Mimicry of The Abyss

chapter 4

The shadow in the ventilation shaft didn’t retreat so much as it dissolved, pulling its spindly limbs back into the iron grate with a sound like wet silk being dragged over gravel. Rhael stood paralyzed, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He wanted to scream, to point, to vomit—anything to break the suffocating pressure in his chest.

"Ilyra... the vent..." Rhael choked out, his finger trembling as he pointed toward the ceiling. "It was right there. It had... it had a mask."

Ilyra didn't hesitate. She swung her torch upward, the orange light splashing across the rusted metal of the grate. "Tarek! If that’s you, get down here right now!"

The room remained silent for a heartbeat. Then, from the darkness of the corridor—not the vent—a familiar set of footsteps approached. They were heavy, rhythmic, and entirely human.

"Whoa, easy with the shouting," Tarek’s voice called out. He stepped into the circle of light, looking slightly disheveled but otherwise unharmed. He was dusting off his leather leggings, a sheepish grin playing on his lips. "I’m right here. No need to wake the dead."

Kaelen’s bow stayed level, the arrowhead gleaming. "Tarek? Where the hell were you? We thought you went up the shaft."

"The shaft? No way," Tarek said, shaking his head and leaning against the stone wall. "I thought I heard something clicking down the hall. I went to check it out, tripped over a loose flagstone, and took a nasty spill. Spent the last five minutes trying to find my bearings in the dark. My head is still ringing, honestly."

"You left your torch, Tarek," Ilyra said, her voice like shards of ice. "You never leave your light."

"I told you, I tripped," Tarek replied, his tone casual, almost bored. "Must’ve fumbled it. Look, I’m fine. Just a bit bruised. Can we put the weapons down? You’re making me nervous."

Mirra stood up, her hand clutching her staff so hard her knuckles were white. "Rhael saw something in the vent, Tarek. Something wearing your mask."

Tarek laughed—a short, dry sound. "My mask? It’s right here on my belt. See? Rhael’s probably just seeing things. The kid’s been on edge since we stepped inside. Can you blame him?"

"I’m not seeing things!" Rhael snapped, stepping forward. "I saw it! It was holding skin, Tarek! Translucent skin!"

"Skin? Seriously?" Tarek rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Maybe you found a discarded snack from one of those shadow-dwellers. They’re messy eaters, or so I’ve heard. Look, I’m tired, I’m sore, and I’d really like to just sit down and not have an arrow pointed at my liver. Is that too much to ask?"

Mavin Korr, the group’s secondary guard who had been silently sharpening his dagger in the corner, finally spoke up. He was a man of few words, usually content to let Ilyra handle the talking. "You said you fell in the hallway?"

"Yeah, Mavin. About twenty yards back. Why?" Tarek asked.

"Because the vent is dripping," Mavin said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "And it doesn't smell like water."

"It’s a dungeon, Mavin. Everything drips," Tarek countered, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "Come on, guys. It’s me. We’ve been through three floors of this hellhole together. You really think I’m some kind of smoke-monster?"

"Sit by the fire, Tarek," Ilyra commanded, gesturing with her saber. "Right now."

"Fine, fine. I’m sitting," Tarek said, moving toward the center of the room. He sat down gingerly, stretching his legs out toward the dying embers of the campfire.

Rhael didn't sit. He couldn't. He stood just outside the direct light, his eyes narrowed, watching Tarek with a frantic intensity. Something was wrong. It wasn't the voice—the voice was perfect. It wasn't the movement—the limp was exactly where it should be.

Then, the fire popped.

A dry piece of wood snapped, sending a bright spray of sparks into the air and momentarily brightening the room. Rhael leaned in, his breath catching in his throat.

"Tarek," Rhael whispered.

"What now, kid?" Tarek asked, looking up.

"Look at the fire," Rhael said.

Tarek looked. The bright orange light flooded his face. Rhael watched his eyes—those familiar, hazel eyes. In the sudden flare of light, any human eye would have reacted. The pupils should have constricted into tiny black pinpricks to protect the retina.

Tarek’s pupils remained wide. They were vast, bottomless pits of black that didn't quiver, didn't shrink, and didn't reflect the light at all. It was like looking into two holes bored straight into the void.

"Your eyes..." Rhael’s voice was a ghost of a sound. "They aren't changing."

