Sinclair, Interrupted

As the din of rustling paper faded, Sinclair's senses were abruptly and painfully overwhelmed. He was blinded by harsh, bright light while trying not to gag on the hard object jammed in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, bringing with it the taste metallic taste of blood and a bitter chemical. More unidentified chemicals assaulted his nose, making his head spin. Hands gripped him hard, combining with tight straps that bound him to a cold, hard surface. Shouting filled his ears, voices blurring together to create a wall of noise plastered with a regular but very rapid high pitched beep.

He quickly started adjusting, green and white clad figures with masks hovered over him, a light even brighter than the ones strapped to Maverick's flying contraption shining behind them.

"Everything ready for the next jolt?" was the first sound he was able to distinguish through the blur of noise, shouted from right by his ear. "Good, begin the next cycle now."

Next cycle of what? Sinclair wanted to ask. But with the thing in his mouth he couldn't get a word out. Thankfully the question was driven from his head by a sudden surge of absolute agony. Every nerve felt like it was on fire! His limbs were spasming uncontrollably, straining against the straps. He wanted to scream but even his own throat was against him! He didn't even know how he was still breathing.

After what felt like eternity the pain stopped and his body stilled.

"I think that's enough for one session," a voice from somewhere by his feet said. "Let's get him back to recovery."

"We going to dose him first?" the voice by his head asked. "Give him his medication?"
"Probably wise. It's close enough to his normal time anyway."

Oh he did not like the sound of that! He flinched away as violently as he could, which got him exactly nowhere, when he felt a scratch against his arm, followed by a faint stinging sensation.

It became considerably harder to keep track of anything after that.

***

Sinclair had his eyes open and was staring up at the ceiling before he even realised he was awake. A pure white ceiling stretched out above him, a painfully bright light just out of eye-line shedding light over everything. He tried to shift and found that he couldn't; straps round his torso and each limb, digging in to prevent every movement. He thought he should be bothered by this. It seemed the sort of thing he should be worried about. But it far easier to just accept it and lie there.

A comfortingly familiar wrinkled face swam into view. Father Benedict, the man who'd all but raised him! He was home. But...how? Father Benedict's Paris was nowhere near Paris. How had he got here?

Bright light from an entirely different source, a small black tube to be in the priest's hand, shone directly into his eyes. He squeezed them shut and turned away. The priest made a noise of alarm.

"Father Benedict," he croaked, his voice sounding pathetically weak and rusty. "Where am I? What's happening?"

"Doctor Benedict, Sinclair," the man said soothingly. "It's doctor." A cool hand rested against his forehead. "It's okay Sinclair, there's nothing to be alarmed about. You're back in the hospital now. You're safe."

Safe? But he was never safe. He always had to be on guard. Benedict himself said that even the house of God had been built by mere men and so was more than capable of housing corruption and evil.

"I don't understand," he said weakly, his voice barely scraping above a whisper. "I don't..." He closed his eyes and turned away from the light. "It's too bright."

"There's still a lot of sedative in your system," Benedict said in that same gentle voice. "The world will make more sense when that's worn off." He smiled, a new network of wrinkles erupting across his face. "It's good to see you again Sinclair. It's been far too long."

***

The Tunnels stretched out for miles. The air was heavy and oppressive with a dank stench that only eased when a warm gust blew through the passages, bringing with it an entirely different foulness. Almost like a breath.

It was pitch black in the tunnels aside from the feeble light thrown out by a cracked and broken torch lying abandoned on the floor. It shone out over a cracked and peeling wall, a bloody hand print smeared from the centre of the beam out into the darkness.

The silence had been broken some time ago by the screaming. But it was quiet now. The broken sobbing that replaced the screaming had ceased, leaving just the sound of something heavy being dragged through the darkness.

On the very edge of the torch light a small puddle of shadow uncurled. The Shadow Loathing skittered across the path of light, the fading beam casting a blurry silhouette against the wall, before slipping through one of the larger cracks.

Behind him in the abandoned tunnel the dragging stopped, replaced by a faint rustle. Then, breaking the relative silence was a thick wet crack, and the satisfied sound of chewing.

***

The world didn't make any more sense in the morning. Everything was so bright. And loud. The clock ticking in Benedict's stark office was like a physical blow, rattling around in his skull, crashing against his thoughts to slap them forming and kind of order.

"This is a hospital Sinclair," Benedict said, from his armchair across the small office. His voice was barely audible next to the clock's thunderous ticking. Sinclair had to stare at his mouth and lip read to understand. "A facility for the mentally ill. You've been here for years undergoing treatment."

