Author's Note: This chapter was incomplete. It's been updated, and is now ready for reading.
***
"It's magic, silly," said the red-haired child. "What did you think it was?"
Effeminate, goofy; it was a boy's voice.
Finn's!
He'd appeared out of thin air, chuckled at Riley right after saying that, then made car sounds — vroom, vroom — as he drove his LEGO fire engine round a faded-purple D4 die.
Riley suddenly found the sense to stop himself from humming, if only so that he might hear the boy's voice a little clearer.
[♪ Humming stops ♪]
Finn's green eyes then met his; the boy smiled — waving goodbye — as gnarled and taloned hands emerged from behind his head, out of the dark, and covered his mouth, before gaunt, ashen arms embraced him and dragged the boy away from the light at the altar.
[Riley, slurred — in English]
"Finn? Wait, come back! Where'd you take him?" said Riley. He was drooling, hardly able to move his numb lips; the lad's throat was dry, his voice hoarse, as though he'd been screaming all night at karaoke. "Where's Finn? Bring him back, you monsters!"
The switch he'd flipped on in his frenzy had lit a spotlight, which glared to a diameter of about fifty metres, he realised: smooth, stone-pillared terrain as far as Riley could see; rising and falling, as though to a maestro's gestures.
The spotlight itself was odd: its glare wasn't shining down at him, but up from under him.
The glare reached about as high up as it went wide; and that's where it got strange. Riley saw the stalactites bend most of the pale light out and round their lattices, so the middle — where the Batfolk hovered, and had likely hung asleep — remained relatively dark.
These were colossal, crystalline structures, and, as though prisms of a sort, he realised, the stalactites separated brighter shades of light from darker ones — those sickly, aphotic-neon flares gathered like wisps of irreverent prayer round sinful hearts, altogether flattering to the Batfolks' unholy, yet sculpted, features.
The lad wondered how he'd missed all that for so long, but the strangeness could wait — Riley had to talk to Finn.
The logical part of his brain, mostly working again, told him the boy he'd seen had to have been a hallucination invoked by his hums; Finn died years ago. But the emotional part wanted Riley to find out — not so much for certainty's sake, but to feel whole again, even for a fleeting moment.
How did it go again? he thought.
[♪ Hums to opening theme song — out of tune ♪]
Riley remembered the melody well enough, yet he couldn't find his tune; the lad's throat ached — it was raw. How long had he been humming? Riley tasted iron when he swallowed — paper cuts all the way down his throat.
But that wouldn't stop him, would it?
Riley had to see Finn again… what for, exactly? The lad couldn't say, and it twisted his guts that he didn't know.
But he carried on.
[♪ Hums, breathless — off-key ♪]
Despite humming till his vocal cords bled, Riley hadn't returned to that state of altered awareness, nor was he spirited away to a bed of straw or the warmth of a tender, motherly embrace — let alone those bittersweet childhood memories Finn had haunted for years.
That harrowing, musical daydream he longed for wouldn't flirt back with the tone-deaf, ostensibly.
[♪ Hums fade to soft sobs ♪]
Something tugged at his heart then, stung his eyes, and laboured his breathing; Riley couldn't have named it, had he all the time in the world — and he didn't. For those creatures he'd tried desperately to ignore had caught up to his thoughts when he'd stopped humming, and demanded Riley's attention.
The lad took a deep breath; then and there was all that mattered. Riley buried the feeling he couldn't name and swore to find his way to Finn after he survived whatever happened next.
[Insomniac Batfolk screech]
[Air rumbles with mana]
Riley turned all his attention to the blue; his thoughts felt his again, and his mind wasn't spiralling anymore. He could mostly ignore the tingling sizzle inside him. But Riley didn't count on being as lucky with the bat creatures — or so he'd thought.
Until he realised the fiends had screeched at him all the while he'd been in a stupor, but did nothing to harm him, really — save for the mild strain on his eardrums. Why was that?
