race you to the bottom

DEE SHARPE.

VAUGHN MALLICK.

     Vaughn ignored everything happening, her body frozen except for her fingertips that kept pressing into the floor. She was dizzy, the room they were in seeming to lean one way than another, and she couldn’t tell where the sounds were coming from. A man speaking. A scramble. Grunts. Coughs. Her skin tingled with discomfort, as if it knew how close the danger was and was begging her to just look. Take action. Do something. She wished beyond belief that this was one of her simulations; the scary ones she’d make for the sickos she wished would find somewhere else to go. But it was better that way. In her world, they weren’t hurting real people. In this world, these people were. 

    Why had they targeted the Vortex? What had been happening under the surface that she didn’t know about? Had it been a client? They were supposed to vet everyone who came in, for this very reason. A safe, fun place to escape. Now what? Yousuf would have so much work to do — and he’d do it, because she knew there was no way he was getting rid of his golden egg. It was just a matter of if Vaughn would ever see him, or it, again. 

     Suddenly, she was hauled onto her feet, furrowed browns moving to Dee to see them doing the same to her, and all she could do was wince, and remain silent. Fucking complacent — because what was there to do now?

     Dee hadn’t ever thought being manhandled was something one could get used to, but maybe it was. Or maybe it was just the same apathetic resignation as before making her desensitized to everything. The hand clutching her upper arm wasn’t painful, just firm, and had it not been there she probably would’ve stumbled, still dizzy from whatever they’d breathed in back at the Vortex.      How long had it been? How far had they traveled? The hallway they were being led down had no windows, and there were no other indicators to tell her whether it was the middle of the night, early evening still, or if maybe they’d made it all the way to morning. It could’ve been days for all she knew — it had felt like the blink of an eye to her. If they were all being hauled out of their cell for whatever, though, maybe morning made the most sense. Or maybe not. Maybe her and V were being hauled off to act as evening entertainment for some sick fucks. Dee glanced up over her shoulder at the person who was leading her, wondering what a sick fuck looked like, exactly, but was given a curt shove and a gruff eyes forward, so she didn’t look again.

     The door they were led to looked no different than the others they’d passed, and the two guards who’d been leading them came in, but let go when they came face to face with the man who was, presumably, the Commander. He either thought highly of himself, or he was some type of ex-military — and once Dee got a look at him, she thought maybe it was the latter. He was older than the others; in his fifties, maybe, but he was bulky despite that, his clothing stretched tight over his broad chest, and his gray hair was trimmed short.      “Pretty ones,” he said, like he was pleasantly surprised, coming out from behind his desk for a closer look. He wasn’t what Dee would describe as tall. “Too pretty for latrine duty.” He looked between them as he said it, and she felt a shiver of revulsion race down her spine, chased by cold fear. Suddenly, her mind was racing for ideas. How did people kill themselves? The guards were probably going to do it anyway — might as well make it quick and without any unnecessary torment. “Take them down to four and let the other ladies show them what to do.”

     Without a word, they were taken hold of again, and Dee thought, as they were being led down another hallway, that maybe she should’ve just launched herself at the commander guy and tried to scratch his face off. Maybe they would’ve killed her then.      At least these ones had let her keep her limbs. She wondered what for, and whether it was because she’d need them. Four of what? Floors? Rooms? When they slowed in front of another door, her eyes flicked to the sign that hung on the wall next to it. LAB 4. Even the hallway stunk, some chemical smell she couldn’t place, but definitely didn’t feel like she shouldn’t be breathing in, and things were making less and less sense by the minute.

    Trayson wasn’t taken to see whatever Commander asstwat the other two were taken to; instead, they brought him down to a floor with a black spray-painted three on the double doors that led into a corridor. Faded signs listed rules for “safety” were pinned on the walls, and Trayson examined every detail he could on the way to his new cell, taking pleasure in the throbbing pain that passed through his body as they dragged him across tile. They dumped him in a room with a cot and nothing else, two of the guards working together to cut him free of his ties before they departed, quickly, slamming and locking the door behind them.