Sinclair shook his head, not willing to refute this with words if he didn't have to. His voice sounded alien to his own ears, rough and weak from lack of use.

"Do you remember any of our time together?" the doctor pressed on. "It can take a little while for the memories to properly assert themselves, but they should have started coming back by now." Frankie's face came into his head, not as sharp as it been previously. "Do you remember me at all?" Sinclair slowly nodded his head. "What do you remember?"

"I got a letter from you," Sinclair mumbled. "Telling me to go to Paris. That there was a vampire problem to take care of..." he trailed off at the expression on Benedict's face.
"I'm sorry Sinclair, but that memory is not real. I'm not a priest. I have never been a priest. I am your doctor here."

Sinclair shook his head. Why was Benedict saying this? There must be some reason for it but Sinclair couldn't think what it could be. His thoughts were too scrambled and trying to reorganise them was giving him a headache. He just didn't understand what was happening and couldn't work out why!

"I know it's difficult to hear," Benedict said, the soothing tone destroyed by the harsh tick tick tick and the rustle of paper whenever he moved. "But you've been in a catatonic state for the better part of two years, trapped in a fantasy world of your own creation."

"No," Sinclair said, shaking his head again. "No, there was a man down in the catacombs...Mudd I think was his name. He wanted me to fix a book, a magic book." Was that right? The memory was fuzzy, distorted. Accessing it was like swimming through tar, a lot more effort than it was probably worth. "The book of stories. I had to fight in a duel..." He glanced down at the hand where Irial's sword had caught him. There was a flesh coloured patch of fabric pressed over it. "See, this is where I was injured." He looked back up to see Benedict shaking his head.

"The book of stories is an exercise we tried with you the last time you were gone so long," he said. "Its function is designed to have your mind naturally enter a state where you'll awaken again. Given the length of time you've been gone and the increased length of time it's taking you to remember I'm not sure I'll call it a success..." He shrugged. "But it is early days."

"No, no you don't understand," Sinclair said. "It's not something I just made up. It really happened; it's really happening." One coherent solid thought made its way through the maze that was his mental state and presented itself. "This is the next story! I went to the next floor in the tower and I'm in the next story." But if that was the case then why was Father (Doctor?) Benedict here? He wasn't part of the book.

"All right," Benedict said, lifting his arms in a calming gesture. "Say this is still the book. You clearly know more about how it works than me." He gave Sinclair a warm smile. "Why don't you tell me all about it?"

***

Smarmadine hated this place. He hated the dank smell of the air. He hated with the darkness. He hated the brief respite he got from both. He just hated absolutely everything about it. The crack in the wall he'd been forced to slink through hadn't led him anywhere interesting. He'd been forced to endure the same pitch black of the rest of this place with only a few primitive light devices serving to illuminate his way. He resentfully crawled over a few more in his path that hadn't survived nearly so well. The foul smell of blood was almost constant this close to the ground, a thin smear of it covering every square inch that wasn't already covered in muck and slime, staining the place with a metallic undertone.

As he crawled through the filth and refuse he started being able to see more of his hateful surroundings. The corridor slowly curved round until he came face to face with a staircase. There was a thin sliver of light shining out from a crack at the bottom. Unlike the torches this light had a dull red undertone to it and was flickering in a most unhealthy way. The metallic taste of blood in the air wasn't as strong here. The monster's reach likely didn't extend this far. There was a different smell though...harsh and acrid, burning the inside of his nose. It was almost enough to have him refusing to breathe through it out of sheer spite. But it likely wouldn't taste any better than it smelt.

He hissed in irritation as the door high above him burst open and a figure all but tumbled down the stairs, a light clutched in the thing's fist. He was dressed in the same grey uniform as the other body parts Smarmadine had seen scattered about the place in his travels and clearly wasn't any kind of subspecies of Kokoparvest. Humanoid from the look of him, with those rigid arms and distinct lack of a crest.

Smarmadine tried to scuttle out the way before the light from the creature's torch fell on him, but only succeeded in placing himself directly beneath the man's foot. Glowering up at the world the Shadow Loathing slowly reformed out of his resentful little puddle and scuttled back into the darkness. He'd had about all he could stomach of this mess. It was far beyond time to get back to Flume and make her think of something that wasn't sitting doing nothing or exploring for him to do.

He started crawling back the way he'd came, following the newcomer to the tunnels and using his torch to light the way. Smarmadine vaguely wondered how long this one would last until the Monster found him as well. Not that Smarmadine cared. He didn't like him anyway.