How long was he gone? A minute? Five? Longer, perhaps? He couldn't say, but he'd wandered to some of his mind's deepest recesses, and returned to his senses a man with room for better thoughts — happier thoughts.
Though that was likely not the time nor the place for either.
Strangest of all: somehow, he could read the captions quicker now. Where before Riley got the gist of it, now every word weighed heavy on his mind.
The blue still sickened him, but that alien writing wasn't as nauseating anymore.
Even his shoulders felt lighter.
If Riley hadn't known better, he might have thought the altar had finally let him go, and that the bat creatures were terrified of him. But his limbs were as dead as they had been before the music had made a muck of his brain, and he wasn't so delusional as to think a scrawny little human had intimidated those unholy things up there.
No, thought Riley. It's the light they're afraid of; that's why they cling to the stalactites!
Yes — he noticed that at least one creature would plummet down every twentieth second or so, without fail, only to reel back in an agonising shrill — like the light at the altar was holy water on its profane flesh.
Strange — Riley bathed in the photons, but they did nothing to him; the light wasn't even warm to the touch.
[Insomniac Batfolk screech]
Insomniacs? thought Riley.
So the captions had named the bat creatures — the Batfolk. Did they have trouble sleeping? Did light bother them? Is that why they'd sewn each other's eyes shut? Would they go away if he flipped the switch off?
[Air rumbles with mana]
And mana — magic, if I'm to trust the ghost of a nine-year-old.
The captions had repeated those two phrases, one after the other, whenever Batfolk plummeted toward the altar — ergo, Riley — but not before. Why not screech at him when as far from the supposedly harmful light as possible, if the creatures were going to be so bitter about it?
Better yet, break shards off the stalactites and drop the razor-sharp crystals onto the altar — that would certainly do a better job than screeching. Might shatter a lightbulb or two, even — perhaps a skull.
Were the Batfolk too batty to realise that?
Let's assume not, he thought. Could the crystalline material be too hard to chip away at?
No — Riley glanced at what looked like tools of a sort strapped to their waists: gnarled sticks with neon-blue crystals embedded in the wood, likely sourced from the stalactites — and the Batfolk knew to cover up, however meagre.
That reeked of intelligence.
The light clearly had their loincloths in a twist, though — like moths to a flame, almost. Did it mess with the Batfolks' heads like the music had his, then?
Was there something about them he didn't think to ask?
Riley felt silly for the thought; he understood very little of anything that was happening, really. Mana. Batfolk. Insomniacs. The subtitles gave him facts — or what he assumed were facts — but not the context, nor the freedom, to act on them; let alone protect himself.
Perhaps that was the wrong line of thought.
It was presumptuous of the lad to assume the Batfolk were out for his blood because they looked monstrous, wasn't it?
It's possible they just really like the dark, thought Riley. Better not write that off yet.
It wasn't too unlikely.
The Batfolk had done nothing to him until Riley flipped on the switch, after all. What if he looked monstrous to them — without wings, fangs, talons, or sewn-shut eyes? Let alone the decency to hide his nudity — not that the altar and those strings beneath his skin would let him do anything about that.
Could the Batfolk even see him?
They could find him, sure, with echolocation, or some magical equivalent thereof — Christ, Finn! — but could they see him with those eyes?
Cause and effect, thought Riley. Something's not right here.
[Breathes deeply]
The pupils of his dark eyes dilated, as if a pair of maws devouring what little light there was and every single detail its photons carried. Riley took in the maddening aerial waltz, hardly blinking.
The Batfolk cut through the air at deranged paces, veering between and swooshing through towering basalt columns straight out of Iceland — awe-inspiring, striking, holy. The altar he lay on stood on one such pillar.
[Insomniac Batfolk screech]
[Air rumbles with mana]
…
[Insomniac Batfolk screech]
[Air rumbles with mana]
…
Pedantic flashes of blue; it went on.
