Re:Cursed

Nyxil glared at the severed hand where it lay on the floor. She couldn't fully articulate why she hated it, but she did. She abhorred the lump of metal. By all means, regaining her hand should have no downsides. She'd be able to grab things again while wielding her blade. There were only benefits. Considering she was about to go into a competition with tens of thousands, how could she afford to remain crippled?

Yet some deep, instinctual part of her refused that logic. It viewed her mutations as perfect. So without fault, that even if those growths ceased to exist, it would never allow something to take their place. No matter the form.

It was an alien emotion, but one she felt in its entirety. While she may not understand why she had this vile repulsion to having her mutations replaced, it was as much a part of her as her name. And that made it easy to discover its origin.

Her core. The cursed name that gifted all her mutations.

There was no point wondering if her name was twisting her mind. It was the wrong question. Names, especially the base ones, were a representation of the soul. A record of your life. To say that your own name was manipulating you would be equivalent to assuming you were sick because you grew hair. The premise itself was foolish.

While Nyxil didn't know why she felt the way she did, it was as much a part of her as the mutations themselves.

Her gaze turned upwards, to the broken prosthetic still attached to her arm. She flexed, and the hinge that replaced her elbow wiggled the sheared metal pipe. There were a few thin pistons inside, but the arm was otherwise hollow.

From one stump to another.

For a moment, she considered the worth of keeping the metal limb. She could use it as blunt weapon if she threw herself hard enough, and it would help stop her from standing out. Paying for limb regeneration was expensive, but options like this — a metal prosthetic or grafting a dead-man's arm — were at least within the poorest of cultist's means. Nyxil would look odd without an arm.

But… she would already catch people's eyes as it was, and maybe having people look at the stub of her arm would distract them from everything else. Besides, she didn't like the added mass weighing her down.

Pinching the candlewick put an end to her control, but it was the next part that stumped her. The metal was bound to her bone. How was she supposed to pull it off? What were the chances the ritual to remove the prosthetic was the same as the one to connect it?

That same, boring monotone hymn left her mouths as she tugged at her arm. No luck.

Sighing, she brought up her pincers, and cleaved the prosthetic as high up her arm as she dared without cutting through her own bone again. She didn't want to bleed out on the floor after all.

As the arm clattered to the ground, a voice spoke from behind her. "You know, if you didn't like it, you could have just said. It would have been easier to remove whole."

Nyxil spun. Tarchon stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised. How a man that weighed a tonne at the very least managed to not make a noise along that walkway, she didn't know. The scaffolding groaned even under her weight.

"No I just… I-" her mind ground to a halt as she realised she didn't have to fabricate some fiction for the man. She'd already told him everything. "I felt sick the moment I put it on."

"But you didn't feel the same with the leg?" he moved to her side to inspect the arm.

"My leg doesn't have a mutation that is scared of being replaced."

"Ah," he hums before whispering a hymn. Red light flashed, and the metal pooled out of her arm into Tarchon's hand. "How long since you attached it?"

"Only a minute ago. Why?"

"I need to see your leg."

Nyxil stared up at him, trying to garner his intent, but the Technocultist remained as impassive as ever. In another life, if she'd never had to worry about being a sacrifice, or go to such extensive efforts to survive, how would that Nix have reacted to what amounted to a man asking her to show her upper thigh?

Letting out a sigh, she leapt up on the bench. The two tentacles hiding beneath the cloth of her pant leg slid it up until she revealed skin. Tarchon dove in with all the fascination of one who was looking at a rat with a slightly deformed nose.

Maybe it wasn't healthy, but Nyxil was quickly finding herself less… caring of the of the human aspects of her body. The thought had been progressing ever since she'd finally accepted her mutations. Because of how much her life had revolved around the strange growths and improvements to her body, letting those mutations be seen by Tarchon felt more like baring herself than if she literally did.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

It was a strange feeling, and didn't really make sense because there was nothing quite like it to compare. She had fully accepted herself, and yet it still felt wrong to let people see her. There was no sexual purpose for any of her mutations, nor did she feel embarrassment about them, so she should have no reason to want to keep them hidden besides the obvious.

Really, this feeling of… vulnerability that sprouted just knowing the Technocultist could see her mutations was frustrating. It wasn't particularly inhibiting, but it was present. After a lifetime of having them removed, and keeping them hidden away, maybe it had been inevitable that keeping them out where they could be seen by those she wasn't ready to kill was unsettling.

"Your body is rejecting the metal faster than I predicted." Tarchon's statement suddenly ripped her from her musings. "You'll be able to go a week at most before we need to get you something with higher tolerance."

"What?" she blinked.

