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Jollyrei

Angelus Mortis
Staff member
This is a bit of a departure from my last few stories, most notably because it isn't written specifically as a comedy. It's based on an idea I got from an article I read. I won't say too much more about that right now, because I'm hoping you'll have some fun figuring out what is going on. I'll try not to make it too obscure. Some of the experiences of the characters will at least be real.

I would also note that I wrote this chapter about a week ago, and have done some slight editing since then, but have had no time to write the second chapter, so I'm not sure when I can promise the next section. I have, more or less, worked out how things work, so there should be more chapters soon. I apologize in advance for delays.

I also need to beg Wragg's indulgence. I sort of indicated to him that I would be writing an entirely different story. I will get to that one too, and I am sort of writing it, but the first chapter went funny, and I have to work things out, so for the moment, we have this story instead.


Chapter 1: More than Real

Sweat burned in her eyes as she struggled up the path, the hot late morning sun beating down on her, heat radiating back up from the dry ground. Her bare feet, already sore were now bleeding from the sharp pebbles that lined the pathway, and the thorny brambles that grew everywhere.

She was so tired, and her back hurt, bleeding from multiple wounds.

Another drop of sweat stung her eyes. She wanted to wipe the sweat away, but of course, she couldn’t. Her arms had to steady her burden, not that she had much choice, she thought grimly. They were bound to it with rough cord that bit into her forearms.

Why didn’t she just stop carrying it, she thought, as she slowed briefly to struggle around a bend in the path. The path went up at a steady grade. Always up through the dust and thorns and stones.

“Move, you bitch!” growled a voice. There was a push on her back from a spear butt, not hard enough to make her fall. The man knew his business. But it was enough to make her stumble forward again, her eyes glazing over with the strain.

What if I just faint here, she thought. But she didn’t, she took a gasping breath of dusty air, and pushed on. She knew that if she stopped or fell they’d just bring out the whips until either she got moving again or died. They didn’t care. She wasn’t anything to them.

It’ll be over soon, she tried to tell herself.

That wasn’t true either was it. It was going to be over, certainly, but not that soon. Something would happen soon, but she wasn’t sure that her current fatigue and pain wasn’t better.

She could recover from this, she thought. If they just untie me, remove this weight, and let me lie down, I’ll be better in a couple of days. It was surreal and terrifying to think about her reality. In a few minutes I’ll be dying. The thought sent a shiver through her.

There was a flip of the whip on her back. She yelped and tried to move faster.

“Almost there now, sweetie,” said a taunting voice. The soldier again. “Then you can have a nice lie down for a minute.” He jingled a bag in front of her face, then he swished his red cloak over his shoulder and strolled on jauntily.

She knew what that meant. He wants me in terror, she thought. Well, it’s working. A stream of urine came from under the rag they had tied on her as a makeshift skirt, and ran down her leg. She wanted to sob in her anguish, but she was so tired and her throat was so dry. She couldn’t even cry.

The crest of the small hill came into view, swimming in her eyes through the sweat and blood running down her face.

“Don’t stop now,” said the soldier, adjusting his blue cloak.

Blue, she thought as she struggled on. Wasn’t it red? She was seeing things. She was delirious, that must be it. Maybe that was better.

“Witch!” hissed a voice.

She turned her head to her left to see who had said that. She was a recaptured slave, not a witch. She was a slave, wasn't she? Funny that she couldn't remember doing slave work, or her master, or anything about that. She was sure that she wasn't a witch.

“Burn in hell, you witch!” hissed the man in the long black jacket and black square hat. There was a silver buckle on the hatband. She didn’t know what he meant. Burn? She wasn’t going to be burned. And what sort of clothes were those? Hell? Part of her mind said that Romans didn't believe in Hell. Where did that thought come from?

She looked again, interested, even through the pain and fatigue. A typical Roman slave woman was there, sneering at her. “Vicious whore!” said the woman. “Now you’ll learn your place.”

She shivered. Where was the man? Delirious – she was delirious, that must be it.. She hoped she would forget who she was soon and just fade away. That would be best.

“Move it, cunt!” said the soldier. His cloak was red. She didn’t care anymore.

Stumble forward up the path. Now up to the crest, the path ending at the top, a flat plateau. There were two crosses up already, a man on the left – that would be Marcus – and a middle-aged woman on the right – that was Tuva. Tuva looked like she was already dead. She was a bit heavyset, with poor muscle tone, her breasts sagging on her chest. She just hung there motionless. Marcus had been fit. He would last a long time. She heard him groan as he pushed up to relieve the pain from his nailed wrists.

There was a long gray pole on the ground. She knew that was where she was going. Why fight it? They’ll only whip me and it will end the same. She shuffled forward the last few meters.