***

Sinclair couldn't seem to focus on anything. He'd tried telling Benedict about the book, a lingering fear starting to grow in his heart that his father figure had been caught up in the Book and Cast like he'd come so close to with the Viscount, but everything was slipping away from him. His memory had never been brilliant but it had been good enough to keep a clear image of recent events. But now even the dealings with Grace (Marissa? Which one had been which?) were blurring like a half forgotten dream.

He'd stopped trying to convince him after a while because he couldn't articulate anything properly. Hell, half the time he hadn't even been able to formulate the thought to even try articulating them.

"Sinclair? You really should eat something."

Sinclair blinked and looked up. One of the nurses that had escorted him to Benedict's office was standing over him, a concerned expression on his face.

"Aren't you hungry?"

He turned back to his plate. The least appetising meal he'd ever set eyes on. But he was hungry so he should eat. He just...forgot. He picked up his feeble looking knife and fork and joined the rest of the room in their silent chewing. After he'd forced down as much as he could tolerate a little clear cup of red and white things was set down in front of him.

Sinclair frowned at it. "What are those?"

"That's your medication, Sinclair," the nurse calmly explained. "You need to take it before you can join the others in social time."

All around him the other dead eyed patients were swallowing the things, chasing them down with water and then following their nurses out the vast hall.

Sinclair stared back down at the cup. "Was I taking these while catatonic?" he asked.
"We administered them intravenously," the nurse said. "But yes, you were still on them."
He was being drugged! That had to be it; why nothing felt quite right here, why he felt mentally numb and confused. And they wanted him to stay in this state?

He shook his head. "No...I don't want to take them."

"You do know I'm going to have to tell Dr Benedict about this. And that he'll want to speak with you."

Sinclair had figured as much and wasn't particularly fazed by this. He doubted the man could subject him to any more emotional turmoil today.

Sure enough a short while later, just as everyone else was being herded off to group therapy; he was collected and escorted to the good doctor's office. He looked considerably more frazzled than he had earlier.

Benedict steepled his hands and peered across his desk at Sinclair. "Luke tells me you refused your medication," he said calmly, tone bellying his appearance. "Would you mind telling me why?"

"I don't feel like myself," Sinclair said. "I feel...heavy. Confused. I can barely think, let alone think straight." Although his thoughts felt a little clearer now. Perhaps the drugs were starting to wear off. "If they're what's going this to me I do not want to take them."

Benedict gave a resigned sigh. "I know you must be feeling disorientated. Your delusion undoubtedly felt as real to you as this life does now, perhaps even more so. You are not going to feel completely like yourself again here until you've given yourself time to adjust."

Don't do it lad! Sinclair blinked. He could hear Henreich's voice clear as a bell inside his own head. It's poison! The book knows you've got wise to its tricks. It's turning your own mind against you! Sinclair shook his head to clear it. That was just his paranoia talking. There were stranger people his internal warning system could sound like. Benedict would never try to poison him, Cast or not.

Benedict was giving him a quizzical look. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not taking them," he said firmly, making his external voice override the internal chaos. "I really don't want to, please don't ask me to."

Benedict sighed. "I'm afraid it's not that simple. It's not just a case of wanting to avoid a relapse. Without your medication I'm afraid you can be very dangerous, both to yourself and others. The gash on your thigh? The cut hand, bruised head, and cracked ribs? Those were things you did to yourself."

Of course they'd say that Henreich whispered inside his head. That's just what they want you to believe.

"Why on earth would I have hurt myself?" Sinclair said. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"I'm sure it was perfectly in keeping with whatever you were mentally experiencing at the time," Benedict said patiently. "But that doesn't mean it was real. You are under constant surveillance in this facility and so I have the visual proof if you need it. But that's not the issue. Without your medication you pose a risk to yourself and others. I cannot permit you not to take them. One last time, will you cooperate and take them willingly?"

Sinclair could feel the nurses that brought him in here moving up to stand beside his chair. With his thoughts starting to clear he had a pretty good idea what would happen at his answer.

Unfortunately they were even quicker off the mark than he'd thought. He'd only just started to rise when strong hands clamped down on his arms, forcing him back into his seat. One of them shifted his grip to pull up Sinclair's sleeve. Dr Benedict had pulled out a syringe and was tapping it with his finger.

Unable to move his arms Sinclair kicked out violently at the heavy wooden desk. The result wasn't quite as he'd planned. Rather than knocking the desk into the good doctor he'd instead pushed off the heavy object, ripping himself out of the orderlies' grip. Unfortunately it also kicked his chair over, leaving him on his back at on awkward angle.
He surged to his feet, bringing the chair up and into one of the men in one smooth motion. It stopped him in his tracks, tripping over the wooden structure, but the other was free to tackle him to the floor. Sinclair tried to fight his way back to his feet but the other man was too strong and had the advantage. He almost managed to push him off, but then his fellow joined the grapple and Sinclair was well and truly pinned.

