat down, looking relieved. He wiped his brow of sweat and breathed heavily.
“What the hell was that about?” he said. “I mean, I’ve seen the guy shot, crushed and dropped 50 feet from mid-air and he barely batted an eye. Why does stabbing, of all things, send him off the deep end?”
Poet sat down and rubbed his face in exasperation. Drums leaned on the wall behind him, saying nothing. Baraxis sat off to the side, looking down in the dumps. Jessibelle continued monitoring the simulation while Tricia stood next to Shadow, looking confused. Poet looked up, feeling more worn out by this than the simulated battle. He felt a bit torn; Syrix was the last of the original five Family members still in the Outcast base, after Erok, Geekers and Fools all departed, and Poet didn’t like seeing him reduced to hysterics.
“He doesn’t like being cut,” said Poet. “When we first came to this world, he got captured nearly straight away. By Celtic.”
Tricia inhaled sharply. Shadow’s jaw dropped and Jessibelle blanched in disgust.
“Celtic carved him up into pieces,” continued Poet. “Held him down there for several days, all his body parts separate, in the dungeon. After the prison got broken up he took up with Qwirtle’s group and I don’t think he ever had a chance to deal with it after that. Sometimes he seems OK, other times he acts up. He left us after we got out of the city for a bit, on his own, but even so...”
“Seriously? He has stabbing PTSD?” said Marshall incredulously.
Poet gave him a withering look. Marshall recoiled at the look in his eyes. Poet fixed his eyes on the floor and waved his hand at Marshall.
“Piss off,” he said. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
“Don’t tell me what to-”
“FUCK OFF!” snarled Poet. Everyone in the room jumped. Jessibelle nodded to Marshall and he retreated from the room, leaving everyone inside feeling a bit tense. Poet held his eyes and nose above his locked fingers and rested on his elbows, not making eye contact with anyone. The sound of Syrix’s incoherent screams echoed uncomfortably in the room.
***
The darkened simulator control room was forbidding and cold at night. The benches were bare and uninviting. The monitors were blank and emotionless, and the teleportation platform was a smooth black circle. There was nothing pleasant in this room, where shadows met only with shadows and nothing fell between them.
The lock on the door clicked and a figure crept slowly into the room. He locked the door behind him and pocketed the key before walking over to the control panel. He pressed a button and the lights in the room came up, illuminating everything around him. Syrix didn’t worry about being seen. The Outcasts never came anywhere near this room at night; it was too far from the briefing rooms, dormitories and other places where the personnel tended to need to be. The simulator room was at the far end of the base, isolated. No one would bother him.
He tapped away at the keyboard, setting up what he needed to. His face was cold and flat as he read over what he was programming in and watched the luminescent lights flashing on the screen. One by one the monitors flickered on, and he doubled-checked them to make sure that everything was as he needed it to be. He continued typing, making sure everything would work, and then keyed in the setting that the simulation would only end once all enemies were eliminated.
He smiled. His eyes went pale.
He pressed a button and the short-range teleportation platform began to hum. He turned and walked boldly towards it, the harsh smile still twisting his face into something ugly. As he walked, he reached into his pocket and withdrew something that gleamed in the eerie light. He looked down and saw his face reflected in the blade of the knife that had been pulled out of him a week and a half before.
He heard the familiar hiss, and the platform dropped him into the simulator. It was really a large cavern that had been hollowed out even deeper into the mountain than the rest of the base, and then sealed off once the simulation technology had been set up. There was no way in or out any more besides the teleportation technology, which had been limited to only allow transportation between the simulator and the control room above it, and it only activated when programmed to.
Syrix looked around. He was standing in a perfect simulation of the old city, before it had been bombed. He took in the tall buildings and wide streets, closing his eyes and smiling slightly as he felt the familiar breeze drifting around him. Memories came flooding back to him as he took it all in.
Bad memories. He opened his eyes again and they narrowed as he looked around. It wasn’t a perfect replica of the city. Despite the detailed accuracy in terms of construction and geography, there was one main difference: there were no people. The place was a ghost town, and he was alone. He gripped the knife tightly in his hand.
No. Not alone. There were people here. He just had to find them.
He stalked through the city, knife in hand, his eyes flicking this way and that. There was no movement in the city. The silence was breathtaking in so vast an area, especially one so perfectly built as a thriving metropolitan. To walk among the buildings he knew, without any other signs of life, felt incalculably peculiar. The desolate city loomed over him, as though daring him to challenge it. He gritted his teeth.
The sound of breaking glass ripped through the silence like an explosion. Syrix jumped and turned towards the sound. A team of hero hunters leaped through a fourth-story window and landed with unnatural grace on the ground. The four of them stared him down. He smiled.
“Who’s first?”
