Subject: [OTL]: HellsX 11 Date: Fri, 23 Jul 2004 04:53:07 -0700 (PDT) From: D Benway HellsX [11:45] Inverse Empire Produced by Benway. See notes for disclaimer. _______________________________________________________________________________ Kitty's training began almost immediately afterwards, after a pair of mute albino ghouls had fitted her up with a complete wardrobe of kevlar and leather outfits. Delightfully, they were blind and had hooks for hands, so she had no need to worry about them seeing or feeling her hideously bloated body. Doug came back shortly after she was dressed, and showed her the various solvents she could use to remove bits of dead flesh from her person. The wire toothbrush sent a delightful shiver down her spine. "Prevents dog breath," said Doug, signing away every moment they were in the bathroom. The ASL had completely come back to her, and she eventually figured out that there was no working camera in the bathroom. He signed over and over again to trust no-one, to keep any criticisms or thoughts to herself, to play the perfect, quiet little girl, speaking only when asked. It was a role she knew how to play, perfectly. A short time later, someone knocked. She knew, as she knew that ice was cold and hard, that on the other side of the door was a tall, powerfully built, healthy human in the prime of physical condition. She felt herself begin to salivate. He entered without her invitation. He had no eyes, only a visor. He wore the same kind of black leather and kevlar that she wore, but he was human, human and filled with blood with rich, rich blood coursing through his veins. "Scott Summers," he said. "X-Men field leader." He had a pistol in his hand. There was a blue glow coming from the barrel, as if a gas fire was burning inside. Endsilver. Still. He was full of blood. Fresh blood, just under the skin- She could feel the saliva run down her chin. Ounces and ounces, maybe even pounds of blood. Even if blood was mostly water, all that water- She wiped her mouth, a fang tearing a deep rip down the leather of one sleeve. His pistol didn't waver. At this range, if he fired it, he would be severely injured by the blast. She knew from the film what would happen to her. She put on a smile, and looked at him as if he were the undecided judge from Moline. She smiled, without pause, for over ten minutes. The phone rang. Summers picked it up without the pistol wavering. She knew his eyes were locked on hers, even if she couldn't see them. "It's for you," he said. "As you're still alive, I can see that you have some self-control," said the Professor. "No biting anyone in the Club unless you're told to. Got that?" "Yes, my master," she said. Frost hung up, not bothering to respond. She watched Summers re-holster his pistol. "Self-control is good," he said. "Loss of it is one of the few things that could destroy you." "I know," she said. He took her on a tour of the complex. "It's like the Empire State Building, only upside down," said Summers. He showed her the network of caverns below Central Park, once intended to shelter a select few of the population from Soviet missiles. The lowest of them was the place where Doug and the other ghouls lived. Summers only showed her the door, and clearly was having some difficulty in holding himself back from gagging at the smell. She could barely notice it at all. The only thing she could smell was Summers himself, filled with all that fresh, healthy, warm, fattening blood. Further up the structure, nearer the surface, were barracks for human support staff, a small hospital, and communications and meeting rooms. She was shown the hangar, with the stealth chopper that sounded no different from a transport truck. She was shown the pneumatic tube system that would send a bagful of rich, warm blood to her every evening. She was then taken up several levels and through a foot-thick steel door to where the human X-Men lived, in the Central Park mansion of the Hellfire Club. Except for Logan, they were all mutants. Piotr Rasputin was Russian, and looked like the cold men who had guarded the rink when she competed that one time in Russia. When told to, he turned into a metallized giant, but Kitty could still hear his heart beating and forcing many, many litres of sweet, red blood underneath his shining skin. Warren Worthington had wings. He was a member of the Club, and spared no opportunity to look down his nose at Summers. Kitty knew his type well, always lurking on the sidelines and offering cash and drugs in return for various services. She also knew how seldom such offers were taken up, how only the weakest would succumb to those needs. Bobby Drake was her age, a kid who sucked streams of ice out of some kind of dimensional warp. "Nice outfit," was all he could manage, when introduced. He never made eye contact, he always talked to the floor. He was clearly a Fan. "My collection," said Bobby. "Want to see it?" "You don't," said Summers. He took her into the room across the hall from Bobby's. The drapes were drawn, and pages from Newsday had been taped over all the mirrors. Summers walked over to the bed, and threw off the comforters. A girl with shock-white hair lay on the bed staring into space. Kitty knew at once that the girl was one of her tribe. "This is Ororo," said Summers. "When she's up to it, she can control the weather." Kitty scanned Ororo from head to foot. Ororo barely stirred her hunger, but did stir her anger. Ororo's BMI could not have possibly exceeded 15. "Did you have dinner?" said Summers. "Two rolls," said Ororo. "Some soup." "And it's where it should be?" said Summers. "Yeah," said Ororo, staring at the toilet. Summers headed into the bathroom. "14.9," whispered Ororo, grinning. For one moment, Kitty almost forgot her master's injunction. "Munroe," barked Summers. "Yeah?" said Ororo. "I'm sending up three rolls and soup," said Summers. "Eat it, or I'll send