"A sedative too I think," Dr Benedict said, surprisingly calm considering what was happening. "To keep you calm until the medication has taken effect. And to ride out the next wave of electroshock therapy." Sinclair tried one last heroic surge to get back to his feet but to no avail. His arm was drawn out from beneath him, his sleeve pushed up. He felt the needle slide in, cold and sharp beneath his skin.

The fight went out of him as the drugs entered his system. Darkness started creeping into his vision. He'd be ready for the next time they wanted to drug him. Hopefully.

***

Tunnel Monster had abandoned the corpse some time ago but it was still a hell of a lot fresher than any of the others Flume had come across thus far. Maybe she'd finally be able to get something useful out of it. Cutting Monster fragment held between her teeth and one hand gripping her torch she used her free hand to drag the body back to the small room she'd set up as a base. Shoving aside the assorted piles of rubbish and body parts she'd accumulated for investigation thus far and pulled it into the largest open space she had available, taking the time to jamb the door to prevent any unwanted company. She's heard something prowling around trying to gain entrance and had absolutely no reason to believe it might be friendly.

It was in a better state than the other bodies had been...but it still wasn't good enough to properly identify the species. Not a kokoparvest, that much was obvious but then it had been obvious from the very start. The arm bones had been completely wrong and there was absolutely no sign of any sort of crest. They were bipedal, uncrested, mostly hairless, and had opposable thumbs. If the items in this room had been made by the same creatures, not something she could depend upon, they were capable of making and using tools, mostly mechanical but some more advanced ones requiring electricity. Unfortunately the organs had all been removed, most likely for consumption, and much of the skeletal structure had been destroyed by huge jagged teeth tearing it out, ruling out any definite identification for what the thing once was.

She was attempting to put the skull into some sort of order, see if that could yield any further clues, when the Shadow Loathing crawled up her body and settled itself on her arm. It looked even more displeased at the universe than usual.

"Well?" she asked after a moment. "What did you find out there?"

Smarmadine glared balefully up at her. "There's another way out without engaging with the creature," he said sullenly. "There's a door to a much better lit area. Someone came through it, down into the tunnels."

Flume frowned. "Are you sure it's a way out then? If this person was coming down into the tunnels maybe they were trying to get out."

Smarmadine shrugged. "Possibly. I didn't want to check."

Flume suppressed a sigh. "I suppose it needs to be investigated either way. I don't want to have to fight my way past that monster if I don't have to." Simply trying to sneak round it hadn't worked at all thus far. She got to her feet, Smarmadine reluctantly hanging off her arm. "Which way do we go first?"

There had been a rather nice set of guns in the assorted piles of junk in her little room, tied together by a set of ornate beads. She'd briefly debated changing Cutting Monster's blade for them, but they only had two bullets between them and were clearly designed to be used with thumbs. She figured she could probably use it, but it would hardly be comfortable. And with her current weapon she might have some defence against Tunnel Monster if she ran into him. It was probably too much to hope Tunnel Monster and Cutting Monster were friends but if the thing took her for Monster-Slayer she likely wouldn't stand a chance.

She carefully picked her way through the maze, taking care not to disturb the rotting rubbish that littered the floor and make undue nose. She smacked the torch against her palm when it started flickering (a tactic that seemed to work rather well, signs of very shoddy construction) when she heard it: a soft footfall behind her in the tunnel, ever so slightly out of sync with her own movements. She froze, mouth going dry and ears straining to hear anything else, make sure she hadn't just imagined the noise.

There was no logic to it, much less any evidence to back it up...but despite no sound following through Flume had the uncomfortable feeling something was there. An itching between her shoulder blades as if she was being watched, warm gusts of foul air flowing down the tunnel to the exact same rhythm as her deliberately slow, steady breathing. She carefully started moving again, listening carefully for any other noises. No sense being paranoid. She didn't want to start panicking until she knew there was something out there to be worried about.

Footfalls mimicking her own, stepping just a fraction out of time whenever she had to step round something. The faint scrape of metal against stone. Still nothing she considered definite proof but she felt she had some justification for her rising panic now. If it was there then judging by the way it was keeping time with her perfectly it wasn't just following her. It had found her and was just waiting for the right moment to strike.

Don't run she told herself. If it has found you and you run then it will chase you. And it knows these tunnels far better than you. There's no way you'll outrun it.