…
Descent, twenty-second screech.Mana rumble. Ascent. Minute-long silent hover in the neon-dark. Repeat, thought Riley. Why that order? Why not try something different?
It was like clockwork.
No — after a while, Riley noticed an irregularity: some Batfolk screeched during their ascent, so it wasn't unthinkable that they could do it at terminus, hidden in the shadows of the stalactites. They certainly had the vocal cords for it — yet chose not to.
But what about the rumbling mana?
That spark licked his bowels when the Batfolk were in free fall; it burnt when they got too close, but eased — almost disappearing — as they flew back up.
Is mana… magic proximity-bound, a reactive phenomenon? thought Riley. Perhaps the Batfolk screech because they feel the burn, too — relative to mine?
A fascinating possibility, but it raised more questions than he had answers to.
For one thing, Riley didn't feel any different laying on that altar — so why had he never sparked those sizzles inside someone else, or felt them himself, say, when he bumped shoulders with strangers, hung an arm round a mate's shoulder, or was intimate with a woman — unless butterflies and orgasms counted as mana rumbles?
The best of those were proximity-bound, after all — and Lord, did they burn!
[Chuckles]
What if mana's partial, too? thought Riley. The Batfolk seem alright despite hovering so close to one another, don't they? Like I am around people — humans. Why does it burn only when the monsters get close? Is magic bigoted? Yeah, about as bigoted as the opposite poles of a magnet are romantic, I'll bet.
The Batfolk feel the burn, too, most likely; an equal and opposite reaction to mine, I'll assume — is mana a force? I don't think it's sentient. Can the Batfolk apply it, then? Like scientists — no, wizards do? Are those sticks actually wands?
Questions upon questions, he had.
Introspection and observation together had got the lad somewhere, but hardly far enough; he needed context to escape, and that demanded action — risk.
From the moment Riley awoke in the dark, and on that altar, he'd been averse to doing the only thing he could, because it had felt like something his captor wanted him to do. He couldn't help that the altar pulled at the twine beneath his skin, but wouldn't let it string his mind along.
Riley had realised something about his captor; the lad had played the altar's thrall for long enough to learn that he could only push the beast so far off its intended path — the path it wanted for Riley — before it punished him.
The altar allowed Riley uninhibited movement of his hands and feet — how he'd unwittingly pulled at that first lever that slackened his neck, and later flipped on the switch whose light maddened the Batfolk — but tightened its grip when he moved any other appendage too vigorously.
Earlier, he'd made baby sounds to probe the subtitles' limits, but inadvertently tested the altar, too; Riley's silly expressions and sounds did nothing until he laughed. The subtle musculature of his laughter had the strings beneath his skin trembling, ready to prowl — he supposed that's what sent tingles up his neck and face.
Riley's inability to even scream when the audience had him lurching only confirmed that suspicion: move that way; and if the other, only this much — that's what Riley heard the altar say repeatedly.
But why free his hands and feet alone?
Riley had felt gears, levers, switches, and so on inside the beast's belly — beneath him, where his arms hung limp at the altar's sides and fingers squirmed between its gaping ribs of steel; his toes treaded knobs and buttons at its mouth — the rugged basalt on which Riley's feet rested, where someone had chiselled runes in the stone.
Was he supposed to press, pry, and pull at those with his hands and feet only, to escape? Were those the rules of that twisted game?
Most likely, thought Riley. There's a possible time limit to the numbing, too — depending on… what? The intensity with which I move an impermissible appendage?
Yes — it was hard to tell exactly how much time had passed, but perhaps only a handful of minutes earlier, or so, he'd lost the ability to move the muscles in his face.
Punishment for trying to move everything all at once when I heard the voices in the dark, he thought.
Riley could somewhat move his lips now; the tingles were almost unbearable — but that meant he could feel the sensation returning to his face. So yes: a time limit.
But that raised a glaring question — what about the rest of him?
