Shadows in Mind Ch. 01

One: Detox

Under City, Trandor -- City officials, concerned with a recent dramatic rise in drug use amongst our schools have turned to the experts for advice; the Under City mission St. Devone. The drug in question, going by the street name "melt", has been available for nearly a century, but its only in the last decade or so that the drug started to appear in the streets, replacing a number of other chemical cocktails. Originally designed with memory manipulation applications in the military and espionage sectors, "Psirekallicort" (its pharmaceutical name) gained an audience with the seedier elements of society in the early twenties. Pastor Bill of St. Devone 's explains; "A lot of folks down here -the rats and the jakes, floaters and skimmers -- have it pretty rough. Sometimes, all they want is to forget -- melt gives them that."

The Pastor warns that while keeping kids off the drug is a challenge, getting them off is much harder. "It's the worst withdrawal I've ever seen. As the body detoxes, not only does it have to get used to the absence of the drug, like you would with traditional drugs; melt adds a lot of mental strain. Without the drug, while some memory loss remains permanent, other memories resurface. These returning memories tend to hit with hallucinogenic properties, much stronger than the original memories themselves. Addicts find themselves faced with many of their strongest, most feared memories, returning many times as intense as the original memory. Imagine reliving the worst horrors in your life, all at once, over and over until you are clean. Only worse."

-Excerpt from the Trandor Post, Oct 22, 1234 AF

*

His first week of captivity was a breeze. Even alone in the near darkness, Tripper had the warm embrace of the drug to comfort him. His stomach rumbled; but that was nothing new. He had gone hungry many times before, and the nutrients pumping into his system had him feeling stronger than he had in ages. The restraints, while not comfortable, were not that bad if he didn't struggle. He was naked, but the room was warm. He closed his eyes, and watched the lights on his eyelids, as his memories burned away under the flames of the melt.

The second week was worse. The melt was weakening, losing its hold on him. Withdrawal coming, but the drug still struggled to purge his concern over what was to come. His fear was a lead bearing in his stomach, growing as the day wore on, becoming heavier, and beginning to gnaw away at him. He had seen melt withdrawal before; he knew what he was in for, and it terrified him. The room remained silent, except for the sound of his breathing, and the ever present monitor, beeping along ever faster the more he panicked.

Sometime in the third week, he awoke with a scream; the nightmare was forgotten, but the fear in his chest was an icy claw clutching his heart. It had begun. The drug was gone; the colors were muted and normal, boring and simple. His blood pumped like anyone else's, sluggish next to how he felt with the drug in him. Panic rose in him, and he whimpered as he shook, suddenly cold. Freezing. Out in the darkness beyond the glow of the monitors, someone was whispering. Calling his name. Teasing, mocking him.

"Shut up..." he growled, knowing it would do no good.

A flash of light in the dark; the discharge of a blaster. A woman's scream, and the shrieking cries of a child, lost. Something shoved him, and he fell to the ground, his knees and elbows scraped and bleeding, clogged with dirt. Someone spat, and another laughed. "No," he whispered. He clutched at his ears, trying to block the sound. Something shrieked in the dark.

A woman. She offered her hand, and he took it. She helped him up to his feet in the darkness, and he looked into her face, the face of an angel, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She whispered to him, sounds without words, and he felt his heart lift, the terror pushed back. She cupped his face with her hand, her skin so soft, her touch so gentle; her other hand reached out, brushed a stray lock of hair, tucked it behind his ear. He smiled up at her, whispered his thanks, and offered his love.

Blaster fire in the dark. He screamed, his voice broken and hoarse. The woman burned before him, her face turned to ashes, her clothes aflame. Gone, forever. She was gone, and he was all alone. The ashes crumbled, and blew away on a foul wind; he collapsed to his knees, weeping. He could not remember her name, could not remember who she was; but he remembered how much she had loved him, remembered that she had been taken, gone, forever. Around him, the ghosts of his past stirred, closing in. Their cries were daggers in his mind.