Hands came out and grasped the ends of the wooden beam she was carrying. They weren’t rough, but they were firm and businesslike. They turned her around, and then they were guiding the beam down to the long pole, laying her back onto the pole with it. The world tilted and reeled past her eyes as she was tipped over backwards, still bound to the crossbeam, finally leaving her panting for breath and dizzy, looking up at a clear blue sky. Other hands grasped her ankles and pulled them to rest on the pole.

The beam was fitted to the pole under her and lashed to it with more rope. She lay there, her arms stretched out on the beam, looking up at the deceptively calm blue sky.

There was an odd thunder sound that she couldn’t place, quiet and steady, as she watched a white streak through the puffy clouds, wondering what could make such a streak. The back of her mind said she had seen something like this before. It started on one side of the cloud, and was like a line drawn straight across the sky. She blinked.

Couldn’t they wipe this sweat out of her eyes at least. It was the least they could do, considering all the things they were going to do to her.

She looked up again. The white line was gone, and so was the thunder noise.

The soldier appeared again, he grinned at her and jingled the bag he held, and then he tossed it to one of the other men. “Get her up,” he said.

There was a flickering of the light, and she thought for a second that she could see right through the soldier, and look at the crowd behind him - a woman in a black dress, a young man staring at her almost naked body, soldiers, other people. Her vision snapped back into focus. The soldier was still there, solid as ever.

“Get her up,” said the soldier, turning to talk to someone else. He was suddenly back in front of her cross.

“Get her up,” he said, and finally left.

One of the men looked down at her. “Waste of your life, slave,” he said. He leaned down and pulled at her skirt. It tore at her hip and he pulled it off her. She was completely naked now.

“Please,” she croaked. “Just let me go.”

“Go where?” he asked, and grabbed hold of her ankles again. “Go ahead,” he said to another man.

There was a prick of sharp pressure at her left wrist, she turned her head to look as a hammer smashed down on a long spike, driving it through her wrist into the beam. The pain hit her a second later, radiating up her arm.

She tried to howl, but her voice didn’t come. She was choking on dust, her mouth open in a silent scream, as she tried to thrash free. The man holding her ankles held on tightly. There was another assault with a spike on her right wrist. She gasped in a choking breath and screamed, the sound of an animal, a howl of pain, defeat and despair.

The man holding her ankles pulled her down the pole, stretching her arms to a shallow V shape. He forced her to bend her legs slightly, and marked a spot on the pole with his knee. The man with the tools hammered a small block onto the pole above his colleague’s knee.

She felt her feet through the red haze of pain being placed on the small block, one on top of the other. Two men held her ankles in place while the one with the hammer drove a long spike down through both feet into the block. Then they stood up, looking down at her.

“Worthless bitch,” said one, and spat at her, the spittle landing on her breast.

“Even more worthless now,” said the one with the hammer. “Can’t even use her for fun anymore.” He rubbed the sole of his sandal over the bush of dark hair between her slightly bent legs.

She started to cry in her humiliation. “Stop,” she sobbed. “Please stop. Just kill me.”

“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said the third.

“The one with the hammer rubbed the sole of his sandal over her dark-haired mound.

She couldn’t take it anymore. She started to cry, begging them to stop and just kill her.

“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said one of the men.

She stared through her tears, wondering why they were repeating things, but they just moved behind her head to grasp the end of the cross and lift it. A couple of other men came over to help and the cross rose ponderously.

She felt herself rising and finally her small weight slid down the rough pole and she had to bear it on the three nails. The small foot rest gave her some traction, but she knew it would only prolong her life. What a precious thing was life. She would live longer, because of their “mercy”. The pain was unbearable and unceasing. She was gasping for breath, having to push up with her bent knees, never able to straighten them, never able to escape the inflamed nerves in her feet, ruptured by the spike.

She looked down as the bottom of the cross slipped into a hole and dropped about half a meter. It shuddered to a stop, jolting her. Lances of fresh agony washed through her and she howled again, but didn’t lose consciousness. That would have been a blessing. Even a few seconds of oblivion would have been welcome. Now she knew how people could long for death.

She ran out of breath and hung panting, naked and exposed, as the soldier strode over to her cross.

“So, she’s up. Good. That’s our work here done for the day…”

And suddenly he wasn’t there. He was just gone. No, there he was in the crowd again, giving orders to some other soldiers. He glanced up to see her hanging, and turned to stride over to the cross.

As he did so, the hilltop flickered, blue, green, red, and then seemed to break up into small square particles, breaking into a kaleidoscope, before coalescing back together.

The soldier strode toward her cross, and his cloak changed from red, to blue. Robed figures appeared, as the interior of a stone building with a gold cross at one end flipped into existence around her cross. The robed men stared at her in shock, while the Roman soldier looked around in surprise.

Then the Roman started to flicker in and out of existence, as the cathedral broke into squares and dissipated into nothing, leaving them back on the Roman hilltop.