[Insomniac Batfolk screech]
[Air rumbles with mana]
Riley woke up naked and with dead limbs on an arcane altar; his sense of time was altogether unreliable, but if the lad had to hazard a guess, he'd been up for at least half an hour.
If his face went from unfeeling to tingly within a handful of minutes, why hadn't the rest of him regained sensation already?
Riley didn't know how long he was unconscious, or lost to that woman's hums; it could have been hours — yet his arms, legs, groin, and torso, up to his neck, weren't tingly. He couldn't feel them at all.
Curious — why was that?
Games, even the hardest, needed consistent rules to be thrilling; and this was almost certainly a morbid escape room inspired by a tabletop RPG. There were many things about it Riley couldn't make sense of — things too real to be special effects — but at least that much was true.
Considering his options was strategic, Riley told himself; he wasn't procrastinating on pulling a lever, pushing a button, or turning a knob because he was afraid of what that might do — surely.
No — Riley would be thoughtful about that. So the lad flirted with four likely scenarios to the numb-body problem.
First, he'd had an especially intense and visceral reaction to the dark and the altar when he initially awoke, such that the strings subdued him with a might so furious he'd lost consciousness; and the time limit, given the severity of his defiance, had yet to lapse — but why didn't he remember any of that happening?
Second, the time limit was longer for appendages bigger than his face — though something he knew was below his waist, but would much rather have felt, disagreed. Or, more likely, he imagined, longest for appendages that directly conflicted with the game's supposed rules.
If Riley could sit up, he'd know exactly which button to push at his feet, or at least make a more informed guess, so the altar left his torso numb; and if he could stand, the lad might have simply leapt off the beast instead of dirtying his hands in its guts.
Riley's face allowed him no such freedom; that somewhat explained why the flesh of his face went from numb to tingly quicker.
But not why I can't feel my willy, he thought. I couldn't turn a knob or push a button with that… okay, maybe I could push a button — if my life depended on it, and it does. Fair. But if we're nitpicking, yeah, what about the family jewels? Surely they don't conflict with the game's rules? Is this a game at all? Ugh. Make your bed and lie in it, McCultleader!
[Clicks tongue]
Third — and most likely, if only for a lack of plausible contradiction — Riley had lost the ability to move his limbs well before he lay on the altar. The lad remembered little of what had happened before he awoke there, so he had nothing to say about that.
Fourth — and surprisingly, least likely — he truly was having a stroke, as he'd earlier supposed. But that his face went from numb to tingly to feeling and back to numb again because of a stimulus whose mechanics he could reliably trigger, predict, and, to an extent, influence told him otherwise.
[Insomniac Batfolk screech]
[Air rumbles with mana]
Riley held his breath as one of the Batfolk lunged in a deep arch, almost touching him; the spark sizzled its hottest, and, frankly, Riley thought that was the end of that. He'd die naked and bound, unable to even scream — but at least he wouldn't feel those ceramic teeth dig into his flesh… until they got to his face.
The lad considered lurching as hard as he could, until the altar numbed every part of him in one final, spiteful act of defiance. But the creature reeled back up, like all the rest before it had — thankfully; Riley smelled burning flesh in its wake.
That settled it; he had to retaliate.
Riley wiggled his hands and feet; all twenty digits were cold and numb — he wished that was the altar's doing, that he might have excused it. The lad clenched his hands and feet for a breath.
Riley's left-hand fingers then wormed inside the beast's belly, probing — gently. His right foot's toes stroked a metallic knob's dial, tracing the graduations chiselled in the basalt surrounding it.
Numerals? he thought. Should be numerals, given the dial — yeah; they're definitely not Roman nor Indo-Arabic.
Riley was itching to turn the knob, to do anything, really, but didn't want what had happened with the lever happening again; he wasn't about to learn the hard way what it did — not until the lad had context, however vague.