They rushed at him. None of them were armed with firearms; they all wielded claymores, and were swinging them like master swordsmen as they came. Syrix ran straight at them, bellowing a challenge. The first of them was too slow, swinging for Syrix’s head as he twisted out of the way, slicing through nothing but thin air. Syrix spun and buried his knife in the man’s face, snarling. The other claymores whipped towards him and he ducked as one sliced at his arm. He winced as he wrenched the knife out of the first hunter’s face with his bleeding arm and stabbed the man who had nicked him in the groin. The hunter hit the ground, screaming with pain, as Syrix kicked at another who got too close. Pulling out the knife he dove at the fourth hunter, slashing him across the neck and stepping back as the man fell to his knees, gasping in shock and holding his throat, gushing blood at an alarming rate. Syrix ran straight at the hunter he’d kicked and jammed his knife into his face like the first one. Ripping it out, he ignored the choking hunter and went for the man still cradling his mutilated genitals. Syrix leapt on top of him and stabbed at him endlessly and maniacally, making no sound the whole time. He kept stabbing furiously for several minutes, long after the man’s cries of pain and feeble attempts to shove him away had ceased. Even when the body had gone limp and the man’s eyes had glazed over, he kept stabbing pitilessly.
Abruptly, the simulated man’s body dissolved into light and faded away to nothing. Syrix blinked. The simulator had taken it away. Looking around, he saw that the other bodies, and their claymores, and even the blood they’d spilled, had all vanished as well. He cursed to himself; there was a setting to have simulated enemy bodies vanish after a set period of inactivity, and he’d evidently forgotten to turn it off. His knife gleamed brightly, clear of blood. He wiped it on his pant leg anyway, grimaced and continued walking.
He didn’t notice a shadow in the doorway of a building behind him follow him cautiously.
Walking down the street he kept his eyes peeled and listened carefully, but there were no sounds that he could hear. He was in a familiar part of the city, not too far the building they had initially used as a hideout when the Caretaker first dropped them in this world, but even closer to the Guardsmen’s old building. Slowly he stalked down the street, slightly hunched over with his teeth bared ever so slightly. He could feel the skin prickling on the back of his neck. Someone was nearby.
Ahead he saw a figure step casually from out of an alleyway. Syrix halted and his muscles tensed. Jonixlord. Syrix stared at him coldly. For a while Jonix only stared back, smiling serenely, until his face seemed to ripple. As Syrix watched, he transformed into another figure, just as familiar. RaginAsian walked up the street towards him, holding what seemed to be a large kitchen knife, still smiling. Syrix cocked his head. As if seeing Ragin wasn’t enough of a displeasure, Syrix recognised the alleyway he’d stepped out of, the same one where the real Ragin had, while disguised as Jonix, steered him into Celtic’s clutches a long time ago. Syrix felt the familiar sensation of anger spreading through his veins.
Ragin said nothing. The Outcasts had been able to program visual simulations of some of the Guardsmen but had no audio files to recreate their voices with. Not that it bothered Syrix that much. He ran at Ragin, knife in hand.
The Guardsman raised his own knife and parried. Syrix swung wildly and missed; in response Ragin ducked and kicked him in the kneecap with incredible force. Syrix heard something crack and dropped to the ground, screaming in pain. Ragin stabbed downwards and Syrix rolled hastily out of the way. There was a sharp clang as the knife hit the concrete and broke. The simulated Guardsmen tossed the blade away, and his forearms morphed into long blades that resembled rapiers. Syrix tried to stand up, but his knee was still in the process of healing, and he fell to the ground again, biting down a grunt of pain. He looked up in shock as Ragin approached.
Through the silence of the city devoid of life, a loud noise seemed to explode shockingly close. Syrix clamped his hands over his ears, startled, as something sent Ragin’s body, bloody and ragged, flying several feet away. Syrix spun with his knife gripped tightly at whatever had appeared behind him, terrified.
“HOLY SHIT!” cried a startled voice.
Syrix’s blade swung straight through the other person. He pulled up short and stared.
Drums was visibly sweating and clutching a shotgun. A wisp of smoke was emanating from the barrel. Syrix barely registered the gun, instead gaping openly at Drums’s face, and neither was sure who was more shocked.
Eventually Drums took a deep breath and lowered the shotgun, his hands white. He moved rigidly, still astonished by what had just happened.
“OK,” he said with the air of someone forcing himself to calm down. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What the fuck am I doing?” demanded Syrix. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I followed you,” said Drums. “Just like I followed you last night, and the night before. I told Poet you were sneaking out at night and he told me to find out what you were doing.”
“How the fuck did you know I was sneaking out?” asked Syrix suspiciously, standing up again. His knee had reformed comfortably, and he stood unsteadily, slowly edging away from Drums.
“You’re not exactly stealthy, pal,” said Drums. “I was...hey, stand still when I’m fucking talking to you.”
