The Souls in Sectum – Chapter III – Rain
The temperature dropped as Adria navigated the streets of Dictaduria. An hour's journey led her to Manson Avenue, a bustling thoroughfare weaving through the labyrinthine blocks of the city. Here, she found herself amidst a throng of people flowing in and out of government-owned store blocks, each decorated according to its function, offering everything needed for survival at a high price. Dictaduria's economy was tightly controlled by the regime, which held a monopoly on supply and demand, ensnaring its inhabitants in a cyclic system where they exhausted their salaries on products crafted from materials they themselves produced.
Adria was a miner, but within the city, there were all sorts of professions blacksmiths, metallurgists, nuclear engineers, farmers, manufacturers, medics, firefighters, sentinels and a number of others contributed to its functioning. Some, engaged in double shifts, clandestinely toiling away in Negativus, a parallel undercity hidden deep beneath the surface with a tendency to become alive at nights, while the rest of Dictaduria slumbered.
Rumors abounded of Negativus being an elusive sanctuary beyond the regime's reach, offering a fleeting sense of liberty to those trapped within Sectum, but Adria suspected the Fifth Sephirot's omniscience, believing they were aware of everything transpiring below and allowed it to continue unchecked, perhaps as a social experiment or simply as a matter of indifference.
Though she frequented Negativus for her shopping on her free nights, lately, those had been scarce. Manson Avenue served as her fallback, and 'Marina's' stood as her preferred stop. Arriving amidst the crowd, annoyance prickled Adria as she realized it was peak hour. She knew her list: onions, chiles, beans, plant-based meat, bread, purified water, noodles, soap and trash bags.
A shiver ran down her spine as the temperature continued to plummet.
At the cashier, she exchanged pleasantries and gatvits with Marina's husband, Daven, who usually exuded a cheerful demeanor but that day appeared subdued and grief-stricken. Adria offered her condolences, mindful of the recent passing of his wife.
“Have a good day,” Daven managed, his smile fragile, his eyes haunted.
Outside, the dim light of mid-afternoon yielded to yellow clouds obscuring the sun, casting the city into darkness. Morbid curiosity drew the gaze of those around Adria to the windows as more people sought refuge within the store. Adria packed her purchases into her bag, retrieving a roll of translucent derrital, a graphene-based raincoat, and draping it over herself. It was a common sight; derritals were provided to protect Dictadurians from the region's hazardous weather.
Thunder reverberated outside, causing the store's windows to tremble before the rain began. A sharp cry pierced the silence, echoing the collective apprehension within. Adria stepped out into the downpour, joining others donning their derritals, seeking safety from Manson Avenue's notorious reputation for robberies by using the harsh climate to their favor.
Dictaduria, like its counterparts in Sectum, was plagued by criminal elements, populated by exiled convicts from Malkuth and its colonies. Some extarri would chose to exploit their abilities for personal gain rather than reforming their ways, preying on those yearning for a return to aequiteism without incidents.
Up in Manson Avenue, Adria could hear more painful screams amidst the sound of acidic rain pouring on dictadurians who failed to take cover on time. She retrieved a pair of old headphones from her bag while walking uphill, attempting to block out the harrowing sounds. Despite the slippery terrain, her boots proved capable; however, she became distracted and failed to notice a corpse rolling onto the street directly in front of her. Tripping over what remained of the torso, she perceived the rain persistently striking the body, drop after drop, disintegrating it. Adria's gaze traveled over the gruesome sight. Blood, muscle, and skin melded with the liquid pooling around her feet, staining her boots. Her intuition telling her that was where the first scream had originated—the one they had heard at Marina's.
Processing the sight before her, Adria turned and sprinted away, her head spinning and her body attempting to expel nonexistent food. Stopping to cough and spit the bile burning her throat, she heard more cries in the distance as she took deep breaths. Gathering herself, she continued walking, nearing the end of Manson Avenue. The gloomy atmosphere and the mental aftermath of what she had witnessed dampened whatever good mood she had gained from the enhancer. Defeated and haunted by the reminder of her entrapment in hell, she reached the MA Section.
Alphanumerical street names were the norm in Dictaduria. Exhausted, Adria crossed it as rain poured around her, falling on her derrital. The concrete street with blocks on top of blocks was much narrower than Mason Avenue, dark and foreboding, with interconnected streets branching off it. Breathing deeply to regulate her pulse, still in shock, her cold, nervous hands trembled as she paced quickly, keeping herself in the shadows and trying to remain as invisible as possible.