you to Dr. McCoy again." A look of sheer terror passed over Ororo's face. "Two," she whispered. "I'll eat two." "You will eat all three rolls," said Summers. "You will eat them and you will digest them as any normal person would. Understand?" Ororo nodded. Kitty suppressed the urge to smile. How could the girl be so stupid as not to clean the bowl until it was fit to eat from, afterwards? Summers took her back to the caverns, and showed her the place he called the Danger Room. "For us, not for you," he said. He explained a series of drills that she would have to undertake, in order to develop her combat skills and kill effectively. The first thing he did was to ask her to climb a small stepladder. She did as he asked. "Now, jump," he said. "But I'm not wearing my skates," she said. She knew what would happen when her stress-fractured ankles hit the concrete from eight feet up, without proper support. "Climb down," hissed a voice from the corner. She did so, and turned to stare at those terrible, glowing eyes in the darkest corner of the room. "Logan," said Summers. "Master?" said Kitty. "Master," said Logan. "Your true master. I was the one who made you, not her." She glanced at Summers. His was face was rigid, devoid of any expression. She could feel his heart beating faster, and faster. "Needs to learn what she is," said Logan. "Thrall. On your knees." Kitty went down on her knees, not having the faintest idea what 'thrall' meant until that very moment. "Are you scared of heights?" said Logan. "Yes, Master," said Kitty. "See that staircase over there?" said Logan. A tendril of darkness drifted from the corner and pointed at a long metal flight of stairs running up the wall to a gantry at least 100 feet above. "Yes," said Kitty. "Go up to the top and throw yourself off," said Logan. "YESMASTER!" Kitty screamed. She ran for the stairs and climbed them two at a time, faster than she'd ever climbed before. She glanced down at Summers every so often. He looked smaller and smaller each time. At the top was a railing. She didn't stop, and crashed right through a quarter-inch thick steel bar. The wind ruffled her hair on the way down, more so than any spin she'd ever done. The floor came at her faster than anything she'd seen from the front seat of her father's Porsche. It stopped. There was no pain. "Get up," said Logan. She got up. There was no pain at all. The pain from the stress fractures in her ankles and her knees and her hips simply was not there. She found herself grinning uncontrollably. Summers grinned back. "Good work," he said. The darkness swirled in the corner. It said nothing. After an hour of exercises involving six plunges down the elevator shaft and a session in the machine shop, she was allowed to return to her room. On the table, sitting in a cooler-full of ice, sat a bag of cooled yet very, very fresh human blood. There was quite a lot of it. She knew that if she drank that much fluid, she would bloat. She had an entire 1.2 to lose in order to catch up with Ororo. She picked up the bag. She could not stop herself from putting the port in her mouth, and sucking on the solvent-cleaned plastic. Moaning, she made it to the toilet just in time. She flushed the toilet and tore the bag open over the bowl. The scent of freshly-drawn blood filled the room. She howled and plunged her head into the toilet, drinking and drinking and drinking until the last of the water vanished around the bend. She sank to her knees, moaning this time in pain. Suddenly, the water came back up, hurling itself in a steaming jet across the tiles. Oddly, it was clear and showed no tinge of red. Kitty started to weep. "Stupid," hissed the voice from behind the shower curtain. Glowing red eyes were staring at her. Something large and metallic hit the floor at her feet. "Know what these are?" said Logan. "Yes, my Master," said Kitty. There were bolt cutters, like the ones Coach had used in Dubuque to cut the chain-link fence so she could crawl under and deflate the tires of her main rival's car. The blades glowed faintly, in blue. "You notice that Summers only tried crushing you?" said Logan. "Yes, Master," said Kitty. "Crushing won't kill you," said Logan. "Cutting will. Pick them up." "Yes, Master," said Kitty. They were heavy, and they seemed to be vibrating. "Which hand you write with?" said Logan. "My left, Master," said Kitty. "Cut off the little finger on your left hand," said Logan. "Yes, Master," said Kitty. The handles on the bolt cutter were long, and she had to brace it against her body. She inserted her finger, then brought the handles together. It hurt, though not very much. The blades cut through the joint with a loud crunching sound, and the finger rolled off onto the tiles. A dark tendril reached out and swept it away. She could hear a long slow slurp, deep within the darkness. "Good," said Logan. She looked at the place where her finger had been. It had already sealed over with new skin. "Any time you hurt yourself, I take a piece off you," said Logan. "Got that?" "I understand, oh my Master," said Kitty. The eyes vanished into the blackness and the bathroom lights came on. She was alone. She looked at where the stump had been. It hurt a little, and she could see a bulge that hadn't been there before. She knew that it would grow back, given time. Kitty collapsed back against the toilet, thinking. Logan had made a threat, about what would happen if she hurt herself. She had hurt herself, by giving into her animal urges and consuming the blood before it had drained. To make herself better, she would have to be sure that it all went around the bend, that she could keep herself from eating until she reached a beautiful 14.5, or, even better, a 13.9. She gazed at the stump again. "Thou shalt not eat fattening foods without punishing yourself afterwards," she whispered. She was truly happy, for the first time in years. [Next: Scott Summers]