Tarek blinked slowly. "What are you talking about? My eyes are fine. Maybe yours are the ones playing tricks, Rhael. Maybe you’re the one we should be worried about."

"Ilyra, don't let him move," Rhael shouted, backing away. "Look at his pupils! He’s not reacting to the light!"

"I’ve had enough of this," Mavin Korr grunted, standing up. He grabbed a long iron pike used for checking traps and walked toward the ventilation shaft. "If Tarek is sitting there, then whatever Rhael saw in here must still be up in the pipes."

"Mavin, stay back," Ilyra warned.

"I’m just gonna take a look," Mavin said, his face set in a grim mask. "If there’s a 'Blank' up there, I’ll poke it until it pops."

Mavin stood under the vent, hoisted the pike, and shoved it upward through the grate. He wiggled it around, the metal clattering against the interior of the shaft.

Squelch.

The sound was unmistakable. It was the sound of a blade entering wet, heavy meat.

Mavin froze. "Uh... guys?"

"What is it?" Kaelen asked, his arrow notched and ready.

"It’s... it’s stuck," Mavin said, pulling on the pike. "Something’s heavy up there. Really heavy."

He gave a violent yank. The iron grate, already rusted and loose, gave way with a screech of protesting metal. It tumbled to the floor, followed by a shower of dust, old bones, and a large, limp object that hit the stones with a sickening thud.

The group scrambled back. Ilyra thrust her torch forward.

It was Tarek.

The real Tarek. He was stuffed into his own leather armor, but his body was unnervingly thin, as if the insides had been vacuumed out. His skin was a pale, waxy blue, and his throat had been opened with a single, surgical precision. His eyes—the real ones—were frozen in a final expression of absolute, soul-shattering surprise.

The room went deathly silent. Every head turned slowly, agonizingly, toward the man sitting by the fire.

"Tarek" was still sitting there. He was looking at the corpse on the floor with a curious, tilted head, much like a dog looking at a confusing new toy.

"Oh," the mimic said. Its voice was still Tarek’s, but the inflection was gone, replaced by a flat, melodic drone. "I thought I hid that better. The logistics of this form are... complicated."

"Kill it!" Ilyra roared, lunging forward with her saber.

The mimic didn't even stand up. It simply leaned back at an angle that would have snapped a human spine, its body folding like a piece of paper. Ilyra’s blade whistled through the air where its head had been a second before.

"Tarek" began to rise, but not like a man. His limbs elongated, the joints cracking and snapping with the sound of dry wood. His skin began to ripple and tear, the "Tarek" face stretching until the mouth was a wide, jagged hole.

"Stay back!" Kaelen yelled, loosing an arrow. It thudded into the mimic's shoulder, but there was no blood. Only a puff of black smoke and a sound like air escaping a balloon.

The creature’s jaw unhinged. It didn't just open; the lower half of its face slid down its chest, revealing a cavernous maw lined with rows of needle-like, translucent teeth. And from within that darkness, a tongue emerged.

It wasn't a normal tongue. It was long, pale, and covered in tiny, vibrating hairs. As it flicked into the air, it began to speak. But it didn't use Tarek's voice anymore.

It used Rhael’s.

"'Stupid, stupid, stupid,'" the mimic whispered, the voice a perfect, haunting replica of Rhael’s inner monologue. "'Why did I come here? My heart is going to explode. I can feel it hitting my ribs.'"

Rhael felt the world tilt. "How... how are you doing that?"

The mimic’s eyes—the black pits—fixed on Rhael. Its body was a grotesque fusion of Tarek’s shape and something ancient and oily.

"'I choose Choice C,'" the creature continued, its tongue lashing the air as it mimicked Rhael's most private, unspoken thoughts from the moment he entered the dungeon. "'Waking up from this nightmare. But I won't wake up, will I, Rhael? Because I’m not a hero. I’m just a snack. A very quiet, very terrified snack.'"

"Shut up!" Rhael screamed, swinging his shield. "Stop talking! Stop using my head!"

"It’s reading him," Mirra gasped, her staff glowing with a pale blue light. "It’s not just copying his voice anymore. It’s inside him!"

"The data is complete," the mimic said, its voice now shifting into a terrifying blend of everyone in the room. "The harvest... begins."

With a sudden, violent burst of speed, the creature didn't lung at Ilyra or Mavin. It lunged straight for Rhael, its jaw hanging open like a gateway to a grave, the tongue already forming the words of his next terrified thought before he could even think it.