***

The woman who had named herself Veronica relaxed in the chair, watching the monitor. On screen, Tripper struggled in his bonds, his head shaking back and forth, as if trying to shake free from the memories that tormented him. Sweat coated his body like a second skin, and he trembled and shook as if suffering convulsions.

"Will he survive, mistress?" a voice asked softly.

She glanced down at the floor, where a thin wisp of a man kneeled, while his hands rubbed her feet with a sweet smelling lotion. "You sound concerned, Cinnamon." Though he was thin, the man was fit, his muscles toned and clearly visible under ebony skin. His dark hair was a mess of curls atop his head, and the goatee that graced his face was immaculately trimmed. Dark eyes looked up at her full of worship. He was naked, or as good as; leather straps crossed his chest, circled his wrists and biceps, and his upper thighs. He wore a black thong, made out of a stretchy mesh material, that hid nothing. A gold collar, encrusted with crimson jewels, encircled his neck, with no apparent hinge or release.

"His suffering is... intense, mistress."

She smiled at him fondly. "Always selfless, Cin. I have always wondered if you would be so caring if not for your empathy; are you really as concerned as you seem, or is it just that his pain hurts you as well?"

Cinnamon looked down, his face showing shame. "I am only concerned about your investment, mistress. You spent considerable effort and credit to find him, and acquire him."

Veronica nodded. "Yes, and hopefully it will be worth it. If he does not survive, then I will know he was not strong enough, yes? Consider this a ritual that our newest must endure to prove his worth to me."

Cinnamon nodded. "May I ask, mistress, what his tor is?"

She frowned, and a look of irritation crossed her face. "That damn drug," she growled, causing Cinnamon to cringe at her feet. It wasn't often that she lost control of her emotions enough to speak as such. "I can sense his tor, but the drug has clouded it. It is strong, but I do not know the flavor." She glanced at the screen; Tripper's mouth was agape as he screamed himself hoarse. She smiled suddenly, enjoying the boy's pain.

Cinnamon looked up at her, smiling himself. He was an empath. To some degree, he could sense others emotions. It was why he was his mistress' first slave, her favorite. Now, he could feel her arousal as she watched the monitor, as the boys suffering set her sadistic heart racing. He let his hands slide up her calves, reaching her thighs. She glanced at him sharply, color rising in her cheeks, and scowled; "Impudent slave. You dare touch me without my say?" But he felt her arousal, the playfulness of her words. He let his hands move upwards, and watched as she again turned her attention to the monitor, her smile wicked. (You know me so well, Cin,) she sent, the thought penetrating his mind with an erotic thrust that made him shudder.

His hands reached her hips, and his fingers curled around, taking a handful of flesh through the flight suit and squeezing gently. Victoria moaned softly, her eyes glued to the monitor. He slid his hands towards the front, letting them glide over the smooth material, gently caressing her mid-section. Slowly, teasingly, his hands moved upwards; he could feel what she felt, could feel the heat of her growing lust. He knew exactly where and how to rub, when to caress and when to stroke. His hands drifted upwards, and he stood to improve his reach, his body arching over hers. He let his body rub along her as he moved, dragging himself upwards, trailing along behind his drifting hands. As his naked chest passed her vagina, he could feel the burning heat of her even through the flight suit. He smiled, knowing he was pleasing her.