DEE SHARPE.

VAUGHN MALLICK.

     Vaughn couldn’t tell if the pain she felt in her lungs when she woke up was from actually being injured, or the absolute fucking fear. What the fuck had happened? And as she looked around, it spread to her chest, her throat, and nausea rolled in her stomach as she breathed in the strong scent of mildew. Her pulse was racing and she could feel it everywhere; her chest, her neck, her wrists, her fingertips, all throbbing and so overwhelming she forced herself to close her eyes, just to get a grip. She let her fingers drag over the pitted concrete flooring, the lumpy, rough mattress she was sitting on, then her forearms, finally feeling some soreness from what she knew was an injury. Bruising, from where they grabbed her, probably dragged her. 

     She pressed her fingertips into the floor, focusing on every inhale and exhale; she was a problem solver, at least when it came to electronics, and maybe there was something she could do from here. Maybe they’d be taken somewhere else. Maybe… maybe she was just pretty enough to get access to places maybe she shouldn’t. Vaughn ignored the scuffle of footsteps across the cell, she ignored the breathing of the others around her, the shuffle of clothing rubbing against each other, the voices. There’d be a way out, she promised herself, pressing her fingers even harder into the cement.

     Her head hurt. Light bled in as she opened her eyes, a fog of confusion dissipating by the second as she pushed her heavy, aching body up enough to look around. She was alive, there was no question about that. So was V, and Trayson — whose voice had prodded her out of whatever in-between state of sleep and unconsciousness — and so were a bunch of other people she’d never seen before, spread around the room on stained pieces of fabric that could barely be called mattresses. A couple of them looked dirty enough that she felt sure they hadn’t come with them from the Vortex; they must’ve been in the cell already. For how long? And how long will I be here?

     It stank worse than the last dank basement she’d woken up in, and already it felt more dangerous, too, but again — like in Vaughn’s room — she couldn’t find it in her to panic. Or cry. Or despair. What do they want with us? Would she ever see home again? The lack of terror was compensated for a brief moment by a deep sense of sorrow — for Silas, and for how he must feel, if he knew yet that she was gone. Last time, there had been a reason. They’d been hostages, held as a threat. Now, where would he even begin to look? Would Queenie find her? Would anyone?

     Though she didn’t like Trayson, Dee found herself a little relieved that he was alive in front of her. Something familiar, like Vaughn, but also someone else capable. Even if he was a dick about it. A tiny sliver of hope that maybe, maybe all wasn’t lost.

     Someone was coming. Her nerves buzzed for the first time in the minute since she’d woken; like a string being plucked — a vague and formless fear resounding inside her rib cage — but she remained in place, watching the door. If nothing else, maybe they were about to learn why they were all there.

     A set of five individuals appeared in front of the locked door, all standing in line and staring at their prisoners, to which Trayson turned to face them, offering him his infamous, smug grin. He deliberately raised his eyebrows, cocking his head to the side with a sneer, “What? We doing some fun cosplay now? Are we pretending to be big bad Government Agents? Because… really….” He approached the edge of the cage, closer to their captives, “You look ridiculous.” His voice projecting through the small cell, so even those who might’ve been trying to catch some slumber would’ve heard his goading. Waving a hand dismissively, he turned his back to them, pacing further inside. “Let’s get it over with, shall we?”

     One of them used a keycard to open the door and three of them pushed forward, charging toward Trayson who, despite his less-than-stellar form, spun his elbow into the neck of the closest assailant. The other two managed to grab him before he could harm them any further, the one he’d hit hunched over as he let out a few choked hacks. They shoved Trayson up against the farthest wall, the other one joining him to help restrain the man, cuffing his wrists with zip-ties, before shoving him over — a feat that served more difficult when Trayson was light on his feet — then went about doing the same to his ankles.

