Favourite Attendant

The cave was cold, not skin-deafeningly so, but it seemed to have settled in the bones. The walls were rough and wet, coated in condensation and painted with dark minerals. The bizarre protruding fungi adhered to the walls, emitting a dull, pulsing glow that caused the shadows to writhe and flinch.

To the left were monstrous eyries of corpses. The corpses, neatly piled, skin pale but unbroken, eyes blank and unseeing.

There was no rot. No smell of decay. Nothing but the faint, chemical reek of something that was pickled.

It was the Rotters' doing.

Not as large as the giants that bowed down around the lava lake, but the Rotters were still menacing.

They had fat, bloated bodies much like large, upright mosquitoes, long, jointed legs, and an asymmetrical hunch.

Their flesh was papery thin and leathery, mottled with discoloured, blackened patches of corrosion scars left behind from prolonged exposure to the Crimson Infection.

Their wings had no possible use any longer; they hung in tattered parts, twitching now and then, but showing no sign of lifting them.

Most horrible of all were their two great, clear, fluid-filled sacs that hung from their many-segmented bodies.

The sacs were slowly throbbing, one a sickly pale green, the other a dark, sluggish red. In their bodies, the two substances were not mixed. But, if necessary, the Rotter could use both, sucking them up with a long, needle-esque proboscis that jutted out from its face.

Virel, the green fluid, prevented flesh from decomposing. It arrested decay, it arrested the destruction of the tissue, it preserved the flesh; and the flesh remained so natural that it continued to emit an agreeable odor, at least, what had not been touched by the iron and steel.

The inert red fluid acted as a catalyst on its own. When mixed with the green, it formed a yellow type of virel, corrosive, rot-producing, a weapon. The Rotters would then have their choice as to which one to use for their own ends.

They moved slowly, carefully, ascending the corpse pillars and dousing the bodies with green virel.

Their proboscises hissed gently as they labored, the liquid steaming slightly where it touched the chill rock.

They did not speak. They did not breathe. They simply worked.

On the floor of the cave on the other side, there were smaller caves, with clusters of human beings wriggling on the stones.

Their bodies were bruised, battered, and tired.

Limbs bent the wrong way, some had swollen eyes, flesh split open, and were brutally bloodied.

Some were lying still, others moved feebly, not one had the power to offer resistance.

They weren't traditional prisoners.

They were livestock, kept alive, barely.

Guarding them were the Chimeras.

One of the fiercest species among the Newborn.

The Chimeras were not born to fight, but for crowd control. They had monstrous forms, part wild beast, part man, part something else entirely.

And in one smaller cave, a chimera was doing its inspections. It was a massive brute, almost ten feet tall, with an even more hunched back and thick, muscular arms and legs. Its skin was a medley of textures, scales over its shoulders, coarse fur down its back, and cracked plating on its chest as if it were made of stone.

Its head was a monstrous juxtaposition of three: a lion's muzzle, a scaled serpent's jaw curled beneath it, and a horned, eyeless skull above.

Each shook independently, butts sniffing, twitching, or snapping at the air. The lion's jaw did not open, but the serpent's tongue darted in and out, testing the smell of blood.

The eyeless, though not blind, skull head seemed to detect motion with an instinctual accuracy. The Chimera did not speak. It did not need to. Its mere existence was deterrent enough to prevent the bloodied humans from doing anything stupid. It strolled slowly along.

Every now and then, it would stop, crouch beside a human, and sniff one or nudge them with a clawed hand; it had been checking for life but never offering assistance.

One body belonging to the living had not stirred in several hours. He had been assumed dead. No breath. No twitch. No sound. The rest of them stopped watching him, and the Chimera was restless whenever it moved near him.

But now, something shifted. A sharp inhale. A low groan. The man's fingers twitched. His name, at least the one he knew, was Henry. But the body that was his was not the body he now held.

Pain came first. Then confusion. Then, the realization that something was amiss. He couldn't see. Not darkness. Not shadows. Nothing.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Still nothing.

His heart pounded. He attempted to sit up, but his muscles had failed him. There was a hammering pain in his head, and his thoughts drifted back and forth.

"I was on a plane,"

He thought.

"There was a boom. Then… nothing."

He endeavoured to recall more... but found that the memories were disjointed. He could feel the stone against his feet, the cold of the air on his skin, and the tightness in his chest. His body felt strange, heavier in some places, lighter in others.

Even the cadence of his breathing was wrong, as if it were someone else's.

And then, arms. Someone was holding him. He didn't know who. He couldn't see her face. But the sensation was unmistakable. A body shoving against his, shivering. A hand gripping his shirt. A breath, uneven and close.

It was odd to be held like that. Familiar, but distant. Like something recalled from a life that was not quite his.

And then, a name surfaced.

'May'.

He didn't know why. He didn't know how. But the name felt right.

'May'.

She was here. Holding him. Crying. He didn't speak. He couldn't. But he didn't need to. She felt him move. Her breath caught.

And then, through the stillness, her voice cut the silence.

"Brother…"

It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. But it was real.

A single word, spoken with disbelief, sorrow, and something else, hope. She hung onto him and cried freely. It was all she could do not to shudder under the weight of grief and relief and something she'd barely dared feel in hours, joy.

And from nearby, a voice, rough, dry, and laced with mockery, cut through the moment.

"Well, well,"

The man said with a tone that was half-amused, half-mocking.

"Welcome to the world of the living."