Twisted

Gore caked the gunmetal pistons up to the machine's shoulders, but it dug ever deeper into the writhing bovine on the table, widening the gash along the cow's red and white ribs. The beast kept lowing and kicking, but it was pinned. Hearts were slippery organs, but this one wasn't going to escape. It was required, in order to finish the animal.
There was a knocking on the door behind it. The monster paused, soft tissue caught in its springs, wondering if it was the Harpy visiting, here to rat it out for bringing work home. It stared down into the multicolored innards, distracted now, struggling to recall its purpose.
The portal creaked open. "Rita?" An old, only distantly familiar voice asked, "I was hoping we could talk."
Rita. She trembled, snapping out of the mechanical mindset. "Oh. Oh, God. This is gross, I-I'm so sorry, let me just-" The cow and its gore evaporated in blue mist, and Rita concentrated on the room, erasing all the gleaming scalpels and saws, changing the table back into the bed it should have been, putting the bathroom back where it was supposed to be, fixing the light so it didn't strobe. She turned, becoming human as she wiped her clean hands on her flannel pajamas. "Sorry, I'm s-sorry."
"No, it's fine," said the corpse that had walked in, gleaming crown circling his brow. "I thought we should discuss what happened the other day."
"Oh, s-sure." Rita nodded. "Referring to, um, wh-what?"
King Frost raised a withered eyebrow, and took a deep breath. "Well, you met your changeling, Arawna, who is now in the dungeons below you, curled up in the fetal position, after you and some of your motley tried to fight her, resulting in your parents' home burning down, and very nearly in all of your demises."
The vet tech shifted her weight to her other foot, twisting up her mouth.
He waited.
"She wanted to kill my whole family," Rita snapped, pulling at her hair. It was a miracle it hadn't caught flame when the rest of her had. "She wanted to kill me. She almost-... almost killed Remy, now he's literally scarred for life. If Penny and Pat hadn't been there, I-..." She shook her head, "And even them. She took them both out. And poor Mojo, I mean, Jesus, if I-I hadn't been so stupid, I maybe, maybe could have finished it, could have killed her, like I was supposed to."
"Rita, you weren't-" He squinted at her, "-Supposed to kill Arawna. That's a part of why I'm here, though. I thought we could try looking at the confrontation from a different perspective."
The suspicion on her face wasn't hidden. "What do you mean?" Her bedroom began to warp. "I get you wanting everyone in the freehold to be mentally healthy, but I'm fine and I just don't want to talk to the fucking psychotic torture-happy sadist murderer-" She paused for a breath as her bed vanished, replaced by a reconstructed dining room table. The carpet became wooden flooring. The walls fell away, and Rita could see Mojo spinning in circles, trying to knit a sweater while he wore it. "Wh-what are you doing?"
The Architect wasn't looking at her. "We're going to watch the events leading up to and consisting of the confrontation between you and Arawna."
The woman stared at him. "Uh. Wow, okay, I have no desire, whatsoever, to, um, to do that, sir."
"I don't deal in Desire, Rita."
The front door shuddered, and soundlessly exploded inward. Wooden shrapnel flew through Rita's dream-self and hung in the air. Light shone around the slim sillhouette of the straw Fetch that stepped through. Behind her came the more familiar figure. Shoulders arced, eyes alight.
Beside a lamp, the self that had been there was wearing her least favorite track suit, in case she lived, and her best undergarments, in case she died. Her terrified tears gleamed in the sunlight at the hulking, armored hunter whose helmet was snapping threats at the half-motley.
The Rita in pajamas, by the table, wasn't so moved. She blinked and squinted, and for the first time, she gazed only at Arawna's Mask, at the skin around her mouth and her feverish eyes, white with scarring all the way back to her temples. All down her body, Arawna'd been cut and hammered; down to the muscle and bone, she'd been twisted, and the more Rita stared, the more she felt the predator's heart thundering in her chest.  
The mutilated girl slammed her spear into the floor and charged Pat, her high ponytail flicking behind her. It took the shape of a curling plume on her Mien, so it was likely permanent. Rita tugged her loose curls. She'd at least had the choice of how to style her hair every day.