DEE SHARPE.

VAUGHN MALLICK.

     Vaughn’s breathing became raspy, and now she was sure she wasn’t even blinking anymore, a wide-eyed stare focused completely on Dee, who didn’t seem to be freaking out as much as she was. It was clear from their simulations that she’d been through some shit, and as far as Vaughn’s life was concerned, it’d been pretty uneventful — and she sure as fuck had never dealt with anything like this before. She nodded at Dee’s gestures to stay still, stay quiet, and her posture crumpled further so she could bury her face in her arms. 

     Then there was a nearby slam, the sound of a scuffle in the very room they were in, and whoever had been shooting back at the intruders didn’t seem to be faring well, causing Vaughn’s arm to shoot out to grab Dee’s. She was rigid, nostrils flaring in a harried, wild appearance as she tried to ignore the sound of her heartbeat thrashing in her ears. 

     The room began to flood with a noxious gas and it made her chest hitch when she breathed some in, teeth gritting together as she tried to fight off a cough. But she couldn’t, her face slamming down into her arm to try to muffle the sound. 

     Queenie wouldn’t make it in time. A stronger jolt of fear shot through her, her heart skipping a beat, and she almost jumped when Vaughn’s arm clutched hers, but returned the grip instead. An amber-tinted cloud was creeping along the floor, slowly filling the room. Dee’s first instinct was to hold her breath, but it wasn’t a feasible solution. How long would she even be able to keep it up, the way her pulse was beginning to race? A minute? Less?      The intruders had Trayson pinned to the floor; she could see their legs, their arms — the top of his head and his shoulders as his struggle to get free gradually grew weaker.

     Her head was swimming, too, and she coughed as she began to choke on the gas that was hissing out of a canister somewhere near. They’d be found. They were making too much noise, and did it even matter at this point?      She’d been sedated before, and as the world began to fall away from her, Dee wondered — if she was dying — whether she’d be able to tell the difference.

     Well, wasn’t this just the shit? His mouth tasted like copper when he woke, and everything ached, whatever gas they’d used to knock him out making him feel light-headed. The first thing he noticed was the hanging bulb, engaged in metal before he turned his head to one side to find cement walls, and dirty, thin mattresses in the corners, one of which he was presumably lying on right now. Disgusting. One side of his face throbbed and when he reached up to touch it, his skin was hot and a slight — and satisfying — sting spread through across his features. 

     After a few slow breathes, he tightened his muscles, readying himself to stand, which he did, albeit a bit slower than he would have liked. A cough echoed down the corridor outside their cell, low muttering playing to the tune of footsteps coming closer. A loud buzzer reverberated through the area, and he heard the clink of a door unlatching, more footfall accompanying the earlier medley. 

     It smelt like fucking sweat, and mildew, all mixing with the sickening smell of whatever was being cooked, wherever the kitchen was. Through a set of bars with a wide gap in the middle — paint worn off at shoulder height from others gripping the metal — he saw two other women, one of which he was almost certain he recognized. He approached them, hovering near the bars as his eyes narrowed in curiosity.

DEE SHARPE.

VAUGHN MALLICK.

     Dee was texting someone, which was probably the smart approach, except who? The Government? The Vortex wasn’t illegal, but there weren’t always the most savory activities going on, and some of the equipment bordered on contraband. All she could do was blink rapidly at the blonde, her eyes damp and overly bright as Dee went about texting, her entire body a statue. Rock hard and still.      When a new person burst into the room, Vaughn flinched deeper into her corner, her expression quickly turning to confusion when she heard what the man was saying. Trafficking? Porno? Was he one of them? Couldn’t be. But Vaughn was too scared to peek her head out enough to see if she recognized him, so she stayed put, feeling an odd sensation akin to relief when she realized he had guns, and he was shooting them. At the bad guys. 