"Is there anywhere close by we can hide?" she quietly asked the Shadow Loathing. Maybe if she hid from it for a while it would lose interest and move on. Or at least delay a confrontation long enough to think of a way round it. She'd dealt with enough monsters here to know she didn't want to try tackling this one head on.

"There's another store room coming up on your left," Smarmadine said, sounding entirely disinterested in their potential peril. "Just after the next bend."

The door was exactly where the Shadow Loathing said and mercifully unlocked. Flume slipped inside and jammed Cutting Monster's blade under the door to stop the creature opening it after her. Not that she thought the wooden door would hold up particularly well against the claws that had ripped those aliens apart. She held her light up to the keyhole to see if she could spot the thing go by, see if it was actually there and get a better idea what she was dealing with.

She set her eye against the small hole and waited. The minutes ticked by and still there was only darkness. No footsteps approached, no warm breath blew through the keyhole. Flume breathed a sigh of relief.

An answering warm gust of air washed over the back of her neck. She spun around with torch raised to strike, crest lifting in alarm! There was nothing there. The light from her torch fell on a crumpled pile of wooden dummies against the far wall, all dressed in the same dull grey uniforms the bodies from the tunnels had been clothed in. A thick red liquid leaked out from cracks in their heads. Unusual but not exactly frightening, except by the complete lack of sense it all made. He heart beat returning to normal she put yer eye back to the hole. The warm gust wrapped round her again, carrying with it the sweet smell of decay. Flume spun again. Still nothing there. She started to turn back to the keyhole but...there was something about the dummies. Was it just her imagination or had they moved?

She scanned the torch beam over them, giving them a closer look. They had moved. Their heads had all twisted slightly on their necks. A little up, a little forward...a nudge to the left or right. All angling to look at her.

Flume snatched the blade out from under the door and quickly left the room. Staying in here wasn't getting her anywhere. Moving might involve dealing with the monster but at least it would get her closer to this potential exit.

***

"Sinclair? Sinclair you have to get up."

Sinclair was lying face down on his thin bunk, the strenuous task of breathing in and out consuming too much of his attention for a response.

"Sinclair why won't you talk to me?"

Sinclair blinked and shifted so that he was staring at the door. There was a haze covering everything he looked at and the room always seemed to be slanting, on the brink of spinning. He couldn't tell if it was that or the medication in his system that was making him feel so ill.

"I tried finding you, you know. We both did. When we couldn't find you we thought something terrible might have happened." Juanita's voice took on a tearful tone. "You're not angry with me are you?"

"You're not Juanita," Sinclair said thickly; command over his tongue still not its best. "There's no way you can be because she wouldn't be here." And she hadn't sounded tearful over something as stupid as his anger in years.

"It doesn't make sense for you to be here either!" she countered. "Sinclair, this isn't a real hospital. You're a prisoner, not a patient. Does it really matter how I got here so long as I'm here now?"

The argument made his head hurt and he couldn't work out whether it was logical or not.
"Look, it doesn't matter if you believe it's me or not," Juanita said with a sigh. "All that matters is that you get out of here before they get to you. I've got the key to the door. I'll let you out and cause a distraction so you can get to the tunnels. Henreich will meet you there. It's the only way out but you have to be careful. There's something down there."

There was a loud crunch that made Sinclair's skull vibrate inside his head: the bolt on the door sliding open. Listlessly he rolled to his feet and staggered to the door, the walls of his cell swaying, making him want to vomit. But when he tried the door it swung nicely on its hinges.

Aware of the blinking red light of the security camera he knew he had to move quickly. Whether Juanita had been there or not, getting out of here and away from the drugs they were forcing into him was far from a bad plan. He had to use the walls for support to keep himself steady, stop him from reeling all over the corridor. The constant slapping against the cold, hard surface was making his hand ache and the exertion was making him sweat, the wall feeling slick under his skin.

There was no sign of Juanita, but then he hadn't expected one. He was entirely on his own and had to find the front door (or failing that these tunnels) as best he could. He'd only been gone a few minutes when an alarm sounded, echoing all around and disorienting him further. The lights flared back into life, taking on a painful red tinge.

Cursing, Sinclair picked up the pace. If he just kept moving he might be able to evade them, outrun them long enough that he could make good his escape. But his own body was definitely against him; his hands were really hurting now, despite only one of them being used for support, the corridor was twisting itself into a spiral before his eyes, and the faster he tried to move the more intense the desire to be sick became.

He didn't even have the will to pick up the pace when he heard shouting behind him, much less fight back when they caught him. There was only a dim feeling of satisfaction when he vomited on Dr Benedict's shoes.