Wonderful Insane World

Renn's heart began to pound in frantic bursts, a wild drum inside the muffled silence of his own body. Sounds of battle. The clash of steel, human cries, sharp orders. Real sounds, charged with intention and urgency, things that no longer had a place here. They came from the other side of the village, near the main gate.

A surge of hope so violent it nearly shattered his mask's control. His fingers clenched around the plank he carried. He had to stop, pretend to readjust his grip, mimicking the hesitant pause of a puppet whose program had momentarily faltered. Around him, the other monsters and enslaved humans kept moving back and forth, almost indifferent. Only a few beastly jaws turned toward the commotion, letting out low growls, but without true alarm. As if this intrusion were a scheduled incident, a mere storm passing through their routine.

He couldn't stay here.

Blending into the shadow cast by a crooked wooden hut, he let his load drop. Each step had to remain measured, but his mind was racing. Humans. An armed troop, surely. A lost patrol, a rescue expedition? It didn't matter. They were walking straight into a trap they couldn't begin to suspect.

He slipped behind a long house with a moss-covered roof, pressing his back against the rough logs. The smell of damp earth and rot filled his nostrils. The noises were clearer now. He risked a glance.

The sight froze him.

Around twenty humans, clad in armor and armed to the teeth, had breached the enclosure. They formed a tight circle, backs pressed together, facing a horde of monsters that, for the first time, showed open aggression. Blades sank into bestial flesh, blood sprayed, yet the creatures fell with strange docility, as though sacrificing pawns. And among the fighters, Renn saw the puppets. The enslaved humans. Advancing on the newcomers, empty-handed, with the same stiff gait and vacant stares. They didn't dodge the blows. They hurled themselves forward, impaled without a sound, only to trip the warriors, to clog their footing with inert bodies.

It was horrific. And chillingly effective.

The soldiers, horrified, hesitated to strike those human shapes. "Please, step back!" cried a young man, his voice breaking, just before a puppet latched onto his arm, allowing a furred beast to sink its fangs into his shoulder.

Renn felt nausea rise. They didn't understand. They saw monsters, and humans in shock — survivors, perhaps, to be saved. They couldn't see the mental prison, the whispers.

I have to warn them.

The thought struck like lightning in the night of his fear. But how? Run toward them? He'd be skewered before a word left his lips. Or worse — they'd take him for another puppet and dismiss him.

His eyes darted frantically for an answer, scanning the chaos. Then he saw him, at the edge of the melee: a warrior standing slightly apart, driving back two insect-like creatures. A tall man, a scar slashing across his face. A leader, perhaps. His gaze was sharp, burning with battle-fury, not yet hollowed by the resigned terror that marked the doomed.

This was his chance.

Renn bent down, picked up a jagged stone. He drew in a deep breath, forcing his trembling hand steady. He couldn't shout. The whispers would notice. The invisible hand ruling this place would sense the breach. He had to pass the message another way.

With a sharp motion, he hurled the stone. It struck the man's helmet with a metallic cling.

The warrior spun at once, sword raised, eyes locking on the shadow where Renn crouched. He saw a man like the others — ragged clothes, dirt-streaked face. Another puppet.

"Back!" he barked, ready to strike.

Renn lifted his hands, palms open, a universal plea. But more than that, he looked at him. Hard. He let all the fear, all the urgency, all the desperate lucidity bottled up inside him for three days blaze in his eyes. He prayed with everything in him that this stranger would see the madness of a survivor, not the emptiness of a puppet.

Then, very slowly, never breaking eye contact, he raised a finger to his temple. He squeezed his eyes shut, feigning unbearable pain. Shook his head, as if to shake something off. At last, he opened his eyes again and swept his finger toward the ground, toward the village, in a broad arc that encompassed the monsters, the puppets, the entire battlefield.

Here. In our heads. Beware.

The scarred warrior stared at him, his expression sliding from anger to a cold, unreadable confusion. His gaze flicked from Renn, to the puppets still advancing, to the monsters sacrificing themselves with eerie discipline. Perhaps he saw the difference — in the tautness of Renn's shoulders, in the raw terror burning in his eyes.

A spark of understanding seemed to kindle in his stare.

"The voices…" Renn whispered, just loud enough, perhaps, for him to hear. "Beware the whispers."

Before the warrior could reply, Renn turned on his heel. His part was done. To linger was suicide. He melted into the hut's shadow, resuming the puppet's stiff gait, his face draining once more of expression, while his heart slammed against his ribs.

Behind him, he heard the scarred man's voice, loud and commanding, rising above the din:

"Close ranks! Don't listen to them! Those screams are in your heads! Block your ears!"

Relief surged through Renn — tangled with a new, sharper terror. He had warned them. But now, the wooden mask knew a puppet had spoken. The whisper in his mind pressed harder, a needle of ice probing his will again.

Renn's breath came short, ripped into ragged gasps. The cries, the clash of blades, the chaos of battle faded, sucked away as if into a bottomless pit. Only the whispers remained.

Not clear words, not yet. At first just a hiss, brushing the base of his skull. Then the vibration turned to syllables, the syllables to words, words that sank into his nerves.

You spoke.

You broke the silence.

We saw you.

His neck stiffened, as though an unseen hand had pressed down on it. Cold sweat traced his spine. He tried to resist, clinging to the rhythm of his breath. Inhale. Exhale. I am Renn. I am alive. I am—

The voice cut him off.

You are ours.

A brutal pain exploded behind his eyes, a searing hammer blow. His knees buckled. He tried to groan, but his mouth snapped shut on its own. His jaws locked so tight his teeth nearly cracked.

He felt his arms stiffen, lifting without consent. His spine pulled taut, drawn upright as if by strings. A puppet — yes, he was becoming a puppet again. Every muscle locked in forced obedience. He fought, oh he fought, but his commands no longer reached his limbs.

"No… not yet, not now!" he tried to scream. But the cry drowned inside his mind, smothered by a tide of voices.