     As soon as she’d sent her reply, Dee turned her phone off and ejected the SIM, putting the device back in her pocket. Hide it on you. Her bra had a pocket in each cup for thin pieces of removable padding. Sticking her hand down the front of her shirt, she tucked the tiny card into one, where — hopefully — it’d be safe. It was smart, and she would’ve never thought of it. If she lost her phone, she could just put the SIM into a different one, and she wouldn’t have to remember any numbers. She wondered, too late, if she should’ve texted Silas, too, but… why worry him if Queenie was on the way? Maybe everything would be all right.

     Before she had time to consider it further, someone else appeared, and the gunfire was a lot closer — explosive, deafening, but under the overwhelming sound of it… she knew that voice. But Queenie’s instructions had been clear. Stay put. Shut up. And if Trayson wanted to get himself killed taking on whoever was overrunning the place, that was his business. He was better suited to it than she was, anyway, she was certain, and definitely more so than Vaughn, who was all but petrified beside her.

     Turning back to the older woman, Dee held her hand out flat between them, palm facing the floor, then lowered it in a short gesture. Stay down. She pulled it back, raising her index finger to her lips. Be quiet.

     “Ah shit,” he cursed aloud when he heard the metallic clatter of gas cans being thrown down the hallway, followed by a hiss as the corridor began to fill with hazy orange smoke. Trayson dropped his gun, ripping his shirt off to tie it around the lower half of his face, certainly looking more than a bit ridiculous with the extra bits of fabric that bunched up in certain areas. It made no matter; he was sexy no matter what he did, for one. Then he picked his guns back up, blindly aiming them around the corner to fire off his magazine.

DEE SHARPE.

VAUGHN MALLICK.

     It wasn’t uncommon for the Vortex to be filled with flashes of light, strobe shows making the main area an attractive place to spend time outside of sessions. People would hang out, drinking neon colored beverages named after some of their most popular simulations. Normally, the flashes weren’t from gun muzzles; usually, the bass wasn’t tainted with shrieks and pleas for help. Doors were being shot and kicked through, clients trying to rush past the raiders only to be thrown to the floor, or shot in the leg. Vaughn was in her room, under her desk, huddled next to Dee Sharpe, a client she’d been seeing for months now. 

     She held a finger to her lips as booted feet came into view, then suddenly, bullets began flying throughout the room, and she saw pieces of her keyboard clatter to the floor, some skidding barely inches away from her foot. The music had become discordant, making it all feel like some bad trip, some of it warbling as speakers took damage, or maybe the DJ’s hand had slid across the board in the midst of being shot. Vaughn’s elbows were pressed into her sides, as if she could make herself smaller, less visible, and all she could do was stare at Dee, holding herself so tightly one could see the tendons in her neck, her pulse throbbing against her skin.

     Her heart was going to explode. No. No, it’s not Vaughn. Breathe. But it was difficult, every single one a struggling tremor climbing her throat. Still, she tried. She tried through the pain in her chest and the rock in her stomach. She tried. Just breathe.

     The Vortex was plunged in chaos, spinning like its namesake in a mess of gunfire, panicked, running footfalls, and screams — the uptempo music layered over it all creating a bizarre, nightmarish contrast. It was just like her sims. It was just like that day in the convoy.      Months of regular sessions, and Dee’s body didn’t react with terror at the sight of drones and helicopters anymore. Didn’t freeze up at the sound of automatic gunfire. She’d even let V turn on the pain simulator, the blood effects, everything… but this was real. If she got shot, she could die.

     Why, then, did she feel so strange?

     The fear and adrenaline that had flooded her — debilitated her — the day Izzy had died were muted under a wet blanket of… resignation, she realized, and she couldn’t feel them the way she knew she was supposed to. Her family was dead. Everyone. She’d watched the life drain from her sister, dark blood from a wound, and maybe it was her turn now. What could she do to stop it, anyway?