So he turned his attention back to familiar terrain — the beast's belly. There was far more for him to poke and pry in there, anyway; and, if he was lucky, Riley would give the altar a bellyache while he was at it.
The lad was looking for something whose use he already had the context for — definitely not the lever, thank you very much.
That proved easier mused than done, and for more reasons than one.
An experienced mechanic might find a diesel engine's carburettor blindfolded and take apart the guzzler while at it — but could a novice? Given time and a rigorous manual? Sure.
But then the novice wouldn't be a novice any longer, thought Riley.
Similarly, a cultist, numbed and strung like a marionette to an arcane altar, might disembowel the fiendish blood-sucker with sickening ease — but could a hapless sacrifice? With the threat of death looming, and insidious subtitles for a guide? Certainly; Riley could see himself doing that.
But he very much didn't like the idea of possibly becoming a cultist himself as he did.
Christ, this can't be a morbid initiation ritual, can it? he thought. What — escapees become cult members? Meetings every Thursday and such; while captives garner favour in blood? Someone's got to feed the cult leader's unholy beasts, and you can either be the food or the hand that feeds — is it?
That gnawing feeling, like he was being strung along, came crashing down again. But what could he do about it?
Riley grit his teeth and gently tapped everything he was certain wasn't a button with his fingers.
Nothing happened, and his heart skipped a beat; this was Riley's ace in the hole — the final, and only, trick up his sleeve.
It had to work.
The lad settled his breathing and tried again, harder this time — so hard that he was certain the pain that shot up his fingernail had left a blood clot; but Riley grinned as he heard that delightful metallic clang he'd hoped for, and saw the flashes of blue say something they hadn't before.
[Flicks Mana Core]
That sounds important, he thought.
The hair on Riley's skin had stood on end when he'd briefly touched it: spherical, polished metal, warm, and sizzling with that spark Finn had told him was magic; but whatever a Mana Core was, it certainly wasn't what Riley was looking for — at least not yet.
He took a mental note of its location and moved on.
Long, ribbed cords this time; each connected to the Mana Core in a tangled mess. Riley delicately pulled at one — the material was cold and elastic; a quasi flesh-metallic composite, he supposed. Someone had etched that arcane, runic language chiselled in the basalt at his feet all over the cord.
Faint rumbles of a fluid unmistakably in flow carried from it and seeped into Riley's bones; as his fingers precariously pulled on the cord for a better feel, it was like he'd suddenly touched a live wire — only "electricity" didn't course into him, but out of Riley's body.
He gasped and let go of the cord; it met the tangle with a roiling, hissing sound.
[Mana conduits rattle]
[Arcane mechanism groans]
If the strings beneath his skin were of a single mind, whatever he'd done to the altar had them writhing and lashing out wildly; his flesh tingled, prickled, and twitched all at once.
It didn't hurt, but it was nauseating and sent a ticklish sensation down his spine.
Riley clenched his jaw, shut both eyes, and took slow, deep breaths as the flare-up passed. The lad clung desperately to what he'd learnt; it was quite a bit, and well worth the episode.
The conduits transport… mana? Yes — mana, to the Core, thought Riley. Is it both ways? Like blood vessels? If mana goes in, what comes out? Is it still mana, but changed somehow? Assuming they're magical arteries, is the Mana Core a heart or a brain? Four quid says it's a heart — but the conduits likely feed into the brain, too; whatever that is. How's that for context? Not bad. I didn't quite manage a bellyache, but I definitely gave the beast a heart murmur — so cheers to that!
What he'd learnt left a crooked smile on Riley's face, but again, he couldn't afford to linger until he'd found what he was looking for. He'd unintentionally flicked it once already; the lad could do it again, so he went on.
[Scratches arcane circuit]
[Taps mana condenser]
…
[Grazes lightbulb]
Riley held his breath; he was getting close.
…
[Rubs light switch array]
Finally, he'd found the switch again, and there was more than one. It was time to see what the light truly did to the Batfolk.