Chapter Text
The smell of smoke, the rising heat encircling him and the red flowing from his head is all he could recall from that day. His memory of that time is so fractured and displaced, that it might as well have been the day he was born. Bashing against the crashed plane’s windows like a womb's walls, crawling out the canal of the backend of the aircraft, beginning life as he fell onto the ground, his cries being the grunts of pain as the wound from his head throbbed. Hands grabbing at him, dragging him away from the explosive site. Their voices were muffled, hitching with concern as they persisted in keeping him conscious.
“He…..come from?” One said, low and steady.
“Maybe…to do…military?” Another one went, who sounded like they were on the edge of panicking.
Olly’s eyes darted frantically, smoke scratched and tore at his sight, it hurt to see. He could make out the plane, shifting around in the ripples of his watering eyes. Its front was smashed in, caused by the harsh collision with the earth, the impact only barely missing the co-pilot seat where he was found; the front pilot area caved and crushed inwards, if anyone sat there, they wouldn't be alive. He assumed another person must have been collected with him, mangled and unrecognisable though their state must be, someone must have been piloting the plane. A flash of purple caught his attention, the long stripe of colour going along the plane's aerodynamic outer shell. Desperate, Olly burned this image into his mind, carving, sewing it into the fabric of his brain, anything for him to hold on to; he had nothing, no childhood, no friends, no family, no favourite food or favourite time of day, just this plane. So he grasped at it, pulled it to his chest and forbade it to ever slip from his fingers.
Thump.
The walkway rumbled as his weight fell full force onto its floor. Olly’s knees buckled, as he misjudged the strength of his already weary legs, the messy landing causing his gun to shudder and crash onto the ground. The clash echoed, bouncing across the walls, and he cringed. If no one knew he was here, they will now. Turns out walking for miles without a break and then jumping down a hole is not an advisable leg exercise, and he felt his left leg give way.
“Bloody hell..” he grumbled, letting the pain drain out of his ligaments. Correcting his disgruntled position, and retrieving his gun, he observed what was ahead of him. A tunnel, the walls blocky, the spiralling hall in the shape of an octagon and it was all organic looking, with how tubes and wires follow its shape like a nervous system. The stinging smell of charred electricals made him dizzy, and the freezing temperatures numbing his spine were not helping. The floor was hard, metal grating which was fashioned to match the walls, and it reverberated the sound of each step, which unnerved him; the floor was hollow, there was nothing underneath him. Not trusting the flimsy state of a long forgotten walkway, he pushed forward, jogging to what he thought was the end. Relief patted him on the back as a sign came into view, it could be directions.
Floor 04, Lift 2 this way —>
A lift. He’d much rather trust the flimsy walkway, he pondered, then a flimsy lift, but what else was he to do. Following the direction of the arrow, in front of him was a dramatic looking, sliding door. Beside it on the wall, was a glowing mechanism with a tiny slot.
Blast it all, he scratched his head in frustration. The mechanism was security, and he needed a passkey to get in. Defeated, he walked backwards in a daze, questioning why he even came down here, and how impossibly boneheaded he has been with his decisions thus far. He made a movement to face palm, a way to lightly punish himself for his failure, which made his shotgun wiggle with the motion. Another boneheaded decision surged through his tyrannised brain. This was his one opportunity to understand where he came from, where that plane was produced, why he was flying it and who he was flying with. These questions followed and haunted him like a ghost, a manifestation of his torture that shackled him. He must know.
Whipping his gun around, centering it towards the passkey. One breath, one press on the trigger, and the mechanism was appliterated. The technology couldn't collaborate with what just happened, and seemed to panic as sparks flew uncontrollably. This made the door tic and fidget, just as stressed as the passkey, unable to understand what signals it was being given. He felt a shudder, all the hall's lights flickered on and off. Then finally, it paused abruptly, the door only slightly a jar.
“Anti-climatic, I'd say.” He was starting to dislike high-tech, with how dramatic it was, swooning from a slight nudge. Not missing a second, Olly grabbed the opening and pulled, testing if he could open it himself. He kept pulling, and pulling, adjusting his leg on the frame so he could propel himself more. Red and bursting, sweat gushing down his forehead, the door finally moved a little, scraping and scratching against its frame. Letting go, shaking his hands to silence the pain, Olly analysed the small opening he had managed, and convinced himself it was enough. He sucked in and squeezed through the crack, getting trapped midway through. His trusty bag, his lifeline, got caught on something.