Syrix froze on the spot, his eyes bulging slightly.
“Better,” said Drums. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you after you lost it at Shadow. I saw you coming in here. What’s this, three nights in a row you’ve been sneaking in to stab simulations? And now I see you stabbing corpses until they disappear? You and I need to talk.”
“What are you, my fucking therapist?” snarled Syrix viciously.
“I’m the guy you nearly slashed across the fucking chest, so don’t try taking the moral high ground over me,” snapped Drums. “Hell, I’m glad Poet asked me to do this, because if any of the others were following you, right now you’d be thinking up how to explain to everyone tomorrow morning why Baraxis or Grunty or Pete leaked their guts all over the simulator floor!”
Syrix looked aghast. Drums’s eyes blazed furiously, and Syrix could not think of a response. He looked at the ground, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to think of something, but no retort or justification came.
Without warning he felt a splitting pain in his head and dropped to his knees with a cry of agony. Drums started in surprise.
“What is it? What’s going on?” he said anxiously.
“C...Ce...” choked out Syrix, flopping on to the ground.
Drums looked around in shock, and realised they weren’t alone. Another figure was walking up the street towards them. Even at this distance, he recognised the familiar features, the sadistic grin being the most obvious.
“What the fuck?!” demanded Drums. “You programmed him in here?!”
Celtic strode boldly at them, swinging a sword in each hand. Drums recognised Gram instantly, the sword Celtic had taken from the last of the old heroes and was subsequently stolen by Fools. The other sword looked like a normal long sword, generic and unfamiliar to Drums. Syrix rolled around gasping on the ground, whimpering from the pain.
Drums stared daggers at Celtic and raised the shotgun. Celtic halted in his tracks, but his grin did not fade.
“Turn it off,” said Drums flatly.
Syrix’s cries of pain began to recede, and he ceased writhing on the ground. Drums looked at him disdainfully.
“Get up,” he said bluntly. “That’s what you get for programming him in here.”
“Didn’t...think it would matter...” gasped Syrix. “I didn’t program his power to be...overwhelming. Just strong...enough to hurt...but weak enough for...me to get through it...”
Drums looked like Syrix had slapped him. He went pale with realisation.
“You planned this?” he said. “You wanted to get fucked up by him? What the fuck is OH SHIT!”
Too late, he realised his mistake. Reprimanding Syrix had taken his eyes off Celtic, who ran straight at him and swung his swords at him. Drums went intangible and jumped to one side as quick as he could, reappearing behind Celtic. He fumbled to cock the shotgun, cursing as he did.
“Syrix, if I get injured in any way, I will find a way to FUCKING MURDER YOU!” he roared.
Celtic swung his swords around with frightening speed. Drums raised the gun instinctively and blocked both swords. He kicked Celtic away and fired before the Guardsmen could respond. Pieces of Celtic’s head sprayed everywhere and his body fell to ground like a puppet with the strings cut. Drums exhaled sharply and cocked the gun again in case someone else turned up. He put the safety on and pulled Syrix to his feet. The Australian was pale and shaking as he stood back up, and visibly recoiled from Drums as soon as he was upright.
“Anyone else you put in here that I should know about?” Drums asked. “How the hell did they even program Celtic’s power into this thing, anyway?”
“I don’t fucking know, I’m not an engineer,” said Syrix defiantly, turning and scanning the area. Drums did the same, searching for more nasty surprises.
“What was that other sword he had?” asked Drums. “I know Gram, but the other?”
“That was the one he cut me up with,” hissed Syrix without thinking. When he realised what he said, he kicked himself mentally. Drums turned slowly and stared at him calculatingly.
“Come with me,” he said, grabbing Syrix by the wrist. “We’re getting out of here.”
“What d’you mean ‘we’?” demanded Syrix. “I didn’t ask you to follow me in here.”
“Of course you didn’t,” growled Drums. “You never ask for anything. You try and do your little tough guy act, pretend everything’s OK, and then you either wander off into the woods by yourself to hang out with nihilistic douchebags or you sneak into virtual reality worlds to stab corpses. How much longer are you going to put yourself through this, for fuck’s sake?”
“Through what?” roared Syrix. “What the fuck would you know about it? Nothing! So get the fuck out of here and mind your own business!”
He turned and stomped down the street furiously, still mumbling under his breath. For a while he heard no response and smiled at the thought of leaving Drums speechless, when Drums called out to him in a voice so cold that Syrix froze in shock.
“Did you just tell me I don’t know anything about being captured and tortured by the Guardsmen?”
Syrix nearly choked at his mistake. He couldn’t even turn around, so rooted was he to the spot. He heard Drums approaching him, walking lightly and calmly, but every syllable he said as he reached out and lay a hand on Syrix’s shoulder trembled with barely concealed fury.
