Chapter 6: The Parasite's Gaze

Chapter 6: The Parasite's Gaze

The silence that followed the explosion was more profound than any darkness. It was a vacuum, an absolute void where the Wyrm’s multi-toned wail and the carousel’s discordant dirge had been moments before. All that remained was the low, humming thrum of the war-hammer of light in Leo’s hand, a sound that felt like the purr of a sleeping star.

He remained on one knee, his shadow long and stark in the hammer’s clean, white light. Before him, the back half of the Wyrm writhed in its death throes. The creature’s primary head, the wizened old man’s face, was gone, utterly unmade. But from the stump of its neck, a new head was already forming, a grotesque parody of regeneration. A woman’s face, one of the many embedded in its flank, was being pushed forward, its features contorting as it became the new apex of the creature.

Its newly formed eyes, wide with primordial terror, did not look at Leo. They stared, transfixed, at the glowing hammer in his hand.

A stream of guttural, clicking syllables spilled from its mouth, a language older than rock and filled with a desperate, horrified reverence. The word it repeated, over and over, was a harsh, scraping sound that Leo understood on a level deeper than hearing.

Claimed... Claimed... The mortal is Claimed...

With a final, agonized shudder, the Wyrm twisted its massive bulk. It ignored him completely, its only impulse to escape the incandescent power he now wielded. It slammed its truncated body into the cavern wall, not with fury, but with the frantic desperation of cornered prey. Rock shattered and gave way. The monster dragged its dying mass into the new tunnel, fleeing into the darkness from which it came, leaving behind a trail of foul-smelling ichor and the lingering scent of ozone.

Leo watched it go, his knuckles white around the glowing haft of his weapon. The immediate threat was gone. He turned his attention to the carousel. The demonic goats were still frozen in place, their golden, intelligent eyes fixed on him. The contempt was gone, replaced by a raw, naked fear. The goat that had thrown him took a hesitant step back, its cloven hoof scraping on the stone floor. It lowered its horned head in a gesture that was not aggression, but submission. Then, as one, they dissolved, their solid forms becoming like smoke, melting back into the shadows that clung to the base of the silent, derelict ride.

The carousel was once again just a thing of rotting wood and rusted metal. The malevolent presence that had animated it had receded, cowed by the raw power he held.

Slowly, Leo rose to his feet. The hammer in his hand felt perfectly balanced, an extension of his own will, yet it pulsed with an energy that was not his. As he watched, the blinding light softened, the solid form of the weapon seeming to melt, the light flowing back into his palm until all that remained was the smooth, grey river stone, cool and inert against his skin.

He clenched his fist around it, the simple object a tangible link to his mother, to the life that had been stolen. He had won. For the first time since entering this hell, he had not just survived; he had dominated. The Labyrinth had thrown its horrors at him, and he had thrown back a sun.

The adrenaline began to drain away, and the reality of his condition crashed down on him with the force of a physical blow. The gash on his back was a sheet of fire. His throat felt like it was lined with broken glass. Hunger was a clawing, hollow beast in his gut. His body, pushed far beyond its limits, was shutting down.

But he was the master of this cavern now. The predators were afraid of him.

He staggered away from the grisly remains of the Wyrm’s front half, his boots crunching on pulverized rock. He found a deep alcove in the cavern wall, a defensible niche where he could see the entrances and rest his battered back against the cold stone. He slid to the floor with a groan, the simple act of sitting an agony.

He was safe, for now. He had a weapon he could call upon, a power born from the only pure thing left in his life. Fulcrum’s games had backfired. He had tried to break him with his father's memory, and in doing so, had unlocked the gift from his mother.

Leo allowed himself a grim, bloody smile. What will you trade? the Furby had asked. He hadn't traded anything. He had taken.

His eyes grew heavy. The darkness at the edge of his vision was no longer a threat, but a welcome blanket. He had earned this rest. He would sleep, recover, and then he would continue the hunt. He was no longer the prey. He was the hunter. Claimed, the monster had called him. He was claiming this godforsaken hell for himself. His eyes slid shut, and exhaustion dragged him down into a black, dreamless abyss.

He slept deeper than he had in years, the sleep of a man who had met his breaking point and pushed past it. His mind was a quiet, empty space, blessedly free from the ghosts of the mirrors and the agony of the carousel.

In the stillness of the cavern, a small, dry thing stirred in his pocket.

The mummified finger, the forgotten relic he’d picked up from the ground on that terrible day thirty years ago, twitched. The leathery, brown skin shifted. The cracked, yellowed fingernail scraped against the fabric of his tactical pants. With a slow, spider-like deliberation, it crawled from the opening of his pocket and onto his leg.

It was no bigger than his thumb, a piece of desiccated flesh he’d carried for decades as a morbid reminder, a piece of the puzzle he could never solve. Now, it moved with a silent, purposeful intelligence. It scuttled up his torso, a dry, whispering weight against his shredded jacket. It navigated the terrain of his exhausted body, climbing onto his shoulder and then his neck. Its touch was feather-light, too faint to disturb his profound slumber.

It paused at his ear, the tip of the finger pressing against the cartilage as if listening for the rhythm of his blood, the firing of his synapses. Then, with a chilling resolve, it pushed its way into his ear canal.

A distant, tickling sensation finally pierced the veil of his sleep. He shifted, a low groan rumbling in his chest. The sensation became a pressure, a deep, invasive violation. It felt like an insect burrowing into his head.

Then came the pain.

A spike of pure, white-hot agony erupted from the core of his brain. It was a pain beyond anything the military or the Labyrinth had ever inflicted. It was the feeling of his own mind being pierced, invaded, and torn.

He awoke with a scream that was strangled in his throat, his body convulsing on the stone floor. His eyes snapped open, wide with a terror that dwarfed anything he had felt before. He clawed frantically at the side of his head, his fingernails digging into his own skin, but it was too late. The thing was inside. He could feel it moving, a cold, hard knot burrowing deeper, connecting to something vital at the center of his consciousness.

The searing pain vanished as suddenly as it had begun. It was replaced by an invasive, spreading cold. A clinical, alien detachment settled over his thoughts, smothering his panic and terror under a sheet of ice. His own mind, his own identity—Leo Kane, the soldier, the son, the vengeful hunter—was still there, but it was no longer in control. He was a passenger in his own skull, his consciousness pushed into a corner by a silent, ancient, and impossibly powerful intruder.

He forced his eyes open, a single tear of violation tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. The cavern was no longer dark.

He saw the world as it was—the cold rock, the distant, silent carousel, the drying husk of the Wyrm—but he also saw it as it truly was. A shimmering, impossibly complex lacework of golden threads pulsed in the space between things, connecting every rock to every mote of dust. He saw the lines of power that made up the Labyrinth, the deep, dark currents of despair that Fulcrum used to fuel this place. He saw the faint, silvery thread that was his own life force, flickering and frayed.

And woven into it now, wrapped around the very core of his being, was a new thread. It was not gold or silver, but a strand of pure, absolute blackness, a sliver of the void that drank the light around it.

A thought, cold and clear and utterly not his own, echoed in the new silence of his mind.

Subject integrated. Consciousness subsumed. Commencing reality assessment.