Gostra's body ached as he heaved himself closer in an attempt to figure out where his kidnappers might have brought him. He became steadfast, believing that he could negotiate his way out of this strange abode, and then he peered out the nearby window…
“N-NO!” He screamed upon viewing something which made his blood run cold.
“This can’t be… real! dammit!” His fear compelled his body to shake uncontrollably as he tried to comprehend what he couldn't understand, what was out there… what it was.
“This isn't rea—oh god.”
A pillar ascended in the distance, colossal to the extent that it could possibly be seen from any corner of the Earth. An intangible object radiating in a dark, ethereal luminescence. Particles shades blacker than midnight hovered around the immense structure, a structure encircled by the walls of a deep canyon… something deep within the depths of an almost bottomless pit.
The skies—what’s happened to them?!
Half of the world above had been shaded a hue of dark velvet; the Sun was replaced with a shadowed spiral which emitted an aura while standing in stark contrast to its counterpart, making this place appear to be another world in itself. He could see a towering silhouette, one whose upper half reached into the heavens. The obscured figure of a creature capable of demolishing the world due to its sheer size. Something monstrous, a Being that didn't belong in the Executive's reality.
Furthermore…
… Something much more dangerous lurked steadily in the hidden confines of this realm, a presence acutely felt by Gostra—as if a pair of celestial eyes had affixed themselves to his existence as a prisoner.
A hulking shadow slowly descended over the land in sight of the Executive. This creature had arisen as a horrible plague, one bearing nothing but destruction in mind of everything in its sight. A monstrous figure which spanned the breadth of the atmosphere, passing through as a dark cloud, concealing the world above in its entirety.
I have to hide! Whatever that Thing is—I-I think it’s coming for me!!
He pivoted around to view only more of the bare wall behind him and pressed his hands against it to check if it was actually real. Tomas felt its cold surface and stepped away before searching the pockets of his robe for his cell phone; they were empty. His kidnappers had taken everything.
He ran his hands over his face and the rest of his body while searching for any wounds but found nothing noticeable or significant. Upon inspecting the room once again, he noticed only a wooden table atop which was set what appeared to be a pipe designed for opioid use.
Within the pipe, someone had already prepared a substance and had deliberately placed it in the room.
I don't understand…
Marvin Gaye continued playing in the background, a more soothing constant in an inexplicable situation.
“Welcome, Executive.”
Swift and unexpected, the composition of the wall before Tomas Gostra began to falter before diminishing entirely within rivulets shuddering in opposition to the structure of space around them. An opaque monitor appeared in its stead, refining itself to focus on a well-dressed individual wearing a mask; one quite human-like, perhaps signifying its authenticity and devoted craftsmanship. The visage of the object had been perfected to the extent that the stranger could've genuinely looked like someone else had he the desire.
“I hope you're well.” He smiled briefly and didn't wait for a response from the Executive. Sweat beaded on the speaker's forehead above the outline of the mask as he grew more serious.
“It appears that you've finally come to—hopefully to a song you'll enjoy because I know I always have. To be completely honest with you, Marvin Gaye is a classic artist deserving of any serious connoisseur’s collection, don't you think?”
“Please.” Gostra decided he would go with the most human approach in this situation. “Let's just talk about this, sir; I do—”
“For a variety of reasons, honestly.” Amour interrupted him while waving him off as he continued, “His voice, his words, and his music have always held a significant place in my heart, and by the end of this journey, Gostra—if you survive it, that is…” He creased a smile almost sincerely. “I hope to teach you much about him.”
Amour folded his arms while resting his chin between thumb and index finger as he assumed a more ponderous stance. “By now, you're probably wondering why you've been taken to this… beautiful place only to be held captive in a trap—but unfortunately, buddy,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “I can't tell you anything until you've made a little more progress. What’s more, esteemed Citadel actor and writer, Masomi Kegan, says that one should pursue experience as… a mentor.” Amour chuckled, retaining a somewhat cheery but deadly demeanor. “Namuel East also said, 'If I were to eat a face, I'd start with the nose.' He was convicted and executed for cutting up twenty people—but moving along. We're about to get to know each other a little bit, Gostra, and you should be excited that we get to take the first step together; right here, right now!”
The dead eyes of the mask bore into Tomas. He was near speechless, as he believed none of this could truly exist.
He shouted, “What is this?!”
Amour sighed and struggled to contain his fury at the outburst. What insolence, he thought. “You just don't have the Beauty, Gostra. That's why you feel you have to compensate—and now we're off topic because it's always about your shortcomings isn't it, Tomas?”
The Executive remained silent, unsure of what might provoke the man who'd kidnapped him. He's insane. Did he do all this himself?
“Continuing on from our prior conversation—that you FUCKED UP!” Amour started angrily before hastily regaining his composure and exhaling, “Marvin had a harder life than most. You see, G, He went through a series of difficult relationships with people, unfair setbacks in his personal career, and urges that drove him to a familiar addiction many of us can often fall into: freebase cocaine.” His twisted smiled returned. “I can relate a lot to someone of that kind of caliber, Gostra, can you say the same? Do you experience anything that doesn't have to do with some valueless political game?”