Tarchon simply tapped the point where her leg ended and the machine started. "I noticed this last time, before I knew of your… circumstances. Your body rejects the foreign substance faster than any I've seen. Already, microroots of metal have split from the base and dig through your bone and muscle. It is honestly fascinating to see the effect of corruption exposure on a contaminant in an environment that does not suppress the altering material, yet experiences none of said corruption."

"Oh great!" Nyxil chirped. "So I don't even need to be in a Dark Star for your bolts to become spike balls again?"

Something whirred in the man's chest. "No, those were rated for extended exposure. This leg is standard steel. It should forget its nature far quicker than bone clamps."

"Wait… so you put untreated metal in my leg? Is that safe?"

"No." Tarchon shook his head with an air of disinterest that suddenly had Nyxil feeling very worried. "But it serves as a temporary measure. Besides, as I've said, your body is incredibly resistant to foreign particles. Your blood in particular. The small samples I collected months ago had some rather fascinating properties. I have many plans for the litre I took while you evolved."

Nyxil gaped. "…A whole litre?"

"Interestingly, you don't experience the typical symptoms of bloodloss." He nodded. "If you hadn't already lost so much, I might have taken more. You would make a great blood-factory."

Now he was just messing with her. At least she hoped so… Tarchon didn't exactly have a wide range of emotional tone. Glancing at him warily, she hopped down from the bench. If he really did have any intent to do as he said, he would have done it already. Not like she was exactly in the best position to fight off someone who was a higher creed than even K'Thorn.

Before she could slink off and figure out what she was going to do with all this unnerving free time she had — without diving back to the skitters — Tarchon leaned over and pull a heavy metal canister from beneath the bench. The thing was about half her height, and from all the reinforcement lining it, the cylinder had to contain something deadly. Maybe a corrosive acid that put hers to shame, or some sort of obscene infection.

Tarchon opened the capsule.

Nyxil stepped back, and eyed the hissing lock as it expelled a burst of steam and twisted beneath the Technocultist's grip. When the vault-like lid was finally removed, inside there was… nothing?

"Get in."

"Huh?" She blinked. Sure she'd fit if she hugged her knees, but it didn't look at all comfortable. Besides… "Ah, no. Don't know about you, but that doesn't look like the most comfortable place to nap." Nyxil backed up again, putting distance between herself and the metal barrel.

"It is either this, or we walk where everyone can see you." Tarchon announces. "Our cult leader, Ta̽'Ș͑t̕r̊a͑ḷa̾͆n͙͂o̼͗v͐͐̿͝'r̝͇͎͓͜, wishes to meet."

"Can't I just throw a hood on, or something? I've still got the skulk shroud halves."

"Shrouds are flimsy and cheap. This container is designed to block any form of observation."

Cheap? Skulk shrouds? Nyxil stared up at the man almost insulted at the statement. How filthy rich did you need to be to consider something so expensive as cheap? It would have taken K'tan twenty years of saving to be able to afford one himself.

"Do I have to?" Hopefully, that squeak had just been in her head, and not actually her voice.

"If you wish to work with us," he said. "Yes."

Nyxil groaned. She glared at the Technocultist as she stepped forward and slipped into the narrow chamber. If she was going to do this, the least she could do was make sure Tarchon knew how much she disliked it.

When the vault closed above her, Nyxil was both surprised by how spacious the interior was… and unnerved by the sudden collapse of her senses. There was no sound. No light. Heck, she wasn't even sure she could smell anything anymore.

With a deep breath to calm herself, she stretched her leg into the darkness, and found no wall to stop her. Well, at least she didn't need to add claustrophobia to her current worries. The darkness was getting to her enough as it was.

Blind and deaf, she relied on the only other sense that could give her any information to where Tarchon was taking her, and immediately found that her name sense struck a wall and couldn't move beyond. The capsule stopped name abilities too.

Nyxil bit her lip… and immediately regret it. As she chewed on a bit of hair to fix the broken skin, her internal touch returned to herself. This wasn't exactly the situation she'd been expecting to first try out her main evolution, but with nothing else to do other than wait to be let out, she might as well.

She touched a single crack in her curse, and felt an overwhelming sense of hunger. It consumed her. She licked her lips as if a buffet suddenly landed before her, yet was held back and disallowed from the feast.

Her touch snapped away from the potential mutation, and she swallowed. The hunger quickly fled. Would that be her new normal if she took whatever that mutation was? or was it simply telling her that she would never fail to find a feast again?

Already, she was seeing a problem with this new name.

Well, like the last version of the sense, there was room to grow. She would learn to read what she felt with time, and then, she would know exactly which mutations would come.

Nyxil glanced up, seeing nothing. She really hoped Tarchon didn't take long. Trapped in here as she was, too many painful memories were resurfacing.