Cinnamon cupped her breasts with his hands, softly, supporting and lifting them gently, his hands caressing. Veronica sighed, arching her back, pushing her breasts against his touch. He let his fingers move, sliding up and in, reaching the zipper of her suit nestled in her bountiful cleavage. Gently, slowly, he took the zipper and tugged, pulling it down, watching as the clothing parted, and her breasts pushed free, as if seeking escape. She sighed, her eyes flickering away from the monitor just briefly, meeting his eyes with a spark for a fleeting moment. Her arousal filled his mind like a strong perfume; her arousal was his own. He left the zipper at her navel, revealing her naked torso and breasts, but leaving the rest hidden. His hands returned to her breasts, cupping them, massaging them carefully. She moaned, and he knew she was ready; he leaned down, and planted a soft kiss in her cleavage, on the slope of her left breast. He felt her arousal increase, and kissed again, a little harder, closer to the nipple. He kissed again, closer; and then again, on the nipple itself. He was careful to gauge her feelings, knowing that to go too far too early would mean bad things for him. But again, she was ready; the suffering on the monitor was making her excitement sky rocket. He took one nipple in his mouth, and began to suck; Veronica pushed herself upwards, crushing herself against his face, and he sucked harder. His free hand found her other nipple, and he teased and rubbed it, pinching just a little.

"Now, worm," Veronica growled; she watched on screen as Tripper howled in agony.

Cinnamon knew what she wanted, what she needed. Nuzzling her breast, still lapping at her hard nipple, his hand returned to the zipper, and tugged downwards; down past her mound, where he could feel her panties were quite wet, down the inside of her thigh. He pulled away from her breasts, and took a hold of her lacy underwear, pulling it down when Veronica accommodatingly lifted her hips.

Sensing her arousal, he did not hesitate. He kneeled between her thighs, brought his face down on her. His tongue darted, lapping at her slit, and she sighed in pleasure. He opened up his mind, funneling her own pleasure back to her, and she grunted at the sudden feedback loop of pleasure. She was sopping wet, her pussy blasting like a furnace. He brought his hand up, and slowly pushed a finger up into her; she moaned in pleasure, and he moaned with her, feeling her bliss.

Cinnamon thrust slowly, his finger pushing in and out of her in time with her breathing, while his lips wrapped around her throbbing clit. In his mind, he felt her arousal grow, felt the building of her orgasm. He channeled it all back to her; her back arched, her pussy pressed against him hard, and he thrust faster.

Her orgasm struck like an asteroid, and Victoria cried out as it rocked through her, her eyes still open and locked on the screen. Her pleasure poured into Cinnamon, and back into her with the man's own joy at her desire intermingled, the feeling almost too much. His fingers thrusting, faster, his tongue flickering over her button. And slowly, so slowly, the feelings began to recede, and his attentions slowed. And then finally stopped. Cinnamon withdrew from her, kneeling on the ground before her, as she recovered.

She glanced at the screen again, and grinned. "What is he feeling now," she asked with an icy glint in her eyes. "Describe his suffering to me."

***

The darkness crashed against him like the waves in an ocean he had never seen, alien and strange, powerful and heavy. The voices --so many voices -- ripped through him, the individual words lost in a crescendo of fear, hate and anger. Tripper clutched at his ears, futilely trying to keep them out.

The faces returned, the faces he had struggled so hard to forget. People he had sold himself too, people he had hurt. Each one brought a weapon to bear against him; words and thoughts and expressions that tore at his mind, accusing, laughing, debasing, mocking. His tears flowed as he remembered, as the melt left him alone, a prisoner in his own mind.

And there, in the dark, the face that had started it all. The face he wanted the most to forget. Her eyes filled with love, her expression full of pity, her mind full of forgiveness. So beautiful, her lips gently forming a smile, a smile that had always haunted him, staying with him in the wasteland of a mind the melt had created, staying even when she was gone. She reached out to him, her hand softer than anything from the hard edged life he had known in the Sewer, and touched his cheek. She smiled, and her eyes filled with sorrow as she knew his pain, his loss, his agony.

"Mom?" he whispered, his voice cracked and broken. The word was unfamiliar to him, tasting foreign on his tongue. The name and face did not quite match up in his head, seeming out of sync, like he was seeing another person's memory. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but his memory could not recall a voice, and with a slightly embarrassed shrug, she closed her mouth. Instead she reached for him, her arms closing around him like a trap.