The hilltop itself started to break up, which was when she heard the voice from heaven saying, “It’s going wrong. Some sort of overload. The system is failing all along this sequence. Pull her out! Now!”

Then there was darkness. At least the pain was gone.

She thought she was awake. She tried to get up. She couldn’t move. There was no pain, but she couldn’t move. She was somehow floating in a lying down position, but she couldn’t really tell what state she was in. All she knew was it was completely dark, and warm. She couldn’t feel anything. She couldn’t tell whether she was wearing anything. She felt that she was not on the cross anymore, but how can one be sure, she thought, if you can’t feel anything?

“I think you’re awake,” said a gentle male voice. “Try to relax. You won’t be used to the light so you might want to close your eyes. It won’t be very bright, but it might still hurt at first.”

Not used to the light? She had just been in blazing sunlight with sweat and blood and dust in her eyes. How could she not be used to light?

“Whcxhch,” she said, the only sound her dry mouth would make.

“Don’t talk,” said the voice, now near her left side. “You’re a bit dehydrated, I expect. Pullouts always are. We’ll sort that out in a minute. Ah, here’s the dimmer.”

A dim light faded into being around her. The pain in her eyes was intense. She gasped (so she was breathing, she thought) and shut her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said the male voice. “This is all a bit of a shock to you, I’m sure. We don’t like pulling people out, but there’s been a server glitch and your box went down. Hasn’t happened in over a century. We’ll send you back as soon as we can.”

She didn’t understand any of that. Where was she. Who was this that was casually telling her about a box. What box? What she did understand was that he was going to send her back. Back to her crucifixion. Panic washed through her.

“No,” she croaked, in a whisper.

To be continued…
 
I read this with growing fascination and admiration ... a standard Roman crucifixion tale it would seem ... but no wait ... this is Jolly writing ... it breathes new life into the standard ... but no wait again ... there is something else ... what's going on with the dimensions of time and space? Where is this and who are these people? Is this a time warp out of control? Is Scottie going to beam her up? Is Mr. Peabody's fractured history at work here? Hold on to your hats readers! It's a mind kaleidoscope!
 
You've got me in.
Strong, visceral crux experience and a sympathetic victim, plus mystery, and SF, and some potential for a nicely intriguing story here. Is she a convict, a player of VR, is she not who they think she is?
I want to know!
 
Barb has said my thoughts.

All of human existence is a giant computer game?
Criminals are sent back to be crucified?
Disney thought they had perfected a new reality experience?
None of the above?

keep us guessing Jolly, and until it all makes sense we can enjoy the writing style.

PS Phlebas posted as I was writing!
 
A new Jollyrei story! :)
Always worth while.
This is a bit of a departure from my last few stories, most notably because it isn't written specifically as a comedy. It's based on an idea I got from an article I read. I won't say too much more about that right now, because I'm hoping you'll have some fun figuring out what is going on. I'll try not to make it too obscure. Some of the experiences of the characters will at least be real
1page_img3.jpg It sounds rather mysterious. Is he going wear out our brains? :confused:
 
“Don’t stop now,” said the soldier, adjusting his blue cloak.

Blue, she thought as she struggled on. Wasn’t it red? She was seeing things. She was delirious, that must be it. Maybe that was better.

“Witch!” hissed a voice.

She turned her head to her left to see who had said that. She was a recaptured slave, not a witch. She was a slave, wasn't she? Funny that she couldn't remember doing slave work, or her master, or anything about that. She was sure that she wasn't a witch.

“Burn in hell, you witch!” hissed the man in the long black jacket and black square hat. There was a silver buckle on the hatband. She didn’t know what he meant. Burn? She wasn’t going to be burned. And what sort of clothes were those? Hell? Part of her mind said that Romans didn't believe in Hell. Where did that thought come from?

She looked again, interested, even through the pain and fatigue. A typical Roman slave woman was there, sneering at her. “Vicious whore!” said the woman. “Now you’ll learn your place.”

She shivered. Where was the man? Delirious – she was delirious, that must be it.. She hoped she would forget who she was soon and just fade away. That would be best.

“Move it, cunt!” said the soldier. His cloak was red. She didn’t care anymore.
It's a red shift - I like it. Good work, Jolly!
 
This is a bit of a departure from my last few stories, most notably because it isn't written specifically as a comedy. It's based on an idea I got from an article I read. I won't say too much more about that right now, because I'm hoping you'll have some fun figuring out what is going on. I'll try not to make it too obscure. Some of the experiences of the characters will at least be real.

I would also note that I wrote this chapter about a week ago, and have done some slight editing since then, but have had no time to write the second chapter, so I'm not sure when I can promise the next section. I have, more or less, worked out how things work, so there should be more chapters soon. I apologize in advance for delays.