“Syrix, I can be agreeable,” he said. “But you are pushing it. Do not try to fuck with me. I’m a teacher. I’ve dealt with whinier, angstier bastards than you. I am going to help you get over this shit, so you may as well nut up and accept that. In the meantime, watch your fucking mouth.”
Syrix sweated. Drums’s pulled him around so they were facing each other, and for the first time Syrix’s face was free of any suspicion or defiance. He stared at Drums’s cold features and felt a shrinking sensation. He looked at the ground, but Drums shoved him roughly.
“Look at me. Hey. LOOK AT ME.”
Syrix looked up, his eyes wide with fear. Drums stared back.
“We’re going to sort your shit out. All right?”
Syrix hesitated, then nodded. He was still sweating.
“Good,” said Drums. “Now let’s...oh, come ON!”
Something dark flitted across his field of vision. He turned towards it, watching it intently. It slithered across the ground like an oil slick with a mind of its own. Drums closed his eyes in exasperation.
“This had better be the last one,” he muttered, raising the gun.
The black stain sped erratically in their direction, and abruptly it lifted off the ground and formed into a human shape. Shadow smiled coldly at them as he sprinted towards them, wielding a perfect replica of the knife Syrix was still clutching tightly. Syrix gave a snarl and tensed to run, but Drums shoved him aside and blew Shadow’s head off. The body crashed to the ground, rolling towards them. Drums watched it slow, and abruptly the room seemed to dissolve. They felt the familiar sensation of the teleportation process, and both of them appeared in the control room, still undisturbed. Syrix looked at Drums questioningly, but Drums’s harsh gaze killed all protests Syrix was forming. Syrix hung his head and said nothing. Drums put a hand on his back and guided him towards the door.
“Give me the key,” he said flatly. Syrix pulled the key he’d stolen out of his pocket. Drums took it and shook his head at Syrix, and walked through the door intangibly. Syrix blinked in surprise and ran at the door, but it was still locked. He hammered on it, calling out angrily.
“Hey!” he said. “Drums! What gives, man? Let me out!”
Drums’s voice floated through the door to him. “Not just yet,” he replied. “I told you we need to have a talk. Now’s as good a time as any, when we’re not being attacked by the rest of the Guardsmen.”
“This isn’t funny, Drums!”
“Damn right it’s not,” said Drums. “I’ll let you out in a minute, but first I need to know why you programmed Shadow in there.”
“He fucking stabbed me!” bellowed Syrix. “He stuck a six-inch knife in me during a training sim!”
“OK. So what?” said Drums calmly. “He shouldn’t have done that. None of us are happy about that. But that does not make it OK for you to enact some murder fantasy about him. The man’s our ally and one of the guys who took us in when we were living homeless in the woods. The entire time you’re supposed to have been bedridden he’s been getting chewed out, and he’s been saying he’ll apologise the next time he sees you.”
Syrix leaned on the door, breathing hard. He bitterly wanted to retort, but the sting of Drums’s earlier words in the simulator was still painful. He couldn’t bring himself to say a word.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” said Drums. “Tomorrow, you’re going to tell Jedipoet what you’ve been doing, to the letter. I’ll be there, and if you skip any detail I’m going to add it right back in. You are going to accept whatever he says, and from here on out, any time you feel the urge to unleash a little bloodlust on the people who’ve done the most hurt to you, you come straight to me. You don’t come down here and stab simulated people. If you do, believe me, I will know. I can help you, Syrix, but you have to let me. All right.”
Syrix was sweating again. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and breathed heavily.
“All right, Syrix?” demanded Drums’s voice.
“All right,” he replied, his voice heavy with defeat. “Please. Unlock the door. I want to go to bed.”
Silence. Syrix feebly rattled the door handle and then leaned on it, feeling drained by the affair. The door did not unlock. He waited for a long while, but there was no sound. Syrix felt close to tears when a hand reached through, palm upwards.
“The knife,” said Drums’s voice expectantly. “Hand it over. I know you still have it.”
Syrix looked at the knife. He was still holding it tight, so tight that the handgrip was slick with sweat. Reluctantly, he took the blade and placed the handgrip into Drums’s upturned hand, which retracted. Syrix looked wearily at the door.
Still it didn’t unlock.
“Can I come out now?” he called.
There was nothing but silence in response to his words. Syrix gave up completely and lay down on the cold concrete floor, huddled into a ball. If he strained, he thought he could hear receding footsteps on the other side of the door, but couldn’t be sure if it was just his imagination despairing and hearing things. He found it hard to care any more. He felt like his insides had been twisted in a way that hadn’t happened for a long time, and he was physically drained. His eyes drooped from exhaustion, and slowly he drifted off to a restless sleep.
10/3/2011 2:26:04 AM
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