MA9A1 40-56, MA9A2 57–89, MA9B1, MA9B2.
As the deadly acid rain ceased with the departure of the yellow cloud from that part of the city, Adria removed the derrital, shook off the remaining water, folded it, and placed it back into her purse. Upon completion, she noticed the soft orange glow emanating from a bracelet she wore. It warned her of nearby dangers—an old gadget she had found months ago in Negativus.
MD19O12, MD19O13, ME1A1.
Continuing on her way, Adria had to stop after a while. Instead of turning the usual preventive yellow, as she would expect now that the rain was over, the bracelet became orange and warmed. There was danger nearby, and she attempted to discern its source while people began to repopulate the streets. Doors and windows reopened, and dictadurians resumed their busy rhythms, leaving that fateful portion of their afternoon in the past.
Adria took a shortcut to avoid the bustling streets of ME9J3 and entered ME9J4, where the distant voices became murmurs, allowing her to walk with more freedom. The bracelet now glowed red, burning, prompting her to stop and listen to her surroundings. She heard leftover drops of rainfall from the roofs, distant conversations, footsteps, people coming and going, a rat scurrying away, distant thunder, a painful gasp, and one terrible scream. Amidst it all, there was a pleasurable, dry, and prideful laugh—the source of danger.
On a deserted road, where the blocks were not as old and broken as hers, a lonely woman hurried in the opposite direction, trying to escape from wherever she came from as swiftly as her feet would allow, though she refrained from running. When their paths crossed, her voice reached Adria's ears.
"Don't go there," the nameless woman said without stopping or looking toward her, continuing on her path without turning back.
Adria appreciated the warning but knew what had to be done, or at least that's where her instincts led her. Moments later, she overheard a heated discussion close to where those sinister laughs had originated.
"...without telling us?" a man with a raspy voice yelled.
Adria hid in the nearest block, ME10A4-67, deactivating her bracelet after it pulsed, becoming too hot to wear. Another man coughed.
"I won't. If you..." he could barely talk, "if you kill me, you won't find them."
"Stupid furkano, that's exactly why we're here, waiting to kill you. Tell us where the alters are and stop suffering. Either way, we will murder you slowly," a voice, equally seductive and menacing female, gestured to the victim.
Behind the wall where Adria leaned, an alley connected to the backside of ME10A5 and MF10A5 streets. She peeked and saw a shirtless man hanging upside down, his legs suspended from a lamppost by a rope, hands tied behind his back, motionless. Sweat and blood dripped onto a small pond beneath him.
Both torturers had their backs to Adria, dressed in colorful attire for dictadurian streets. The woman walked around the hanged extarri with a sneer on her gorgeous profile. Clothing adhered to strict rules enforced by the regime for dictadurians, yet they showed no concern about getting into trouble, she imagined they could belong to one of the criminal families running the undercity who had a tendency to try and level up with Sentinels, following their own laws.
"Meida, why?" the hanged man muttered, defeated.
The woman burst into maniacal laughter at the question.
"Timor... did you hear that? I... I can't..." Meida's knees bent, her back arched as she laughed with madness
Next to her, Timor laughed with awkwardness, trying to match her partner's madness. Abruptly, she stopped, pulling Corven by his hair and violently kissing him upside down. It was a repulsive, offensive maneuver that showcased the man's powerlessness; she bit his upper lip, drawing blood. Then, with a final, forceful kiss, Meida pulled away, still holding his head as she displayed a bloodied smile.
With her index finger, she wiped the scarlet fluid from her lips, sucking it, tasting the iron of his blood as she stared into the confused man's eyes and slapped him with all her strength. He growled in pain, swinging left and right, almost knocked out.
"Corven, did you believe I had any interest in you?" Her question demanded no answer. "You're a brainless bag of meat that moves around at the slightest hint of interest, a pathetic excuse for a man." Meida caught him with her left hand and halted his swing.
Timor circled the alley, ensuring no one was around.
"What angers me is that you could steal from our boss, who helped you? It felt like an inside job and if there’s a traitor in out lines, someone’s paying with their life." the woman whispered in his ear. Her hand retrieved a knife from her belt, raising it to Corven's torso and slicing him with surgical precision.
"Where did you hide those furkan alters?" Meida asked the half-unconscious man.
Realizing he wouldn't respond, she punched him in the stomach and sliced him a second time, his screams of pain pleading for help while Timor headed straight for the area where Adria hid.
