Accede

The music was almost nice at first. After who knew how long of looping repeats, first it began to grate, then it became simply sound, and by now Wilson understood exactly why Maxwell had thanked her for stopping that horrible phonograph. She wished she'd destroyed it, but she suspected that wouldn't have done any good.

How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? Days? Longer? In this place, the passage of time seemed wrong, and was definitely unmeasurable. She'd tried at first; she'd busied herself with being scientific, which meant observing her surroundings and testing her bonds and counting the seconds. Definitely science, not trying to keep any panic at bay, trying to keep busy. But eventually she'd lost track of time, realized she'd stopped looking around and was outright straining and yanking and trying to get off the chair, and made herself just sit back.

Okay.

Okay. She was trapped. She... couldn't blame Maxwell for this, either. This hadn't been her trap. For one thing, Maxwell would have had no reason to think Wilson would save her. She'd been so angry! She'd come here to demand to be set free, and had more than half expected to have to fight the... the smooth, unflappable, sneering, imperious puppetmaster who'd tricked her here and had been making her days and nights here miserable. But that person hadn't been here at all. She didn't think it was a trick, either, because that look of relief and joy that had flashed across Maxwell's face for only a second had been all too real.

The agony that had come after had been all too real as well. She'd learned to recognize agony even before coming here, and by now she was an expert.

Her heart ached. She wasn't sure, of course, but she had a feeling that what she'd thought was going on was, if not completely wrong, then woefully underinformed. She'd wanted to get out of there and talk to Maxwell, find out what was really going on, what had happened, why... But now she'd never get the chance. She'd accidentally killed her by trying to rescue her.

...That's nothing new for you, is it?...

She stiffened in the throne so sharply that the back of her head cracked against the back of it. It was probably made from nightmare stuff, but it felt as hard as stone, damn it.

"Who's there?!" she demanded.

...Don't you want to see what you can do here, scientist?...

She shuddered. Maybe she couldn't ask Maxwell, but a little bit of suspicion was creeping in anyway.

"No. Thank you," she seethed, eyes facing resolutely front, jaw set, gazing at a fixed point off in the distance. Eyes looked back at her, but she tried to ignore them, certainly didn't meet them. "--And I'm not talking to you!"

...You could learn so many things...

...You wanted knowledge...

Is that what you promised her? Wilson didn't ask that. Tried to focus on the damnable phonograph and its looping music; if she did that, it almost drowned out the whispering. Not just the coaxing voices whispering syrupy words in her ears; there was a rising sussuration from all around in the darkness, as if Things were noticing her. As if They were intrigued, excited, murmuring among Themselves just out of hearing.

...We can give you so much knowledge...

...So much power...

I don't want that, Wilson said to herself, resolute. Oddly, hearing these voices... remembering the way Maxwell had looked on the throne, how she had died... it made Wilson upset, yes, but it also galvanized her. Made her more confident. She knew she could be donkey-stubborn when she wanted to, and it wasn't always one of her best traits, but she felt it could work wonders for her here and now.

She knew this was a trick. And, forewarned, she would not give in.

She may not have been able to save Maxwell, but she could at least make sure her death, and her own imprisonment, was not completely in vain.

Time passed, presumably. It seemed like a lot of it, but Wilson had no way to be sure. She was getting so tired, but couldn't seem to drift off. She'd never had a problem falling asleep sitting up before, and the throne wasn't any more uncomfortable than some other chairs she'd managed to doze in... Still, she couldn't sleep, though she felt weary down to her bones. She remembered how exhausted Maxwell had looked. Her mind kept stealing back to the woman, to those final minutes.

...She's alive, you know...

For the first time, the words, which she'd been hearing but had been managing to mostly tune out because -- as she told herself -- they held nothing of interest to her, managed to sear through her brain, grab hold of her attention, and yank. She forgot her promise, to Them and to herself, not to talk to Them.

"What??"

Not the most intelligent of conversation, mind.

...She's out there...

"How--? ...You're lying. That-- that would be impossible, I saw--" Saw her die, but Wilson had herself died multiple times before, hadn't she? In so many different ways.

...You could go and see for yourself...

"No!" Wilson half-snapped, but her voice was half-laced with panic, too. That was the first suggestion this entire time that had been at all tempting, and that scared her. "No. She's... If she's free, then that's good for her. It's better than here. And if she's really dead, then she's beyond pain. I don't need to see her, either way."

The voices kept worrying at the weakness they'd found in her like a bone. The unintelligable whispers in the darkness thickened, became almost a buzz, an interested hum.