Twisting and turning, he reversed all the progress he made, making the decision to throw the bag to the over end, to wait there until he got through. Hands, two arms, one leg, then the other leg, and then a sudden pressure against his thigh. It was silly to think that a premature warm up for his arms could keep a system locked door from, well, locking. Panicking, he scrambled every appendage out, except for the one foot, stuck in the crack that now inched closer and closer to its programmed position.
He cursed, tugging at his foot which was rooted in place, slowly being compressed between the door and its frame. Creak, one more inch, another, and another-
Frantic, he fumbled at his shoe laces, one lace unraveling from the other, coiling around like snakes escaping his grasp; he was released, as his foot exited his shoe. He fell backwards from his weak stance and momentum, plummeting onto the hard metal below him, making a louder clash than his gun did before. Closing his eyes, he laid dormant on the ground as he collected the scattering thoughts that now ceased as he calmed down. The very real possibility of losing his foot put him in stasis and he needed to have a moment to shake it off.
Lifting his lids, feeling he had soothed his shock, the next step was to observe his surroundings. A roof, no gaping hole this time, and walls that moulded the room into an octagon shape, similar to the aesthetic of the walkway he barely busted out from. That similarity faded though, as he felt a cold brush of wind, swirling and pushing against him as if to say ‘get up’. He did just that, and when he glanced down below, expecting a floor. There was no floor, not one that could be seen, it was just an endless octagon, with a cylinder in the middle which was the lift. He was situated on one of three metal catwalks that branched to and from the lift. Remembering that he was on floor 04, there must have been three other floors below him with their own catwalks, but the area went further than that. The ridiculous expanse was peak ingenuity and stupidity, serving the sole purpose of being impressive then ethical. Who were the people who built this technological underworld,with the world above oblivious to its conception. What did they do here? Did he come from here?
Nothing of note, no familiarity flashed in his mind, he did not know this place.
Tip, tap, tip, tap.
Beneath him, something walked across a catwalk, the sound floated and whirled around the bottomless chasm. The sound helped him recollect the previous encounter of something whizzing past him, when he had not yet entered into this waste of wealth. It was not his mind playing tricks, someone or something was down here with him. Grabbing onto the catwalk rails, he looked down below, to calculate whether he would need to keep his gun upright for the rest of this journey. There, pausing for a brief moment to record within a tiny book, was a person. Olly could not see their face, and he was too afraid to move to get a better angle, unless he made another fumble, so he was only greeted with snowy white hair that spiked outward. An explorer? Does he know this place? Did he once…work here? An unnatural spiral of curiosity beckoned him to find out.
He leaned over with more urgency. The person had a gentle and precise manner, carefully putting away the tiny book in his shoulder bag, far more stylish than Olly’s own backpack. He headed to the lift, unfazed by the magnitude of this place, and bushed various buttons on a pad. Olly straightened, glancing up to see the lift, which was dormant on his floor, rumble as it was called down. Minus one shoe, Olly waddled to the center, where all the catwalks converged into a circle, and watched the lift smoothly cascade downwards. He too went downwards as he searched with his tired eyes for a way to get down there, without having the stranger see him; he couldn't just wait for the lift to come back up, then his white haired friend would be lengths away, wondering around this labyrinth that Olly sadly didn't have a gold string to guide him through. Knocking on the glass that was the doors and walls encasing the transportation, he noticed there was a small opening between the platform he was standing on and the lift’s glass tube.
Metal panels and beams were bolted to the side of the glass, there to be the long, vertical glass cylinders support, for it could not soundly stand by itself. Swallowing the doubt and the persistent dismay that croaked in his throat, he persuaded his troubled mind that this was the last stunt he was going to pull. Clasping and securing his worn backpack to his person, swinging his gun’s sling around his body instead of just his shoulder. Begrudgingly ready to go, throwing a prayer in for good measure, he made his way to climb down the metal beams.