     Her best friend, who had promised to stand by her in anything, was gone, and Dee had a feeling it was for good this time. Disappeared without a word to anyone; not her, not Corbin, not Remi. Not that she’d talked to him, but from what Silas had said, it sure as fuck didn’t seem like it.      Silas.      Would he hurt, if she died? Would he grieve? She felt a deep sting in her chest, missing him even though she was breathing, still, and maybe he’d be better off. Maybe he’d find a girl who wanted to marry him and make a family. Maybe…      Vaughn’s trembling breath drew her attention. She didn’t know how she’d heard it, through all the noise, but she did. They were huddled close. Their eyes met, and Dee breathed, too, wishing she could wordlessly communicate some sort of reassurance and coming up short. Just hide and wait for it to be over. After a heart-stopping moment that felt like an eternity, the people who had entered their room paced back out into the hallway, and a second wish rose up in the wake of the other — because when trying to think up solutions for problems like this, she was the first thing that came to mind. Unbreakable. Unafraid. Queenie. If she texted for help, would it be quick enough? Slowly, trying her best not to make a sound, she slipped her phone out of her back pocket and woke the screen.

     These motherfuckers; that’s what Trayson thought when he’d watched his panicked fuck-of-the-moment run out of the room they were in and straight into gunfire. These motherfuckers, Trayson thought, smiling so large someone would’ve thought he’d just walked into his own surprise party. By the sound of things, there were a lot of them, and the likelihood that he’d come out unscathed was rather low. Poo. But… oh well! And out he went, two SMG’s in each hand, firing off the weapons in every direction, and taking out a good portion of the men in the hallway. At least, until more arrived, and Trayson ducked into one of the nearby rooms, keeping close to the frame so he could shoot around the corner.

    “I do.  Especially when it’s someone I care about.”

    “Yes and no, I guess.  He’s never asked me to not talk to you, but I know I’d be a complete jealous psycho if the roles were reversed, so.  His feelings did play a role in it, yeah.”

    “That’s kinda what I figured, yeah.”

    “I don’t want to waste your time when you could be spending it with someone who will actually do that, you know?”  And I don’t like how I felt that day after you killed Wyatt.  I don’t like that I liked you killing someone when I asked.

     “Oh,” Trayson chuckled softly, “You can’t tell me you give a rat’s ass about wasting people’s time.”

    “I’m sorry.  Things have been kind of… crazy since then.”

    “And I didn’t know if you’d even want to hear from me, considering we can’t… you know.  Do what we used to do anymore.”

     Trayson snorted, watching her with a glimmer of amusement, “I’m sure they has.”

    “Speaking of fantastic taste, how’s that watch I gave you treating you?”

     “Ah, yes. Humble isn’t in your dictionary. Overrated to include, if you ask me.”

    “I’m not flirting.”

    “Just paying you a true and well-deserved compliment.  You do have good taste, and we both know it.”

     “Sure you’re not.”

    “Works out for me, too.  If I left it up to him, I’d come home to the most basic, boring shit ever and I refuse to live like that.”

    “Not everyone can have as good taste as you.”

     “Mrs. Warner…” A corner of Trayson’s lips perked up in a grin as he took a step closer.

    “Not really his kind of store.”

    “I didn’t take it to be your kind of store, either, though.”  She moved in a little closer, reaching over for the soap dispenser he’d put down that she’d actually kind of liked.  It would look cute in their new apartment.

     “Yes, well… I need things. Therefore… I shop.”

    “Maybe gaudy was a bit of an exaggeration.”

    “I still like the one on the left better.  Well.  My left.  Your right, I guess.”

    “Yes. I was aware,” Trayson snickers, eyeing her with mild amusement.

   “Well. This has been a tedious waste of my time.”

     “Oh, I know.”

   “My brothers methods of self-harm don’t concern me.”

     “Ah… yes.”

     “Right. Siblings. Family.”