“I just want—”
“I didn't ask you to speak just now, Tomas.” Amour glared at him for a moment before speaking again, albeit much more reticently. “We aren't in the Citadel anymore, so there's no reason for all the bullshit. Go ahead, Tomas pal, enjoy yourself here…”
Amour stared at him, a quiet darkness seeming to surround him.
“Or, you can die of starvation in this room.” Amour shrugged. “It's happened before, and that is the first challenge I present to you. My name is Amour; my work… it's everything to me.”
And in an instant, the screen turned stark white and then transfigured itself to form the wall it had been previously.
“Was all of that…” The Executive was overwhelmed. “Can this really be happening?”
Tomas Gostra tensed. He continued looking around for an exit but found no possible way out of the room. As a last resort, he began feeling along each wall for a long period of time and for the duration of the music being played… but it never ceased.
It's so cold here, he thought and shivered while vigorously rubbing his hands together.
He decided that he couldn't stay confined to this room, that he wouldn't give up no matter what the circumstances turned out to be.
-
Several hours long after appearance of Amour, the Executive sat crouched in a corner feeling defeated.
His stomach rumbled, and so he refocused on Amour's instructions and picked up the pipe after staring at it for some time. The last drug he'd consumed had been some low-grade weed rolled into a joint when he was just a teenager. Gostra was now in disbelief at the fact that he'd have to stoop to this level after having publicly condemned drug usage for so long in his own career.
With trembling hands, the Executive lit up the pipe and slowly inhaled for a few passing moments before instantly beginning to cough and dropping th
e apparatus, which shattered upon contact with the floor. Tomas dry heaved for a few more seconds before feeling a euphoric rush following the sudden dissipation of his previous hunger.
His thoughts altered themselves, and his anxiety grew to abnormally large proportions.
This monster puts people in cells and gets them hooked? Is this all a sick joke to him?!
He peered at the ceiling and shouted belligerently: “What's the next step, Amour? What do you want me to do—just tell me already!”
The Executive sat on the ground and started laughing while attempting to enjoy the high. “This shit is ridiculous; does the bastard think he's some kind of vigilante?”
Soon after his vision had become blurred, a narrow section of the wall beside the table resonated with a high-pitched noise as it ascended to reveal what seemed to be an exit.
There has to be a way to win this. He can't just kill someone like me; I’m an Executive of the Citadel!
Tomas, barely retaining a grasp of both his sanity and consciousness, stood and moved toward the opening with haste. He peered down the following hallway and gasped upon seeing a narrow corridor drenched in dried blood. A scarlet river had expanded to drown everything before him, and the hallway darkened as he slowly inched his way through the area. As he progressed, cringing as his feet tread through the carnage, it became pitch black around him. The Executive stumbled back in pain after accidentally kicking over a bucket filled with some kind of liquid. As it quickly flowed over his feet, he looked down to see a pool of red next to an organ.
A heart coated in a golden paint… an unfinished project. Two radial bones had been sharpened, refined, and thrust through the heart to symbolize something obscure to Gostra.
“What. The. Hell.”
He felt ill but decided against pausing, as stopping in a place such as this could break him for good this time. Tomas Gostra trudged through the thick tide of blood and came to a plain, wooden door displaying a note.
It read as followed:
“I know about you, Tomas. I know what you did to Zone D, and it's actually very brilliant, my friend. You created your own homes for the wealthy and an area to concentrate those in poverty. Out of all the Executives in the Citadel, you have the best overall stats for your designated Zone. The rate of growth is exceptional and isn't often privy to riots and crime on the same intensity as other Zones. They've even begun to worship you in the streets; not only that, but your voice in the government is certainly one to be heard.
… But I know about your secrets, Executive; in fact, I know all the deals you've made in the background. That's right, you and Ekwueme were good chums; by using one psychotic kingpin, you would have had all criminal activities under your watchful eye—after he relocated to you, of course.
You forced the poorest of the population into dirty shacks you had built and, using Ekwueme as a shepherd to concentrate all major players into one general area, you'd have complete dominion over your Zone's underground revenue. That was smart, Tomas—plus, whenever you wanted to, the police department could boost their stats by looking for busts in the same place over and over again. You would own it all, and so far, you've had it easy, buddy.
The good news is that I think you'll be very useful to me, Tomas… just don't piss me off. It's more for your sake than mine.”
Tomas Gostra opened the door to the immediate blaring of Marvin Gaye's “If I Should Die Tonight” and peered to see a conveyor belt running several feet past circular, whirring steel saw blades that swung back and forth at varying intervals. They'd been bloodied and strewn with the gore of previous victims of this nightmare.
Below the conveyor, there was a seven foot drop to a series of yellow tiles; beyond those tiles and down a flight of steps, there stood a large and transparent glass wall. Directly in front of the wall—on Tomas's side—there was an electronic screen enclosed by a panel containing two different buttons, ones which resembled human knuckles. Only a few feet in front of that sat a wooden device shaped in the likeness of an arm cast but separated into two parts by two steel, beveled rods on its left and right sides and complete with a turn-able horizontal knob on top.