...And what if she's hurt?...

Wilson closed her eyes. "That's not my problem," she said, voice coming out harsh, and stamped down on rising emotion as hard as she could. Of course she felt responsible. She had been a doctor, was still a healer at heart, as much -- or, well, nearly as much anyway -- as she was a scientist. "Besides. I survived. She must know this world like the back of her hand, she'll be fine."

...You're lying to yourself...

You're lying to me, she said to herself, furiously, and clenched her jaw shut, refusing to say more.

That music was an actual form of torture. Wilson knew that now. Whether or not Maxwell had been on the throne for an actual eternity, she sure could understand it feeling like one. And time stretched here -- or contracted; she was no longer sure which would be more accurate -- it felt like she'd been here for years. She hoped it hadn't been years. No, she hoped it had been years. If this was what days felt like, she'd break down before being here much longer.

...Look. There are so many others...

She couldn't help herself. It was instinctive. She turned her head slightly, looked--

a young girl with blow darts, standing back and watching as a ghost that looked like her fought a den of spiders

a small, bipedal spider-person stealing into a pigman village at night, holding a torch carefully with one hand and picking berries to stuff away into their backpack with the other

an older woman gathering reeds and then running with surprising spryness and full awareness as a tentacle lashed out of the murk and at the air where she'd just been standing

a figure with a painted face (was it painted?) seated beneath a tree, only slightly sheltered from the pouring rain, carefully stretching webbing and pig skin over sticks in an attempt to make a functioning umbrella

--Wilson looked away, heart pounding, feeling like she had to wrench her head out of position. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. There had been more of them to see, she knew that, even if she wasn't sure how she knew that. A lot more of them.

...you could help them...

She had no rejoinder for that. Guilt gnawed at her.

...you could have so much power...

"I don't want your power," Wilson said miserably, face still turned away. She wasn't even sure if the direction she'd been facing had anything to do with it. What had she been looking into, looking through? In retrospect it seemed unclear.

But you could help them, something whispered, and this time it was not a voice from outside but from within Wilson's own mind. Her own thoughts, or so she supposed. She was so tired, so heartsick. Wouldn't it be irresponsible not to? Wouldn't it be cruel? You know the dangers out there, what it feels like to die over and over again -- with or without contingency plans. And there are children out there. Children! You saw them!

That was the worst part. She could steel herself against promises of power for power's sake, knowledge for knowledge's sake. Against the idea that she could use any power They gave her to help herself, because she knew that hadn't worked out for Maxwell, and she had very quickly gotten the impression that They had... wormed Themselves into Maxwell's mind somehow, had been guiding many of her actions, maybe making her think she was in charge. If it was for her own sake, she wouldn't trust it, she could refuse to give in.

But, but. They were trying to convince her that she could help people, but They didn't actually want her to help people. She could be sure of that much. This world was not the result of anything that was interested in kindness. So... if she did give in a little...

...just enough...

...and made sure she only did things that would help those other people out there, would keep them alive and maybe even comfortable in this world...

...that should be safe enough, shouldn't it?

She didn't need to say a word. She felt it, felt Them reaching out with the offer, felt the power almost like heat, like They were holding out a torch for her to take. Or just... a fire, constrained by nothing, inviting her to touch it with her bare hands and be burned away.

Prometheus stole fire from the gods, and tamed it, she told herself firmly. That was how the story went, anyway. Mythology hadn't ever been that interesting to her, but she'd liked that story. She just... pushed Prometheus's ultimate fate, punished eternally by said gods, out of her mind.

It was just a story, but she could still tame fire. She was a scientist, after all.

She closed her eyes, and reached out.

Instead of fire, for a moment, it was like being submerged in cold water. Wilson gasped, straining against her bonds again, but after only a few moments she acclimated and the strange new sensation was... almost nice. Strange, but as she felt the power fill her she slowly relaxed, finding it really wasn't as unpleasant as she might have expected. Nothing overwhelming, now that it was settling into her. Almost comforting.

"You haven't won," she muttered to herself. "I'm not going to get too comfortable with this."

But she knew how to go out into the world, now. To see, like they had offered. Only a projection, but it could feel almost real enough, she knew that now, and it was better than being aware of being stuck on this throne, listening to that maddening loop of music. She could take a closer look, see what needed to be changed and how... Maybe check to see if Maxwell really was alive somewhere out there.

"I'll let myself out," she said a little louder, because it made her feel better, and did so.