Chapter Text
Maybe, at some stage, there was hope of escape.
Somewhere over the last torturous month, there was hope. You can vaguely remember it, although your memories are a little hazy after your initial arrival at the village. A few wrong turns and a small car accident into your research trip and you had, originally, thought you were a goner. Six hours in the snow and a hypothermia spell later, though, you found yourself in the village -- the people who lived there were suspicious of you as a foreigner, but still able to identify a person in need when they saw it, and you were taken in quickly, others running to alert what you’d assumed to be some kind of town leadership or even the authorities.
If only you’d known. Dying in the snow doesn’t seem so bad in hindsight.
After being warmed up and fed, you were led to a church, and… well, that’s where your memory falters a little. A smack to the back of the head, different voices discussing things like your body-mass, the strong odor of fish before you seem to have spent… well, you’re not sure how long you were unconscious for due to whatever you were drugged with, but on and off, it would have been about three weeks. Some kind of surgery. Some kind of… treatment. A blindfold and gruel and no disclosure of what was going on.
And now you’re here, in a church, finally putting faces to the voices you’ve heard before. You’d had your feelings that Lady Dimitrescu would be ever glamorous, oozing sophistication (even given the circumstances,) but you hadn’t expected her to be… so tall, to put it lightly. She’s currently in a heated shouting match with another voice you recognise, one that was quite prominent during your less lucid moments. As a mutated mass on upright legs stumbles around trying to get a good look at you, the scent of rotting fish and fouled water elicits an immediate flashback to the first time you were put under. Everyone here has been involved in whatever’s happened to you, apparently.
...The talking doll’s new, though.
They’re arguing about
you
, of course. The little procedure that’s left this big scare down your chest has, apparently, not had the desired outcome. You’re not sure what the desired outcome is, but given the clear abnormality of everyone around you, you’re willing to take a guess. It seems that the Lady and Heisenberg are trying to figure out who’s at blame.
“I
told
you that we needed to use a reactor to accelerate--”
“A reactor?! She’s a mortal, you fool, not a car. My methods were sound and would have worked had you not insisted--”
“If we’d done things your way, we would have ended up with another one of your harpies--”
“How dare you speak about my--”
A third voice joins in, this one the most familiar of them all, one that seems to be imprinted in your mind. “Enough!” Your stomach churns as the arguing stops immediately, everyone facing the figure standing in front of the pulpit. You don’t need someone to identify her. You know that’s Mother Miranda -- she’s the only face you’ve seen previously, the only one who’s spoken to you as a human and not a thing.
“Let us not become distracted with how we got here,” she orders, looking between the two, waiting for them both to be seated again before continuing. “We must look ahead -- there is use for her yet.”
You watch as Lady Dimitrescu smirks, settling into her seat, an eyebrow raised in assumption that she’ll benefit from the announcement to come as Heisenberg tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling of the church. “Let me guess,” he groans. “Another meal for the giantess and her three bitch daughters?”
“I warned you!” The Lady roars as she moves to rise from her seat. Mother Miranda, however, raises her hand, gesturing for her to stop -- which the Lady obliges.
“The girl will go with Heisenberg,” Mother Miranda orders, her tone a little more blunt.
His head snaps back up, the announcement clearly surprising him. “What?” He laughs. “What fuckin’ use is she to--”
“A vessel is required.”
There’s a long pause, with Heisenberg taking a moment, taking a long and hard look at you before quickly looking back at Mother Miranda. “...That’s why you had us…” he trails off. “...Nah.” His tone turns dismissive, waving his hand away. “Appreciate the offer, but I’m sure there’s someone else who can take care of that.”
“I require someone who is trustworthy and of good breeding,” Mother Miranda reminds him.
“Well, find someone else,” he shrugs off, glancing at you again. “I’m not doin’ it. ...Send her to Moreau.”
Dimitrescu scoffs, rolling her eyes at the suggestion. “Your insolence is remarkable, did you know that?” She asks. “Mother Miranda lets you play around in your little factory, gives you your run of the place, and now you have the nerve to turn down this gift?” The Lady turns to Mother Miranda. “I must ask you again, Mother Miranda: let me take the girl in. If and when,” she says, giving Heisenberg a very pointed look, “she develops a gift, I will keep her as one of my own.”
“Need I remind you both from whence you came?” Mother Miranda warns. “Heisenberg will take the girl. He knows what is to be expected of him.” She pauses, turning her attention solely on Heisenberg. “She’s of good stock. I’m sure you’ll come to find use for her beyond what I require.” There’s another pause -- Mother Miranda clearly waiting for more protest that never arrives beyond Heisenberg’s knuckles turning white around his hammer. “That is all for now.”
Disappointed, Lady Dimitrescu is the first to leave, barely waiting for Mother Miranda to make her exit before making her own, muttering something about ‘a total waste of her time.’ Eventually, all that’s left is Heisenburg -- who’s all but chewing on the end of his cigar, apparently deep in thought -- and yourself, sitting on the floor, wrists chained together, in a dress that you definitely didn’t own before coming to the Village.
After what seems like an eternity, he stands up, lifting his hammer with what’s an alarming lack of effort. “C’mon, then,” he exhales -- and while you initially expect him to drag you along or wait for you to stumble to your feet, the chains around your wrists pull you up off the floor. You want to scream, but your throat is so raw from wailing in pain for the last few weeks that you can only manage a gasp out of self preservation. Too terrified to resist the pull of the chains that seem to be following him, all you can do is stumble along, your legs shaking a little, chest still aching from the pain that, while not agonising anymore, still reminds you it’s there every time you walk or exert yourself.
Only once you’re out of the church and on the edge of the village does he turn to actually check on you. “Walk and a half to where we’re goin’,” he warns. “Keep up. Don’t wanna damage the goods.” He turns back around, continuing to walk, the gates opening before he’s anywhere near them as your chains continue to lead you along. “You’re weak as a deer. She feed you?”
“I…” you strain your memory, trying to guess who he’s referring to. “She…?”
“Dimitrescu,” he explains. “The big bitch. You’ve been locked away in her castle for three weeks. Did she feed you?”
“Uh…” More strain. You were definitely fed something, although it was more like mud than food. “I… I think so.” The further down the path you venture, the colder the air gets, and it feels like the inside of your chest aches.
“Fuck do ya’ mean you think so?”
“I don’t remember much,” you respond quickly, heart leaping a little at his tone, your eyes fixating on his hammer. “It was gruel. I think. I don’t really remember.”
He scoffs audibly. “‘Course you don’t. Why would she let you?”
There’s a part of you that kind of wants to press this, ask him what he means -- but your own sense of self preservation is much, much louder, instead choosing to silently follow him over what looks like some kind of… you’re not sure what to call it. It’s clearly some kind of special area, a large, freezing platform of metal in the centre of it. You try and commit the etchings and details of it to memory as you walk over them, wondering if it’ll ever come in handy, or explain something --
And then you stumble, and it feels like something in your chest is ripping. You cry out.
After that, there is nothing.