Behind the glass wall, the Executive noticed a sectioned off portion of a dead forest. A light shone from above a glass ceiling window to highlight a very familiar woman. She'd been strapped and secured to an open iron maiden device; the victim was bound and gagged. Upon recognizing her, the Executive sprinted forward and stepped on a particular tile right before the belt…
It acted as the trigger which consequently led to the door of the iron maiden to slowly close on the woman. As a result, Tomas moved toward her but stopped immediately before the first whirring blade and hesitated for a moment before dashing past it.
Easier than I thought!
He halted before three more that had been positioned together in much more narrow intervals. Gostra strutted closer to his objective at a steady pace and waited a minute in order to time his next move perfectly…
In an instant, the middle-aged Executive lunged forward and barely managed to avoid the final saw as it severed the back portion of his robe and slightly clipped his shoulder.
Without further notice, another blade emerged unexpectedly from the west end and whirled in his direction! Gostra ducked with all the speed he could muster and, in turn, received a deep gash in his back that caused him to yelp in pain. He quickly ran to the glass and used his fists to begin punching the barrier! Skin tore away from his bleeding knuckles as the Executive despondently sank to his knees. The drug was starting to override his sense of feeling.
The doors to the iron maiden were only inches away from making contact with the woman's skin, and Tomas cried out in despair, “Just tell me what you want! Please! Please stop this shit!”
“Hold on there…” A voice echoed from deep within the room.
The Executive desperately looked around before noticing a speaker that had been placed in the top right ceiling corner. The voice appeared to be that of a woman's.
“Here you will have to make a choice. The selected victim is a local 'Madam' with whom you've worked very closely in the past. The profits she netted you were used to purchase a series of new vineyards from Exquisite Fine Dining Incorporated, which you later used to manufacture a new line of wine products mixed with semi-illegal substances leading to killer sales in the market. After that success, you diversified and invested in the same company's shares, and that's where you struck your biggest profit for the Zone… The pimp's name is Loretta Vanity, who you've protected for some time now. It's also a lesser known truth that you've made use of her… services personally. An Executive, the standard for righteousness in a city always needing a leader.”
“How do I save her?! Hurry!”
The device seemed to have frozen for a moment.
“Patience. Executive, there are certain expectations required of men like you. This process was designed to push you in the right direction. Amour says this is for you.”
“Just tell me what the fuck I have to do to stop this madness!” Tomas was already covered in sweat and grew red as his anxiety soared to new heights; his psyche had begun corroding.
“The instrument behind you contains three, small sharp spikes within it. If you believe her life has any value, that it is worth saving, then all you have to do is put one of your forearms inside and trust that everything will work out for the best. Once the knob connects and I see that you have done as asked, the iron maiden will be completely disarmed.”
The Executive looked to the device and then at Loretta before gazing back toward it once more.
If I'd known that going into politics would've led to this…
As he kneeled in order to reluctantly slip his arm into the device, the intercom began to emit Amour's voice this time:
“Marvin Gaye was born as Marvin Pentz Gay Jr. It turns out that he added an 'e' onto the end of his last name because people used to make the joke: 'Is Marvin gay?' Funny, right? Hilarious. Not
only that, but his father was a callous man who regularly beat him as he was growing up! Very harsh.”
The device rapidly clamped down across his arm…
Sharp needles dug themselves through his skin and pierced bone as the device tightened itself against his resistance!
Breathing heavily, his vision blurring, and screaming in agony, Tomas attempted to turn the knob in the opposite direction. He trembled as blood seeped from the tight crevices of the torture instrument. The thought of the spikes being brought into a more significant portion of his bone marrow intensified Gostra's nerves, and he tried to focus on the song itself; he felt truly helpless, his condition worsening as partial shock triggered across his body in conjunction with the opium. Although this world felt imaginary, like a dream easily forgotten within the vastness of time, the pain he experienced was more real and compelling than most of what he'd gone through his entire life.
This blunt, savage torture…
A voice radiated from somewhere within the room this time. “I've always been an avid listener of music I find to be much more… soulful. 'If I Should Die Tonight' was originally conceived by a man calling himself Ed Townsend, someone from the Old World.”
A fog gathered before thickening into a small vortex in the fabric of reality. From this portal, pieces of a figure began to assemble themselves into Amour and his familiar blue blazer overlaying a vanilla undershirt complemented by a navy tie spotted with white.
Amour smiled at the Executive from behind the glass, and he appeared to think he was being charming—perhaps even generous. “The story goes that Ed Townsend met a woman he found so top-notch, so refined that he just had to speak to her. The two of them were both in committed relationships, and once they'd gotten close the woman was quoted as telling him that they couldn't be together as it seemed unwise to 'build happiness on the misery of others.' At the end of their conversation, Townsend responded to this, poetically, with: '…if I should die tonight, Lord, before my time, I won't die blue 'cause I've known you.'”
The apparatus being manipulated to impale his arm had finally ceased functioning. Gostra's left arm pulsated heavily as he struggled to compose himself.
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