It was hard to judge what was stable and what was not. Rust was peaking its grimy head between cracks and betrayed the metal's seemingly unwavering build. Screws wobbling from sockets, as each unsuspecting foot or hand grabbed at edges and wires, his shoeless foot not having any grip because of his sock. The lift dinged, arriving at the floor below him. Inching his head down a little bit, so he could avoid catching a glimpse at the immense death sentence if he'd fall, he followed the stranger’s confident stride to the lift.
Mind the gap.
A robotic voice advised. The stranger entered, and shiny doors shut, as the giant lump was commanded to go even further down. Leaning back his head, Olly let out a lamenting sigh, he had to continue the unsteady climb. One foot down, a hand fumbling for an edge, he conquered a considerable amount of metres and was ecstatic when the surface came into view, he could end this rock climbing practice. He assumed this was the first floor, because he had passed two previous platforms. The stranger had long excited the lift and trekked through a copy of the door that ingested his shoe earlier, but this time, it was torn apart, a giant wound making it easily accessible to anyone. Confidence, he needed confidence to cut the journey and just jump down, but he feared a worst replica of when he first jumped down a considerable height would arise.
Creeeek.
He didn't have time to think about his next move because the universe had already decided for him. One of the panels gave way, insisting he fall onto the platform. Learning from his previous leg negligence, he swerved to land on his bag, which cushioned the impact of sinking towards the hard platform. Not wasting time, he groaned and wobbled back up, internally adding climbing giant structures to his ‘only do when on the verge of a catastrophic death, with no possible alternatives and make sure, even while bleeding out, to evaluate if absolutely necessary’ list.
Now completely drained of any spirit he had before, Olly tumbled to the damaged automatic door, tracing his finger across the charred edges. He just wanted to sit down and eat his sandwich, the foundational reason for him coming here. Entering the first floor, there was no walkway, but a room with a desktop. In front of the desk was a big, black screen that absorbed the room, everything being miniature accessories compared to it. On the desk were scattered files, some were coated with intelligible handwriting that threw splatters of gibberish in every margin, and some had records of dull faces that disturbed him with their emotionless stares. Sifting through the papers, he found a common trait within all of them. Test-subject was written on each file. This facility was a lab, and it tested on humans.
A file poked its head out from in-between two other ones, the top of spiky white hair. He isolated it, and held his breath. It was a picture of the white haired man he saw, the same cluster of locks that shot outward. Here, he was very young, malnourished and sunken, worse looking than himself, and had a bandage over his right eye. The rest was information about him.
Q-53
Age : 10
Sex : male
Height : 140cm
Medical information : blind in right eye
Subject review :
Q-53 is stubborn and dangerous, does not take well to injections or any tests. After the incident, he has become more aggressive and will not submit no matter his harsh treatment. He will be put into solidarity confinement until further notice. Future examiners, I do not recommend this subject for any fragile testing, but might I suggest more labour intensive studies, they suit him better.
Olly was now sitting on the desk chair, munching on his preserved sandwich, which was dented and squished by the fall but more or less was sound. The scribbled notes were frantic, and had an air of disdain. This stranger, Q-53, was odd; why would he want to revisit a place that took away his opportunity of a normal life?
He cascaded downwards, unable to evaluate what had just happened, scrambling up onto his feet immediately. Something rammed him against the wall, files on shelves crashed on top of him, the force backing away abruptly as it was being hit as well. Olly slung his gun over his head, pointing the long barrel directly at his aggressor. He too saw a barrel, belonging to a pistol, alarmingly ready and steady in a pale hand, stationed to shoot between his eyes. He saw electric blue eyes, searching his like a hawk, there was an assertiveness to the stare that made Olly sweat. Those eyes were dark, pinning him, making him feel more fear than any leech could bring out of him. He felt like a hunted animal, now trapped.
The pistol lowered slightly, as those sparky eyes lit up and his furrowed brows shifted. He looked..bewildered, like he saw a ghost run right into him.
“Sorry....sorry. My apologies.” The stranger crouched, resting the pistol on the grimy carpet. Now smiling and straightening his rough clothing.
Olly still firmly held his shotgun upright “who the bloody hell are you?!”
The stranger fiddled with his hands.
“Qifrey.” he looked straight into Olly’s eyes “my name…is Qifrey.”