"No," he panted, and pulled away. Still, the angel reached for him, her arms inescapable. He knew what waited in that embrace, and he knew he could not face it, it would destroy him. Again. He stepped back, but she followed, persistent, her eyes filled with love, the emotion washing over him like an avalanche, threatening to sweep him away, leaving nothing. Again. It was the love he could not bear. This woman, who he could not --would not --remember, she brought unquestionable love, undeniable, incorruptible. Her smile penetrated him, reaching places within him carefully hidden away, lost, buried, gone. And he felt something open within, just a crack, and light flooded his mind, and he closed his eyes tightly against it, refusing to see.

"No," he hissed. "Get the drek away from me." But he didn't mean it. He backed into something solid, a wall perhaps, something that had not been there a moment before. And she reached for him. A sob wracked him, his chest heaving, and her touch enveloped him, pulling him in, filling him with warmth, light, love. That place in his mind, that crack spilling light, widened, and the barriers fell. Memories smashed against him like a fist, and he grunted at the pain, crying out in voice and in mind.

"I love you, son," the voice was beautiful, like the quiet before he fell asleep at night, or the wind as he listened to it whisper down the dirty streets of the Sewer, the hum of electricity outside his window as a boy, lulling him to sleep, the lullaby that that very voice had sung to him, slightly out of tune, but so beautiful, nirvana, ecstasy, a happiness he had forgotten.

"Be strong," the voice whispered, her voice, his mother's voice, returned from the dead, from the depths of time. He nodded, the tears flowing like hot rivers down his cheeks. "You have to be strong for mommy," he remembered, though he tried to stop it, to block it from playing in his mind's eye. "You will be on your own now, my baby boy," He shook his head wildly, unable to bear it, unable to stop it. Her voice was weak, and desperate. He closed his eyes tightly, and then he saw.

A little boy in a dark alley, standing in a puddle of red, staring down at his spoiled shoes, wondering how he would find another pair. The sounds of footfalls in the distance, and laughter, receding, moving away now that the damage was done. Now that the boy's life had been torn down, smashed forever. On the ground, in front of the boy, his mother was lying in the dirt, lying in the puddle of red. "It's a bad world," she was saying, the light in her eyes that he loved so much fading, fading. "You have to be strong for mommy."

Tripper screamed, a sound that ripped through him, dragging on, wavering, his voice cracking and his lungs burning with the need for breath. His mother. Taken from him. "I love you," she whispered, and the world around him shattered, leaving a wasted husk of a man, ragged, hanging in his bondage in a dark room, his tears lit only by the harsh glow from the monitors. He hung his head and wept, for everything he had lost, and everything that had come back to him.

Around him, the voices cackled at him, demanding their attention, but he ignored them. Nothing else mattered anymore. All the other faces, the multitude of memories, everything he had fought to bury, to erase, to forget, they all paled in comparison to that one, horrible, life shattering moment. Nothing mattered. Not even him; no, especially not him.

Somewhere in the twisted darkness of his mind, amongst the shattered memories and jagged pieces of his psyche, something turned, like a key in a keyhole. Something changed. Something long buried, long forgotten.

"You have to be strong," her voice reminded him, "for mommy." He choked on a sob, shaking his head. Coals amongst the ashes of his mind sparked, and a fire began to burn, low but warm, dim but brighter than the darkness. And a wall in his mind, crafted of ice, higher than the towers of Trandor but built atop bones just like the world-city, began to warm. A tiny drip of moisture, and for the first time the wall weakened, just a fraction. And behind the wall, like electric lights of the Sewer, something hummed. Something stirred.

Tripper's head lifted, only an inch or two, and his eyes blazed for just a moment, his mouth set in a grim line. For barely a second, a fraction of a second, it seemed as if the universe opened herself up before him, a fragile flower revealed only for him, her greatest secrets laid bare.

Sleep came then, undisturbed by dreams or demons. Outside his prison, a woman watched, and frowned.