The Ashen Wrath (Watty's SHORTLIST recipient 2018) CHAPTERED VERSION

*59

I floated within a dense, black fluid which served to protect my body from the shock of the stilt strider's heavy footsteps. I was completely immobilized—my knees and arms compressed against my chest. A series of electrodes and wires bit through my skin, firmly affixed to my head. A mask pumped oxygen into my lungs. Somehow, I knew my role without being told. The machine was accessing a deep pit inside my mind, not my thoughts or emotions, but the experience of every physical movement I had ever made. It adapted my unconscious sense of timing, coordination and balance to ambulate its own mechanical body.

Each day I felt as if I were watching my life through a dirty window. It took all my concentration to remain alert, but my consciousness inevitably slipped. Some days flashed from morning to night in an instant. I had trouble discerning the passage of time—entombed within a dream.

I stood guard over exotic zones full of Thrall I had never seen before. The only act of defiance I could muster was to keep my full-spectrum view on at all times. I witnessed villages clinging to snow-covered mountains; fishing communities perched on the edge of the roiling ocean; dense forests of towering trees being cleared by Thrall laborers. I was exposed to incredible sights—plants and animals beyond comprehension—but nothing could alleviate my numbness.

Sinking further into nothingness helped keep me sane as I performed my "duties." I chased those who disobeyed the daily Trills. I sent my Rake against quota breakers. My black tentacles pulled people from tents and grass huts. Those who ran in fear were stomped to the ground as they pled for mercy. All of it was beyond my control. I wept as I watched from a void I could not escape. Concentrating my anguished thoughts allowed me to move the machine's metal limbs, but only enough to cause a momentarily stumble as my brain throbbed in pain. Eventually, I gave in, feeling content to simply observe.

Each morning became routine. After the electrodes were removed from my head, I was flushed along with the cushioning fluid surrounding me into a cramped chamber within a sterile, white room. "Prepare for ferrofluid retrieval," the disembodied voice would boom, accompanied by an an ear-splitting hum. It was my signal to lie still as the black gel was drawn away by powerful magnets to ports in the wall. Afterwards, a series of water jets blasted my body clean and I was led by the oval screens to my charred cell.

My will dissolved. I had no desire to fight back. To escape. To question my fate. As far as I could tell, my door wasn't even locked. There were no guards to watch over me. I saw no one else. I actually felt a sense of relief each night when the tentacles pulled me back inside the stilt strider. There, I could just float. Exist without existing. I reduced the machine's sensory input to detect nothing more than heat. It was enough.