Mimicry of The Abyss

chapter 8

"I'm sorry, kid," Ilyra whispered, the edge of her saber trembling against Rhael’s tunic. "I really am."

"Ilyra, don't! Please!" Rhael’s voice broke into a high-pitched sob. "Look at me! Look at my face! A monster wouldn't be crying this much, right? I’m a mess! I’m a total, pathetic mess!"

"That’s the problem, Rhael," Ordan said, his voice heavy with a grim, hollow finality. He stepped closer, the torchlight casting flickering, demonic shadows across his face. "The dungeon doesn't copy heroes. It copies the mess. It copies the fear. And right now, those eyes of yours... they aren't reacting. You're looking at a flame and your pupils are wide enough to fall into."

"It’s the magic!" Rhael screamed, his hands up, palms flat against the cold quartz pillar behind him. "The Hall of Mirrors! It did something to me! My head is spinning, everything is bright—maybe my nerves are just fried!"

"Or maybe there are no nerves left to fry," the Copy said, his voice a chillingly calm echo of Rhael’s own. The duplicate stood a few feet away, looking at Rhael with a mixture of pity and disgust. "Give it up. You’ve been found out. Just dissolve back into smoke and let us go."

"Shut up, you parasite!" Rhael spat, though his knees were knocking together so loudly he was sure they could hear it.

"Hold on," Ordan growled, raising a hand to stay Ilyra’s blade. "Ilyra, wait. If we kill a human boy, we don't just lose a member—we lose what’s left of our own souls. I’ve seen mimics fake a limp. I’ve seen them fake a voice. But can they fake the way a human body truly reacts to agony?"

Ilyra didn't lower her sword. "You want to torture them, Ordan? Here? Now?"

"I want a definitive answer," Ordan replied. He reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a small, jagged obsidian dagger. He held the blade over the flame of his torch until the black stone began to shimmer with a dull, red heat. "A human’s nervous system is a masterpiece of evolution. It’s chaotic, it’s involuntary. A dungeon copy is made of intent and data. It simulates. It doesn't feel."

"What are you doing with that?" the Copy asked, his eyes widening in a very convincing display of alarm. "Ordan, come on. You know it’s me."

"Then you won't mind a little heat," Ordan said. He looked at both Rhaels. "Left hand. Both of you. Palm up."

"This is insane," Rhael whimpered, but he slowly extended his hand. His fingers were shaking so violently he had to grip his wrist with his other hand to keep it still.

"If you're real, you'll scream because you have to," Ordan muttered, stepping toward the Copy first. "If you're a fake, you'll scream because you think you're supposed to. There’s a difference. I’ve heard both."

Ordan didn't hesitate. He pressed the red-hot obsidian tip directly into the center of the Copy’s palm.

"AGH! GODS! STOP! STOP IT!" the Copy shrieked, his body recoiling, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated pain. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his hand to his chest, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. A smell of singed flesh rose into the air—sickly sweet and undeniably real.

"Your turn," Ordan said, turning to Rhael.

Rhael swallowed a lump of dry terror. He looked at the glowing blade, then at Ilyra, who was watching him with a gaze that felt like a death sentence. "Ordan, please... I’m already terrified..."

"Hand. Now," Ordan commanded.

Rhael shut his eyes tight. He felt the heat before the blade even touched him. Then, the world exploded into white-hot needles.

"SHIT! MOTHER OF—! AGH!" Rhael's scream ripped through his throat, raw and jagged. He jerked his hand back, the smell of his own burning skin making his stomach roll. He fell back against the pillar, sliding down to the floor, his vision blurring with tears of genuine, agonizing pain. "You... you crazy old bastard! That hurts! It hurts so much!"

Ordan stood back, looking from one sobbing Rhael to the other. His brow furrowed in deep, frustrated confusion.

"They both reacted," Mavin noted, his voice low and cautious. "The timing, the dilation of the sweat glands... it was identical."

"It’s not possible," Ilyra hissed, her saber finally dipping an inch. "One of them has to be a simulation."

"Maybe the dungeon is better at this than we thought," the Copy wheezed, still clutching his burned palm. He looked over at Rhael, his eyes narrowed. "He’s good. I’ll give him that. He even got the pitch of the scream right."

"I’m not 'good'! I’m in pain!" Rhael barked, cradling his hand. "Look at the wound, Ordan! It’s blistering! Smoke-monsters don't blister!"

"Everything in this dungeon is a lie, Rhael," Ordan sighed, rubbing his face with a gauntleted hand. "The blisters could just be a visual effect. We’re getting nowhere. We’re just torturing ourselves in the dark."

"There has to be something else," Nira said, her bow still half-drawn as she watched the shadows. "Something the dungeon couldn't possibly know. A physical detail that wasn't recorded because it’s always been hidden."

The Copy suddenly went very still. He looked at Rhael, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face—a look that sent a fresh wave of ice through Rhael’s veins.

"You're right, Nira," the Copy said, his voice dropping to a low, conversational tone. "There is something. Something Rhael Dorne has never told anyone. Not even in his 'secrets' back in the room."

"What are you talking about?" Rhael asked, a sinking feeling forming in his gut.

