Mimicry of The Abyss

Chapter 2

"Rhael?" the shadow whispered again, the voice vibrating with a pitch-perfect imitation of his own frantic confusion. "Where did I go? Am I lost?"

Rhael felt the woman’s grip tighten. Her palm was calloused, smelling of old leather and sharp ozone. He remained frozen, his eyes fixed on the dozen shadowy figures standing just feet away. They were pacing now, their movements jerky, almost like a puppet whose strings were being yanked by a novice. They weren't just looking for him; they were practicing being him.

"Stay. Absolutely. Still," the woman breathed into his ear. The heat of her breath was the only thing keeping his blood from freezing solid.

One of the shadow-dwellers tilted its head, its neck snapping with a sickening, wet crackle that echoed Rhael’s own habit of stretching his neck when nervous. It let out a shaky breath—the exact same sigh Rhael had let out five minutes ago.

"I’m just... having a very one-sided conversation with a tomb," the shadow murmured. It was a verbatim recording of his earlier monologue.

Rhael’s eyes went wide. He tried to speak, but the woman’s hand was an iron clamp. She waited, her body coiled like a spring, until the shadows drifted further down the corridor, their footsteps making the same soft, wet sounds his boots made.

Only when the darkness swallowed the last flicker of their smoke-like forms did she finally release him. Rhael slumped against the wall, sliding down until his backside hit the cold floor. He gasped, sucking in the stale air.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed, his voice a frantic stage-whisper. "They were talking! They were talking with my voice! That’s... that’s not allowed! There have to be rules against that!"

The woman stepped out of the shadows of the alcove. She was tall, clad in blackened leather armor that seemed to drink the light of his dropped torch. A heavy saber hung at her hip, and her eyes, sharp and amber, looked him over with blatant unimpressed disdain.

"Rules? You think the Silent Dungeon cares about your feelings, kid?" she asked, her voice low and raspy. "You’ve been down here for what, twenty minutes? And you’ve already given them enough material for a three-act play."

"I was talking to myself! It helps me think!" Rhael defended himself, waving a hand wildly. "Who are you? And why did you just tackle me into a hole?"

"Ilyra Veyne. And I didn't tackle you; I saved your life. Though, looking at you now, I’m wondering if it was worth the effort." She leaned against the opposite wall, crossing her arms. "Every word you say is a gift to them. This place isn't 'silent' because nothing lives here. It’s silent because the things that do live here are listening."

Rhael swallowed, his throat clicking. "Listening for what?"

"Data," Ilyra said flatly. "Sound. Patterns. The way you stutter when you’re scared. The way you trail off when you’re lying. They’re recording you, Rhael. They’re learning how to be you."

"Okay, so they’re mimics. Creepy, sure. But I can handle some shadows with a voice recorder."

Ilyra let out a short, humorless bark of a laugh. "You think that’s all they are? Those things out there? Those are just the 'Blanks.' They’re the scouts. Once they gather enough data—once they’ve mapped the way your heart beats and the way your pupils dilate—the dungeon starts the real work."

"The real work?"

"It creates a 'Perfect,'" she said, her voice dropping an octave. "A flawless, physical copy. A version of you that doesn't just sound like you, but thinks like you. It has your memories. Your skills. Your soul. And once the Perfect is born, the original becomes... redundant."

Rhael felt a cold sweat break out across his brow. "Redundant? You mean—"

"I mean they kill you and take your place," Ilyra snapped. "They walk out of this dungeon, go back to your home, kiss your mother, and sleep in your bed. And nobody ever knows the difference. Because why would they? The copy is perfect."

Rhael looked down at his hands. They were shaking. "That’s... that’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever heard. Why would anyone come here?"

"For the same reason you did, I assume. Greed. Or stupidity. Usually both." Ilyra pushed off the wall. "Pick up your shield. We need to move. My party is regrouping at the waypoint near the stairs to Level Two."

"Party? There’s more of you? Oh, thank the gods. Safety in numbers, right?"

"In any other dungeon, maybe," Ilyra said, casting a glance back at him as she began to walk. "In here? Numbers just mean more voices for them to steal. It means more chances for one of us to be replaced without the others noticing. Keep your eyes open, and for the love of the Sun, keep your mouth shut."

"Right. Silent. Got it. I’m a vault. A tomb. A very quiet, very terrified tomb," Rhael muttered, scrambling to his feet and grabbing his torch.

