Beyond the door behind me, guttural, inhuman laughing stung the air—courtesy of the wraith I failed to defeat before transforming. Any noise aside from the wraith was simply the flickering of the lanterns and hushed, panicked voices, all assessing the situation regarding the mangled corpses with their chests torn open.
The two appendages protruding from my ribs habitually twitched, clenching and curling into what appeared to be fists—or something of that sort. Isaiah seemed to take note of this, as I could see his lips twitch up a little through his mask, which only covered half of his face.
"I don't know if that's God's or the Devil's work," Isaiah sneered, crossing his arms over his chest.
I remained silent, resisting the urge to speak. Instead, my momentary focus drifted to the writhing creatures strapped to medical beds. Their mouths were hung open, revealing their rows of razor-sharp teeth. Forked tongues darted from their mouths, swinging violently in the air in an attempt to find some respite—something to hold onto or help them escape their predicament.
"What do you want with them?" My voice came out a low, trembling whisper.
Isaiah removed his black iron mask and took a few steps towards the medical beds before reaching above him and turning on the overhead lantern with the simple twist of a knob. Now that the room appeared more visible, cabinets, counters, and medical supplies came into view—shoved into medical containers and sterile, rusted metal containers.
The cabinets were made of wood that had long rotted, a tell-tale sign of the moisture hanging in the air like a lingering phantom—an inscrutable sign of death—a small story of actions that had been performed here without any form of consent or ethical consideration. Lining the walls were black and white photographs snapped in a grainy quality, showcasing the same medical beds my allies were strapped to.
Most of the photos were composed of people strapped down, their arms and legs restrained with leather straps tied around the armrails. A strange device had been coiled around their brow, forcing their heads against the pillows in an unconventional manner. Some of them were smiling; others bore deadpan faces that didn't seem to contain an ounce of geniality—any trace that they had any semblance of emotion.
What all the photos had in common were the items sitting on the bedside tables: small leather cases.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Isaiah's cynical voice drifted in, a low whisper that dissipated alongside the dim lighting.
I continued to bore into the photos, my eyes gradually widening as more and more secrets slowly came to surface. Below these photographs were pieces of paper bolted into the wall with rusty nails. The handwriting was barely legible—convoluted scribbles, to say the least. My body moved on its own, curiosity taking me in like a chain. When I came into proper proximity with one of these macabre memoirs, I silently began to read its contents.
"The arms of God embrace me like a benevolent serpent, one that bears no harm. Scalpel has taught me salvation, the only way for a demon to ascend mount purgatory. Now, I live sinlessly, as God has given me His treatment, His way of life, His key to eternal peace and clarity.
"A reflection by Sanson Cecilé"
More footsteps reverberated behind me as Isaiah walked closer, placing one of his cold, clammy hands on my shoulder.
"You read a divine revelation—the work of an architect on his perfect pieces."
My blood ran cold as I turned around, my fists clenching at my sides. The numerous other limbs on my body seemed to react on their own, resting at my side without my knowledge.
"What are you talking about, what the hell did you do to them?"
Isaiah's singular amber eye shimmered dimly in the light—his dried, brittle lips still contorted in a smile. His hands reached into his pocket, taking out a small metallic object, a syringe. The barrel of the syringe was filled with a blueish-purple liquid that seemed to glow. He held the object out, as if prompting me to take it.
"I gave them divine judgement; I cleansed them of their sins and had them run amok, run anew."
My hands twitched as a strange inclination to grab the syringe coursed through my body, a small, aching pressure that tantalized my senses. As if sensing the conflict within me, Isaiah smiled even more.
"I'm not forcing you, just giving you the opportunity some would die for."
His words hung in the air a little longer than they should have, sifting into my ears like sand. My gaze drifted from the syringe in his palm to Isaiah's twitching features, a pang of reluctance crossing my face.
"What do you mean by that?"
Upon hearing my question, Isaiah's smile dropped, the wrinkles on his face becoming more prominent. He took a step back, towards the beds where the eyeless creatures lay restrained. Their movements gradually grew sluggish and lethargic, as if the man's mere presence was a miasma of drowsiness. He raised the syringe, positioning the needle right above the creature's inhuman nose—an inhuman lump of flesh in the middle of its face.