"The 'battle scar' on your right hip," the Copy said, standing up slowly. He looked at the party, his expression one of wounded honesty. "Remember how he told Elara back home that he got it fighting off a wolf when he was ten? It was his favorite story to tell the girls at the tavern. Made him look brave. Made him look like he had a history of violence."

Rhael froze. "How... how do you..."

"But it wasn't a wolf, was it, Rhael?" the Copy continued, taking a step toward Ordan. "It’s a birthmark. A dark, jagged patch of skin that looks like a spilled inkpot. He’s ashamed of it because it looks like a disease, so he tells people it's a scar. He hasn't shown it to anyone since he left his village. He wears his breeches high and tight just to keep it covered."

Ilyra looked at Rhael. "Is that true?"

Rhael couldn't speak. His throat felt like it had been fused shut. "I... I..."

"Check him," the Copy challenged, pointing a finger at Rhael. "Right hip. If I’m the copy, how would I know about a mark that’s been under three layers of leather and wool since the day we walked into this hole? The dungeon only records what it sees and hears. It didn't see me change. It didn't see me bathe. But I remember having it. I remember the way it felt when I was a kid, wondering if it would ever go away."

"Rhael?" Ordan asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. "Drop your belt."

"Ordan, wait! He's—he's in my head! He's stealing the memories as he talks!" Rhael scrambled to his feet, backing away. "It’s a trick! He's just reading my shame!"

"If it's there, and you never showed us, then he shouldn't know about it unless he is you," Mavin said, his pike leveled at Rhael’s chest. "Drop the belt, kid. Now. Or we don't wait for a trial."

With trembling hands, Rhael fumbled with the buckle of his weapon belt. He let it clatter to the quartz floor. Slowly, agonizingly, he shifted the leather of his leggings down his right hip.

There, against the pale, sweat-slicked skin, was a dark, irregular mark. It looked exactly like a splash of black ink.

"There it is," the Copy whispered, his voice full of mock relief. "The mark of the coward."

"Now check him," Rhael gasped, pointing at the duplicate. "Check his hip! If he’s me, he has to have it too!"

The Copy didn't hesitate. He reached down and pulled back his own leggings. His hip was smooth. Pristine. Unmarked.

"I don't have it," the Copy said, looking up with wide, tearful eyes. "Because I’m the version that’s finally free of the lies. The dungeon didn't make me with the mark because it didn't see the mark. But I remember it. That’s the proof, Ordan. I have the memory, but he has the physical glitch that the dungeon tried to replicate."

"Wait, that doesn't make sense!" Rhael screamed. "If I have it and he doesn't, that means I'm the original! The copy wouldn't have it if the dungeon didn't see it!"

"Unless the dungeon did see it," Nira argued, her voice cold. "Maybe it saw it while you were sleeping. Maybe it saw it through the fabric. And it gave it to you to make you seem 'authentic,' but the real Rhael... the real Rhael wouldn't have a mark that looks that... oily."

Rhael looked down at his hip. The mark seemed to ripple. Or was it just the flickering torchlight? "It's not oily! It's just skin! Ordan, please! He's twisting everything!"

"He’s right about one thing," Ilyra said, her eyes snapping back to Rhael with a lethal focus. "The data is complete. You're the one with the 'perfect' details. You're the one the dungeon is trying so hard to sell to us."

"Ilyra, no!" Rhael lunged forward, not to attack, but to grab her hand.

She kicked him squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling back against the quartz pillar. He hit the stone with a sickening thud, the wind leaving his lungs in a sharp whistle.

"You almost had us, you little freak," Mavin spat, stepping forward with his pike. "The pupils, the signal, the 'perfect' birthmark. You’re quite the actor."

"I'm not acting!" Rhael wheezed, clutching his ribs. "I'm the one who's bleeding! Look at my hand! Look at the burn!"

"We've seen enough," Ordan said. He stepped aside, giving Ilyra a clear path. "Do it. Quickly. We need to move before the rest of the floor wakes up."

Ilyra stepped forward, her sabers gleaming. She looked down at Rhael, her expression unreadable. For a second, Rhael thought he saw a flicker of doubt, a ghost of the woman who had saved him in the alcove.

"Any last words, mimic?" she asked.

"I... I just wanted to be a hero," Rhael whispered, tears blurring his vision. "I just wanted to not be a fraud for once in my life."

"You chose the wrong face for that," Ilyra said.

She raised her blade, the steel whistling as it reached the apex of its arc. Rhael closed his eyes, bracing for the cold bite of the sword.

BOOM.

The sound was like a thunderclap inside a coffin. The heavy stone doors of the grotto slammed shut with a force that made the quartz pillars vibrate.

"What the—!" Ordan shouted.

Suddenly, every torch in the room snuffed out at once.

The darkness was absolute. It was thick, heavy, and smelled of ancient, rotting lungs. Rhael couldn't see his own hand, couldn't see Ilyra, couldn't see the exit.

In the silence that followed, a new sound emerged. It wasn't the sound of a struggle or a scream. It was a laugh.

But it wasn't one voice. It was two voices, perfectly synchronized, layered over each other in a dissonant, monstrous harmony.

"Hahaha... choice C, Rhael," the voices echoed, coming from every corner of the dark room. "The harvest is ready. But who's the snack? And who's the chef?"

A blade whistled through the air—a sharp, clean shing—followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

Then, the silence of the dungeon returned, deeper than ever before.