YOUR WEAKNESS
The Marionette for those who hesitated; The Riddler for those who were impulsive; The Pit for those who did not take action; The Locksmith for those who threw their lives away.
Art by Bee
THE LOCKSMITH
Almost, Less, Lethe & Orli
Your lungs burn, your body is encased in a prison of ice that bites and curls around each limb like the constricting coils of a snake. This is it, this is what you believe, you are going to die. That new word echoes in your mind and suddenly you understand the very fragile nature of your body, your pulse, your breath. Before, you had a vague understanding that these things were important to you, but now you realise why this is. You allowed yourself to submit to death, whether fully or in part. The sense of failure drains you until you are as weak in body as you made yourself in mind.
These thoughts are so unsettling that first you shudder - and then when the pain does not abate but increases, focusing in intensity on your right shoulder, you writhe. It is excruciating, as if your foreleg has been pulled so far out of its socket that bones popped loose, skin ripped, and muscles tore. The only thing holding in the scream that builds in your throat is the instinctive fear inside of you telling you to be silent.
The danger here, wherever you are, has not passed: you strain your ears and blink into the shapeless gloom. Through your own laboured breathing and the pounding of your pulse in your head, you can hear the shifting of something soft, reminiscent of fur on stone, and far off…
An odd clicking sound, echoing in a manner that tells you the space you are in must be vast.
Finally braving the fear that has your fur standing on end and your back arching away from the floor you peer through the shadows... and notice a far-off source of light: a small door, shining gold, set into a rugged grey wall. It is the only discernible feature in the darkness. The light emanates from some kind of central yellow orb - something inside you urges you that this, this, will be your only path to safety.
Once you manage to tear your eyes away, you see three other hunched figures nearby - cats in varying states of waking. It is too dark to make out details of their faces in the low light, but you feel it would be safer if you moved closer together. Swallowing back the pain, you pull yourself upright--
--only to realise that your centre of gravity has shifted dramatically.
Before you have a chance to stabilise yourself, you tumble to the ground - and around you, the three other cats struggle too. For a moment you are left floundering, face pressed to the cold, uneven stone below, before a horrifying thought dawns upon you, and you are swallowed by a sense of loss so vast that your sight gutters.
It isn’t just that it feels as if you have lost your right foreleg; you have lost your right foreleg… and so have all of your companions.
Far, far above, the clicking grows louder… the sound of many claws, tap-tap-tapping across stone.
Art by Bee
THE MARIONETTE
Bandersnatch, Skander, Nimh, Horizon & Eclipse
Your lungs burn, your body is encased in a prison of ice that bites and curls around each limb like the constricting coils of a snake. This is it, this is what you believe, you are going to die. That new word echoes in your mind and suddenly you understand the very fragile nature of your body, your pulse, your breath. Before, you had a vague understanding that these things were important to you, but now you realise why this is. You are little more than a shell held together with a thin layer of flesh, pierce the casing and there will be drastic consequences.
“A Shell.”
A deep voice cackles, agreeing with your silent thoughts. The words shift as they make contact with one another, bending and weaving under the pressure exerted over them.
“And what is a Shell but a mere puppet without strings? Its limbs fall useless until another takes hold of them. Tell me lost little Shells, how does it feel now that you realise the truth of your futile attempts to triumph over your betters?”
You are resurfacing, rushing blindly towards the open air. Everything shifts, the textures and sensations that surround your body change too quickly for you to truly process each one in turn.
And then, it stops.
When you find the strength to open your eyes you find yourself in near darkness. It is darker here than it was in the cavern, a thin silver light that pierces a gap somewhere in the highermost wall shines down upon you and the others like a beacon. Once again, you are not alone.
There is a smell, strong and sickly, overwhelming fumes that make you want to hack up bile from your all too empty stomach. You will be able to locate the origin of the scent very quickly, it is adhered to you, it is everywhere. The floor and wall of the cave is lined with a sticky black substance that varies between 5 inches and 11 inches, depending on how close you are to the centre of the cavern - the closer you are to the centre, the deeper you will find the tar to be.
A few tall and smooth rocks offer sanctuary from the tar, dotted about the cavern like stepping stones, and the ones that jettison from the cave walls are also climbable, albeit slathered in a skin of the same sticky substance that lines the floor.
