I was not alone. I heard it—a light thump against the ground. The hairs on my neck stood on end. Then I heard it again, and this time it washed over me bizarrely. The echo was distorted, seeming to come from behind me, above me, everywhere and nowhere.
The sickly feeling in the air—that dense, oily residue—only grew stronger.
I shuffled across the seat, trying to put some distance between myself and whatever was making that sound. But it wouldn't grow any farther. Instead, the rhythm it had begun to form sped up. It sounded like footsteps.
It made no sense. They were too smooth to be the stomps of something heavy, too deliberate to be nothing at all. It was like the sound was coming from right beside my ear.
Damn it… damn it all. I can't die like this. It would be a worthless end. I probably deserve this, but acceptance is not the penance I must pay. I must live—and right my wrongs.
My wrist brushed the hilt of my blade as my fingers scrambled for a grip. Finally, I wrapped my fingers around the hilt and drew the honed edge of my saber.
I hadn't noticed, but I was breathing heavily. I half-considered swinging blindly at the sound. But the wiser part of my brain ordered me to stand down. I'd swing only when I was sure I could hit.
As I moved to get up, the footsteps stopped. I felt something cold and weighty wrap around my neck and slide over my shoulder.
Then I was on my ass, slammed back into the plush seat.
"You saw Event Horizon? Didn't know people still had taste." She spoke into my ear. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard—but it sounded normal, too normal. Unnaturally right, instead of naturally wrong.
She was right beside me, her arm wrapped around my shoulder in a way that was far too amicable. She felt like plastic and rubber—firm, but with a strange sponginess. It didn't feel like flesh.
Her body was pressed against mine. It felt like a human-shaped beanbag, full of small rounded lumps that moved under the skin as I tried to rip away from her grasp.
Sensing my discomfort—or maybe just bored—she finally let go. I nearly flew backwards the moment her arm lifted, so desperate I was to get away.
My hand launched into another clumsy race for my saber, but the smug look she gave me froze it mid-descent.
It was the sort of look you never want to see on your foe—the kind that tells you you're just a plaything, that your efforts won't matter.
I saw her for what she was.
She wasn't human. She couldn't have been—not with the way she… was.
It's hard to describe what set my nerves on edge. There was this horrible feeling she emanated. It came in waves. Each one made the air thick, almost mucousy.
But that wasn't it. It was the invisible sense of fraudulence that clung to her like a second skin.
I felt it when she touched me. It wasn't normal. I could see it now, on her skin and in her eyes.
She was pale—not sickly, but clean. Disgustingly clean. Most women, try as they might, don't end up with skin like that. Hers was so flawless it simply wasn't right. It was like she lacked pores.
Her hair was similarly well-kept, yet unlike her skin, it had a slight rough edge to it. But even that seemed intentional. The curls on otherwise straight strands were too even.
Her eyes were worse. There was nothing behind them. Even machines show some kind of will beneath their blaring lenses. They groan and screech.
She just stared—unblinking, unbreathing.
My knees began to shake. I could feel my breathing grow sharp and erratic.
She tilted her head. The thin line of a smile that had been cast across her face grew a fraction wider.
She was—
"Hauntingly beautiful, I know. I'm quite the item." She interrupted my scattered thoughts.
She wasn't beautiful. She was horrible. Her face had a certain Mediterranean charm. She might have looked good on paper—if it wasn't for how false it all was.
It was like staring at a CGI recreation of a person. Highly detailed, but nothing like reality.
She was revolting.
Suddenly, her face curled into a scowl. Her lips moved stiffly, like they were being bent downward by a set of pulleys.
"I won't have a sniveling little bitch like you call me ugly. You're built like a shishkebab."
Despite her insult, I didn't feel enraged. My mind was focused solely on the fact that she thought I insulted her.
I hadn't said anything.
Oh, shit.
Her smirk returned. She sighed. The sound was more like the wire of an AC unit than anything human.
"So what's your favorite Star Wars flick?"
My jaw dropped. For a split second, my fear dissipated. Only for it to creep back in as I noticed her clothes didn't shift when she moved.
Baggy jeans and a white blouse, with the face of some basketball player stamped across it—yet they clung to her as if stilts underneath her outfit held them away from her flesh at a fixed distance.
The curious hunger in her jet-black irises pulled at me, wordlessly demanding a response.
I shouldn't have answered, but my mouth moved before I could stop it.
"My brother…" I started. My voice came out as little more than a whisper, fear grappling with my vocal cords. "He only found The Phantom Menace when we looted a CD store. So… I guess that one."
I released a deep, imprisoned breath from the bottom of my chest as I saw her lean back into the velvet seat. She sprawled across it, arms wide on the headrest for support. Her legs were spread, caring little for decorum.
She slowly craned her neck toward me, looking me dead in the eye before snickering.
"You do have good taste."
She cleared her throat. It seemed rehearsed. Too on-cue, too engineered—like she didn't actually need to.
"Since you have such great taste in art, why didn't you take Jame's advice? It would have helped you progress."
Wait… is she reading my mind?
What the hell is she?
She laughed. It was rhythmic. Ritualistic. It made me shudder.
I finally drew my saber. I gripped the hilt with all the force I could muster. My arm was shaking—maybe from fear, maybe exertion.
Her laughter died down. The look in her eyes didn't change.
I felt like a roach. Like a speck of dust she could blow away.
Yet, in spite of my fear, I could feel a steely rage roiling deep within my stomach.
"Progress… What the fuck do you think this is?" I huffed. My pale skin took on a faint reddish hue.
"I'm not some monster. I'm not like you. I'm not like anyone else. I'm a good man. I just have to…"
"Pay a debt?" she interrupted. My jaw snapped shut.
"I thought you said you were scum earlier. Which is it?"
That mocking tilt of her head. That harsh, grating voice.
Nothing made me feel sicker than her.
Yet I couldn't stay angry. I felt small—like she saw right through me.
She did see right through me. I couldn't meet her gaze. It was violating.
I clenched my teeth. I could feel them grind. Years of improper brushing were probably going to catch up to me any day now.
"Fuck you," I spat. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
I felt her icy breath caress the back of my neck. I swung my saber on pure instinct.
She wasn't where I thought she was. She was behind me.
She wrapped her arm around my shoulder the same way she had when we first met.
She leaned in. There was an unsavory smell of sulfur on her breath.
I hadn't seen any movement. She'd been in front of me, and now she was behind.
The air hadn't jarred. I didn't feel the tug of magic. There was no acrid ozone scent. Nothing.
I had been scared before—but never like this.
When something dangerous drew near, I always did something. Not with her.
I just stood there. Heart pounding. Teeth chipping.
My saber fell to the floor. My body refused to follow my incessant commands to move, to run.
But there was nowhere to go.
I was here—with her.
"Who are you?" I squeaked, like the rat I was.
She whispered,
"I am God."