The Souls in Sectum – Chapter III – Rain
The temperature dropped as Adria navigated the streets of Dictaduria. An hour's journey led her to Manson Avenue, a bustling thoroughfare weaving through the labyrinthine blocks of the city. Here, she found herself amidst a throng of people flowing in and out of government-owned store blocks, each decorated according to its function, offering everything needed for survival at a high price. Dictaduria's economy was tightly controlled by the regime, which held a monopoly on supply and demand, ensnaring its inhabitants in a cyclic system where they exhausted their salaries on products crafted from materials they themselves produced.
Adria was a miner, but within the city, there were all sorts of professions blacksmiths, metallurgists, nuclear engineers, farmers, manufacturers, medics, firefighters, sentinels and a number of others contributed to its functioning. Some, engaged in double shifts, clandestinely toiling away in Negativus, a parallel undercity hidden deep beneath the surface with a tendency to become alive at nights, while the rest of Dictaduria slumbered.
Rumors abounded of Negativus being an elusive sanctuary beyond the regime's reach, offering a fleeting sense of liberty to those trapped within Sectum, but Adria suspected the Fifth Sephirot's omniscience, believing they were aware of everything transpiring below and allowed it to continue unchecked, perhaps as a social experiment or simply as a matter of indifference.
Though she frequented Negativus for her shopping on her free nights, lately, those had been scarce. Manson Avenue served as her fallback, and 'Marina's' stood as her preferred stop. Arriving amidst the crowd, annoyance prickled Adria as she realized it was peak hour. She knew her list: onions, chiles, beans, plant-based meat, bread, purified water, noodles, soap and trash bags.
A shiver ran down her spine as the temperature continued to plummet.
At the cashier, she exchanged pleasantries and gatvits with Marina's husband, Daven, who usually exuded a cheerful demeanor but that day appeared subdued and grief-stricken. Adria offered her condolences, mindful of the recent passing of his wife.
“Have a good day,” Daven managed, his smile fragile, his eyes haunted.
Outside, the dim light of mid-afternoon yielded to yellow clouds obscuring the sun, casting the city into darkness. Morbid curiosity drew the gaze of those around Adria to the windows as more people sought refuge within the store. Adria packed her purchases into her bag, retrieving a roll of translucent derrital, a graphene-based raincoat, and draping it over herself. It was a common sight; derritals were provided to protect Dictadurians from the region's hazardous weather.
Thunder reverberated outside, causing the store's windows to tremble before the rain began. A sharp cry pierced the silence, echoing the collective apprehension within. Adria stepped out into the downpour, joining others donning their derritals, seeking safety from Manson Avenue's notorious reputation for robberies by using the harsh climate to their favor.
Dictaduria, like its counterparts in Sectum, was plagued by criminal elements, populated by exiled convicts from Malkuth and its colonies. Some extarri would chose to exploit their abilities for personal gain rather than reforming their ways, preying on those yearning for a return to aequiteism without incidents.
Up in Manson Avenue, Adria could hear more painful screams amidst the sound of acidic rain pouring on dictadurians who failed to take cover on time. She retrieved a pair of old headphones from her bag while walking uphill, attempting to block out the harrowing sounds. Despite the slippery terrain, her boots proved capable; however, she became distracted and failed to notice a corpse rolling onto the street directly in front of her. Tripping over what remained of the torso, she perceived the rain persistently striking the body, drop after drop, disintegrating it. Adria's gaze traveled over the gruesome sight. Blood, muscle, and skin melded with the liquid pooling around her feet, staining her boots. Her intuition telling her that was where the first scream had originated—the one they had heard at Marina's.
Processing the sight before her, Adria turned and sprinted away, her head spinning and her body attempting to expel nonexistent food. Stopping to cough and spit the bile burning her throat, she heard more cries in the distance as she took deep breaths. Gathering herself, she continued walking, nearing the end of Manson Avenue. The gloomy atmosphere and the mental aftermath of what she had witnessed dampened whatever good mood she had gained from the enhancer. Defeated and haunted by the reminder of her entrapment in hell, she reached the MA Section.
Alphanumerical street names were the norm in Dictaduria. Exhausted, Adria crossed it as rain poured around her, falling on her derrital. The concrete street with blocks on top of blocks was much narrower than Mason Avenue, dark and foreboding, with interconnected streets branching off it. Breathing deeply to regulate her pulse, still in shock, her cold, nervous hands trembled as she paced quickly, keeping herself in the shadows and trying to remain as invisible as possible.