They moved through the winding corridors in a tense, heavy silence. Rhael tried to focus on the rhythm of Ilyra’s boots, noting how she stepped only on the dry parts of the flagstones. Every few minutes, he’d hear a whisper from the darkness—a snippet of his own voice, or a laugh that sounded like hers—but Ilyra never flinched. She just kept moving, her hand never straying far from the hilt of her sword.

Eventually, the narrow passage opened into a larger hall. A small campfire flickered in the center, suppressed by a magical veil that kept the light from traveling too far. Three figures sat around it, their shadows dancing elongated on the walls.

"Ilyra! Over here!" a man called out, waving a hand. He was a broad-shouldered fellow with a thick beard and a jovial face that seemed entirely out of place in this nightmare.

"Dalen," Ilyra greeted him, her voice tight. She didn't relax her posture. "Found a straggler. This is Rhael. He’s a talker."

The man, Dalen Rusk, grinned, showing off a missing molar. "A talker, eh? Well, welcome to the quietest party in the world, Rhael! I’m Dalen, the man who keeps the bellies full and the spirits high. This is Kaelen and Mirra."

A slim man with a bow and a woman draped in silver-trimmed robes nodded curtly. Rhael felt a wave of relief wash over him. Real people. Warmth. The smell of roasting salt-pork.

"Hey, nice to meet you all," Rhael said, his voice cracking slightly. "Ilyra was just telling me about the... uh, the 'Perfects.' Really cheery stuff. Great for the morale."

Dalen chuckled, stirring a pot over the fire. "Ilyra’s always been a bit of a gloom-monger. Don't let her scare you too much, lad. As long as we stay together and keep our wits about us, we’re fine. The dungeon needs a lot of time to make a Perfect. It’s not an instant process."

"How long?" Rhael asked, sitting down gingerly on a bedroll.

"Days," Dalen said, waving a wooden spoon. "Sometimes weeks. You’ve only been here an hour. You’re safe for now. Just don't start reciting poetry to the walls."

"I think I’m done with talking for the year," Rhael sighed, reaching for a piece of bread Dalen offered. "I just want to get some gold and get out. I didn't sign up for an existential crisis."

"Nobody ever does," Kaelen, the archer, remarked, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the light. "But the gold is real. Found a pouch of sun-stones in a chest three rooms back. Enough to buy a small farm."

The conversation drifted into the mundane—logistics, the state of their supplies, the route to the next level. Rhael felt himself beginning to relax. The horror of the shadows felt further away now, buffered by the presence of these veterans.

Ilyra, however, remained standing at the edge of the light, her eyes fixed on the party members.

"You're being paranoid, Ilyra," Dalen said, looking up from the pot. "Sit down. Eat. We’ve got a long climb tomorrow."

"The learning process has already begun, Dalen," Ilyra said quietly. "For all of us. Don't forget that."

"I know, I know," Dalen said with a roll of his eyes. He looked over at Rhael and winked. "She’s a riot at parties, isn't she? Reminds me of this one girl I knew back in the port town. She was so suspicious of everyone that she used to make her dates taste her ale first to make sure it wasn't poisoned."

Mirra, the woman in robes, smiled. "And did you taste it for her?"

"Of course I did!" Dalen laughed. "And then I told her—"

Before Dalen could even get to the punchline, before the words had even left his lips, a loud, boisterous laugh erupted from his throat.

"Hahaha! That's a classic!" Dalen roared, slapping his knee.

The air in the circle went frigid.

Mirra’s smile vanished. Kaelen’s hand moved toward his bow. Rhael froze with the bread halfway to his mouth, his heart stopping.

Dalen was still laughing, but his eyes were wide, darting around the circle as if looking for the source of the sound. The laugh was coming from him, but his mouth wasn't moving in sync with the noise. It was as if a recording was playing over his actual voice.

"I... I didn't finish the joke," Dalen whispered, his face turning pale. "I haven't even said the funny part yet."

Ilyra didn't say a word. She drew her saber, the steel hissing against the scabbard, and pointed the tip directly at Dalen’s throat.

"Ilyra, wait!" Dalen cried out, throwing his hands up. "It was just a fluke! The echoes in here, they—"

"The dungeon doesn't echo, Dalen," Ilyra said, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. "You know that better than anyone."

Rhael backed away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at Dalen, who looked exactly like the man who had just offered him bread. But then he looked at the man’s shadow on the wall.

The shadow wasn't laughing. It was standing perfectly still, its head tilted to the side, watching them all with an eyeless gaze.