“Little Shells, Little Shells, won’t you let me win?”
You realise with a spine chilling sensation that this voice is not a disembodied echo that bounces around the cave like the water of your previous prison. It is coming from above, and if you tilt your head back you will see, just for a moment, the movement of tangled limbs and the flash of hungry, laughing teeth. It is there in the shadows where you cannot see, do not relax, it is still there.
Art by Ox
THE PIT
Hineni, Halo-Iota, Something, Rosemary & River
Your lungs burn, your body is encased in a prison of ice that bites and curls around each limb like the constricting coils of a snake. This is it, this is what you believe, you are going to die. That new word echoes in your mind and suddenly you understand the very fragile nature of your body, your pulse, your breath. Before, you had a vague understanding that these things were important to you, but now you realise why this is.
When you first open your eyes you are blind. The world around you is pitch black, so dark that you cannot see the length of your own front leg stretched before you. Instinctively your ears twitch when they pick up another sound, another cat stirring nearby. The sound is unsettling, it is soft and sickening. The revolting smell that each movement generates makes your nose sting and your stomach churn. There is hesitation in the movements of the others, their senses are very likely under the same assault as your own.
You can feel the drumming beat of your own heart pounding sharply against your chest, blood pumping viciously around your body until the light headedness almost threatens to consume you entirely.
Art by Sydney
And then, there is light. Perhaps the faint light is new, or perhaps your eyes have simply adjusted to the darkness. Either way, the walls glow with a weak assortment of tiny light sources, speckled about the place like patchwork. You cannot see well, but you can now make out the shadows of the other cats that surround you.
Do you recognise any of them? It is so difficult to tell.
And then you look down.
You are ankle deep in rotting flesh. You remember the kittens by the pool, their milky blank eyes, blackened flesh and the putrid smell. You are standing on something that might once have been living, it’s limbs bent at unnatural angles, and your foot buried deep in the damp interior of their ribcage. Instinctively you lift your paw, but you will soon realise that there is nowhere else you can set it down without coming into contact with another carcass, another body.
Beneath your paws the ground shifts, something is moving beneath the surface, you feel the muscles flex and stretch before relaxing once more.
Then a scream, or a screech, an animalistic noise swells up behind you. It is approaching fast, coming at you and the others down the tunnel, an unseen threat moving at speed.
Run. You need to run.
THE RIDDLER
13, Lyre, Jaqueline, Solomon & Abram
Your lungs burn, your body is encased in a prison of ice that bites and curls around each limb like the constricting coils of a snake. This is it, this is what you believe, you are going to die. That new word echoes in your mind and suddenly you understand the very fragile nature of your body, your pulse, your breath. Before, you had a vague understanding that these things were important to you, but now you realise why this is. Where in the cave you acted on impulse, not stopping to properly think things through... now, you are frozen stiff.
No matter how you fight whatever is restraining you, your limbs will not obey, your breathing will not increase, your eyes will not open. Gold light glows through the inside of your eyelids so that your vision swims in shades of reds and yellows, and you feel almost lethargic because of the warmth permeating your fur. It is as if you linger on the very edge of a dream.
Something soft settles across your thoughts - a weight like the brush of a tail - and it settles there, curling around your mind until your head feels full. Your temples begin to throb, not in pain, but in warning. And then, echoing quietly through your mind in a voice high and warbling, a song begins to be sung. The voice is old and slow, and the way it trills around certain notes makes you think that they are from somewhere far, far away. Somewhere else.
It sings, and your brain stumbles over itself to decipher the thick, lilting accent.
What is it saying? It feels imperative, in this moment, that you work it out so that its message can be properly understood…
Still the song goes on, and the words finally click into place. Though your heart remains unnervingly steady in your chest and your breathing stays deep and even, your stomach sinks. Only when the song finishes playing through twice, as if to ensure that you have fully understood it, do you find that you have regained the ability to move.
Your eyes slip open, and the golden light beyond pools in around a huge, hulking figure - easily five times as large as you, and dwarfing the tiny greystone antechamber you find yourself in. It is made up of a gelatinous, furless hide, and out from its many rolls of skin peer dozens of eyes. Its head, a huge dome devoid of muzzle, is swallowed up by too many eyes to count, all in different shapes and sizes. The creature does not move except to tilt its mighty head towards you--