MA9A1 40-56, MA9A2 57–89, MA9B1, MA9B2.
As the deadly acid rain ceased with the departure of the yellow cloud from that part of the city, Adria removed the derrital, shook off the remaining water, folded it, and placed it back into her purse. Upon completion, she noticed the soft orange glow emanating from a bracelet she wore. It warned her of nearby dangers—an old gadget she had found months ago in Negativus.
MD19O12, MD19O13, ME1A1.
Continuing on her way, Adria had to stop after a while. Instead of turning the usual preventive yellow, as she would expect now that the rain was over, the bracelet became orange and warmed. There was danger nearby, and she attempted to discern its source while people began to repopulate the streets. Doors and windows reopened, and dictadurians resumed their busy rhythms, leaving that fateful portion of their afternoon in the past.
Adria took a shortcut to avoid the bustling streets of ME9J3 and entered ME9J4, where the distant voices became murmurs, allowing her to walk with more freedom. The bracelet now glowed red, burning, prompting her to stop and listen to her surroundings. She heard leftover drops of rainfall from the roofs, distant conversations, footsteps, people coming and going, a rat scurrying away, distant thunder, a painful gasp, and one terrible scream. Amidst it all, there was a pleasurable, dry, and prideful laugh—the source of danger.
On a deserted road, where the blocks were not as old and broken as hers, a lonely woman hurried in the opposite direction, trying to escape from wherever she came from as swiftly as her feet would allow, though she refrained from running. When their paths crossed, her voice reached Adria's ears.
"Don't go there," the nameless woman said without stopping or looking toward her, continuing on her path without turning back.
Adria appreciated the warning but knew what had to be done, or at least that's where her instincts led her. Moments later, she overheard a heated discussion close to where those sinister laughs had originated.
"...without telling us?" a man with a raspy voice yelled.
Adria hid in the nearest block, ME10A4-67, deactivating her bracelet after it pulsed, becoming too hot to wear. Another man coughed.
"I won't. If you..." he could barely talk, "if you kill me, you won't find them."
"Stupid furkano, that's exactly why we're here, waiting to kill you. Tell us where the alters are and stop suffering. Either way, we will murder you slowly," a voice, equally seductive and menacing female, gestured to the victim.
Behind the wall where Adria leaned, an alley connected to the backside of ME10A5 and MF10A5 streets. She peeked and saw a shirtless man hanging upside down, his legs suspended from a lamppost by a rope, hands tied behind his back, motionless. Sweat and blood dripped onto a small pond beneath him.
Both torturers had their backs to Adria, dressed in colorful attire for dictadurian streets. The woman walked around the hanged extarri with a sneer on her gorgeous profile. Clothing adhered to strict rules enforced by the regime for dictadurians, yet they showed no concern about getting into trouble, she imagined they could belong to one of the criminal families running the undercity who had a tendency to try and level up with Sentinels, following their own laws.
"Meida, why?" the hanged man muttered, defeated.
The woman burst into maniacal laughter at the question.
"Timor... did you hear that? I... I can't..." Meida's knees bent, her back arched as she laughed with madness
Next to her, Timor laughed with awkwardness, trying to match her partner's madness. Abruptly, she stopped, pulling Corven by his hair and violently kissing him upside down. It was a repulsive, offensive maneuver that showcased the man's powerlessness; she bit his upper lip, drawing blood. Then, with a final, forceful kiss, Meida pulled away, still holding his head as she displayed a bloodied smile.
With her index finger, she wiped the scarlet fluid from her lips, sucking it, tasting the iron of his blood as she stared into the confused man's eyes and slapped him with all her strength. He growled in pain, swinging left and right, almost knocked out.
"Corven, did you believe I had any interest in you?" Her question demanded no answer. "You're a brainless bag of meat that moves around at the slightest hint of interest, a pathetic excuse for a man." Meida caught him with her left hand and halted his swing.
Timor circled the alley, ensuring no one was around.
"What angers me is that you could steal from our boss, who helped you? It felt like an inside job and if there’s a traitor in out lines, someone’s paying with their life." the woman whispered in his ear. Her hand retrieved a knife from her belt, raising it to Corven's torso and slicing him with surgical precision.
"Where did you hide those furkan alters?" Meida asked the half-unconscious man.
Realizing he wouldn't respond, she punched him in the stomach and sliced him a second time, his screams of pain pleading for help while Timor headed straight for the area where Adria hid.