"This individual doesn't possess eyes until it regresses to its regular form: a mere human. Though, if the surgical operation is of necessity, the drug can be inserted through the naval cavity, maybe even the mouth."
"How do you know they turn back into humans?" I asked.
Isaiah looked back at me, his gaze continually assessing and clinical. "They have semi-human anatomy, and they have the same primal instincts as one..."
He pointed towards one of them, which was still writhing and groaning in an effort to escape its bounds. The mutant-like creature continued to let out low growls and howls, as if in pain.
"Humans are creatures of instinct, even when the surrounding world and technological advancements make them soft. There's no way to escape who you are, a puppet of fate, a lackey of our lord and savior."
Isaiah's focus drifted to the viscous liquid within the syringe, rotating and twisting the object in his grip, silently observing the blueish-purple substance slosh around as if he were a scientist of some sort. His lips parted again, and his voice now possessed a more cynical, deformative edge.
"Humans are as brilliant as they are foolish. They'd blindly submit to anyone who claims to be their savior, anyone who writes the best speech and enacts the best laws..."
He turned his head towards a cabinet on the far end of the room, walking over to it and opening it, revealing the contents inside. Lining the interior of the cabinets were countless candles, all possessing ice-white wax and blue casing.
"...their labors, their fruitfulness to a cause of blind obedience, promised freedom that's only a dream away, a way to prove their rational enough to work, only to realize their efforts had been meticulously arranged by the right hand of God himself."
Isaiah grabbed one of the candles, placing it on the dirty countertop littered with medical equipment. "I'd call Night Vanilla the essence of the lord, the bridge between rationality, callousness, and something bigger—grander—more transcendent than what the finest, wisest scholars of history dare to debunk and ridicule."
His single amber eye flickered again as he turned back to me, an inhuman, visceral smile now plastered on his face. He reached his left hand into his medical coat, before taking out what appeared to be a metal object—a card. He held it up to the dim lighting, allowing its metallic surface to shimmer in a way adjacent to his singular eye.
"When you're God's favorite, He can't help but give you useful tools along the way," Isaiah continued, tapping the surface of the card.
At this moment, complex, intricate patterns surfaced on the card, contorting and writhing to form a myriad of images, collective identities, and visages. I held my breath through the entire process, my inhuman appendages bracing for what was to come. A familiar face suddenly appeared, mottled and somewhat blurry—Ayumi!
Her face was calm, almost lifeless within the card. Below her expression was her full name in illusory, crimson lettering. My eyes widened as I stepped back, pressing my back against the surface of the counter, feeling the chipped, rotten wood biting through my tunic.
"What did you do to her?" I asked, gritting my teeth.
The Apocalypse sigil on my forehead suddenly ignited with a fiery, crimson coloring, coursing through my forehead. The bug-like limbs on either end of my torso raised like hands, habitually assuming a defensive position. The numerous eyes on my forehead opened, supplying me with a swarm of angles and views of my surroundings.
My teeth sharpened to dagger-like fangs, and I couldn't help but let out a small hissing sound, almost like that of a cat. Even as these transformations surged through my body, Isaiah remained silent in his spot, watching the entire ordeal with a passive, eerily indifferent gaze.
"Nothing yet, but I plan to invite her to a banquet of sorts, one where I'd open her eyes, sprinkle a revelation here and there."
One of my arms extended, pointing to the writhing creatures that were my friends, lying defenseless on the medical beds.
"You plan to do to her whatever you'll do to them, aren't you?!"
Instead of immediately replying, Isaiah sighed softly and approached one of the medical beds, his wrinkled, aged hands finding grip on the handrail. His one working eye drifted down to the helpless creature.
"They're helpless, the work of and corruption of the demons and devils that lurk where eyes can't see and ears don't pry. Every night, they turn into abominations, every morning, they grieve at the chaos they wrecked. This cycle is degrading, a reminder that evil is everywhere if you don't embrace the higher truth."
Isaiah's hands gripped tighter and trembled, knuckles clenching white.
"Maybe if we wait long enough, they'll have the semblance to answer my question."