A gladius shattered against the camisole that half covered Arawna's marred back. The mirror shards sparkled. The Changeling ripped Pat's rifle out of his hands and smashed it over her knee. Bullets from Penny and Remy's guns pinged off in complete silence, and fire swam around her as it swallowed the rest of them. A burning couch reared up to fight, but it was useless. Rita looked on as Arawna channeled all her decades of torture through her fists. She felt no anger, she'd said. No compassion. She struck Penny, slammed her foot down on Remy's shin. Rita saw herself run through the ghost of King Frost to grab a broom to wield. Arawna turned her agony back on Pat, and pain flashed across his face. A burned Penny dragged Remy over the door sill. Tracksuit-Rita turned, bristles on the broom alight. Rita wasn't watching herself, but she remembered where she'd looked last time; she'd watched Remy's eyes roll back, and Penny collapse on the porch.
Now, Rita watched Arawna, taking three steps toward her to get a better view. The privateer set her jaw and pounded hard knuckles into Pat's ribs. The cruelty in her red eyes didn't belong to her. Tracksuit-Rita ran through the observer, then hesitated, seeing a flicker of something for just an instant.
That flicker blasted Rita now. There was a little girl against an anvil, with loose curls hiding her face and loose flesh dangling from her arms. A hammer pounded her skin, uselessly trying to shape the pulverized meat like metal. Rita's fingers slid, shaking, up her scalp. This wasn't the fight, this wasn't the fight. She could feel cold blood spattering on her nose and cheeks from every blow. The girl was screaming in a younger Rita's voice. Something grabbed the child's hair and pulled at her face; it'd been sliced four ways and now they were trying to stretch it out, gripping her soft skin tighter and yanking.
Something turned toward Rita with a horrible, wide smile and huge eyes, and then it wasn't there. Pat was against the wall, landing blows on Arawna that she ignored. Tracksuit-Rita flipped her broom around, afraid she might kill the Changeling with the flaming end even as the fire licked up her own pants and melted them to her burning flesh, but the shaft broke in half over Arawna's neck. The Head-Taker hammered her fist across Pat's face, and he dropped. Tracksuit-Rita dove after him and hauled him up. Something buzzed outside. Arawna stared at her doppelganger, stalking her through the flames as she staggered to the door. Tracksuit-Rita's mouth moved, but no sound came out.
"It doesn't have to end like this," Rita whispered for her, and flinched as Arawna's helmet opened in a horrible scream just as ear-raking as it was the first time. Tracksuit-Rita stumbled across the lawn, trying to drag Pat with one arm and dial with her other hand, only for a roaring motorcycle to crash into her on the sidewalk. Her head smacked the pavement, and she didn't get up.
Arawna lifted her scarred chin in triumph. Rita watched her stroll back into the house, over to her halberd, and yank it from the burning floor.
Mojo stepped over the limp body of his opponent, hefting his nail as the scarred woman in the shimmering miniskirt turned to face him. Arawna made some wisecrack, and the Fetch lunged. Arawna sidestepped and cracked the shaft of the polearm across the back of his head. Rita looked away. The dull thump of Mojo hitting the ground went unheard.
Arawna leaned on her weapon, panting. When Rita looked back, all she could see was a weary reflection of herself, lit by sun and flame. They'd hurt her, sure, but it was nothing compared to what had occurred in Arcadia. Arawna thought cruelty was a just expression of strength, and now, she was proving herself strong, like she'd done dozens of times. Kerrville would accept her, he had to. Rita watched the privateer's wounds mend while she took a breather. She'd reearned her home.
Rita clenched her fists, hatred building up in her chest. His name was Kerrville.
Arawna strode out onto the porch, considering the number of bodies she needed to transport.
This was all his doing, Rita seethed. He'd shaped them both into monsters, and set them against each other. Rita couldn't hold on to her Wrath, and it melted down into Sorrow. They couldn't ever really coexist. Her programming was never going to go away. She could fight it, but it'd always be there, whispering to her. She felt a cold hand on her shoulder as the tears started welling up, and she looked back at King Frost, anticipating some royal summation of the fight she'd already lived through twice.
"Never say Their names out loud," He warned, and let his hand drop. Rita watched him open the blazing pantry and walk through it. The conflagration around her drifted away in white and blue mist, and the world faded, leaving Rita alone in darkness. She knew what she had to do in the morning. Her Sorrow turned to Fear, and she hugged herself, even as images of slaughtered and decaying animals started to creep in at the edges of her vision, and her body morphed back into the machine.
Characters involved in this Chronicle: King Frost, Rita Degollar
Category:Fiction