I also need to beg Wragg's indulgence. I sort of indicated to him that I would be writing an entirely different story. I will get to that one too, and I am sort of writing it, but the first chapter went funny, and I have to work things out, so for the moment, we have this story instead.


Chapter 1: More than Real

Sweat burned in her eyes as she struggled up the path, the hot late morning sun beating down on her, heat radiating back up from the dry ground. Her bare feet, already sore were now bleeding from the sharp pebbles that lined the pathway, and the thorny brambles that grew everywhere.

She was so tired, and her back hurt, bleeding from multiple wounds.

Another drop of sweat stung her eyes. She wanted to wipe the sweat away, but of course, she couldn’t. Her arms had to steady her burden, not that she had much choice, she thought grimly. They were bound to it with rough cord that bit into her forearms.

Why didn’t she just stop carrying it, she thought, as she slowed briefly to struggle around a bend in the path. The path went up at a steady grade. Always up through the dust and thorns and stones.

“Move, you bitch!” growled a voice. There was a push on her back from a spear butt, not hard enough to make her fall. The man knew his business. But it was enough to make her stumble forward again, her eyes glazing over with the strain.

What if I just faint here, she thought. But she didn’t, she took a gasping breath of dusty air, and pushed on. She knew that if she stopped or fell they’d just bring out the whips until either she got moving again or died. They didn’t care. She wasn’t anything to them.

It’ll be over soon, she tried to tell herself.

That wasn’t true either was it. It was going to be over, certainly, but not that soon. Something would happen soon, but she wasn’t sure that her current fatigue and pain wasn’t better.

She could recover from this, she thought. If they just untie me, remove this weight, and let me lie down, I’ll be better in a couple of days. It was surreal and terrifying to think about her reality. In a few minutes I’ll be dying. The thought sent a shiver through her.

There was a flip of the whip on her back. She yelped and tried to move faster.

“Almost there now, sweetie,” said a taunting voice. The soldier again. “Then you can have a nice lie down for a minute.” He jingled a bag in front of her face, then he swished his red cloak over his shoulder and strolled on jauntily.

She knew what that meant. He wants me in terror, she thought. Well, it’s working. A stream of urine came from under the rag they had tied on her as a makeshift skirt, and ran down her leg. She wanted to sob in her anguish, but she was so tired and her throat was so dry. She couldn’t even cry.

The crest of the small hill came into view, swimming in her eyes through the sweat and blood running down her face.

“Don’t stop now,” said the soldier, adjusting his blue cloak.

Blue, she thought as she struggled on. Wasn’t it red? She was seeing things. She was delirious, that must be it. Maybe that was better.

“Witch!” hissed a voice.

She turned her head to her left to see who had said that. She was a recaptured slave, not a witch. She was a slave, wasn't she? Funny that she couldn't remember doing slave work, or her master, or anything about that. She was sure that she wasn't a witch.

“Burn in hell, you witch!” hissed the man in the long black jacket and black square hat. There was a silver buckle on the hatband. She didn’t know what he meant. Burn? She wasn’t going to be burned. And what sort of clothes were those? Hell? Part of her mind said that Romans didn't believe in Hell. Where did that thought come from?

She looked again, interested, even through the pain and fatigue. A typical Roman slave woman was there, sneering at her. “Vicious whore!” said the woman. “Now you’ll learn your place.”

She shivered. Where was the man? Delirious – she was delirious, that must be it.. She hoped she would forget who she was soon and just fade away. That would be best.

“Move it, cunt!” said the soldier. His cloak was red. She didn’t care anymore.

Stumble forward up the path. Now up to the crest, the path ending at the top, a flat plateau. There were two crosses up already, a man on the left – that would be Marcus – and a middle-aged woman on the right – that was Tuva. Tuva looked like she was already dead. She was a bit heavyset, with poor muscle tone, her breasts sagging on her chest. She just hung there motionless. Marcus had been fit. He would last a long time. She heard him groan as he pushed up to relieve the pain from his nailed wrists.

There was a long gray pole on the ground. She knew that was where she was going. Why fight it? They’ll only whip me and it will end the same. She shuffled forward the last few meters.

Hands came out and grasped the ends of the wooden beam she was carrying. They weren’t rough, but they were firm and businesslike. They turned her around, and then they were guiding the beam down to the long pole, laying her back onto the pole with it. The world tilted and reeled past her eyes as she was tipped over backwards, still bound to the crossbeam, finally leaving her panting for breath and dizzy, looking up at a clear blue sky. Other hands grasped her ankles and pulled them to rest on the pole.

The beam was fitted to the pole under her and lashed to it with more rope. She lay there, her arms stretched out on the beam, looking up at the deceptively calm blue sky.

There was an odd thunder sound that she couldn’t place, quiet and steady, as she watched a white streak through the puffy clouds, wondering what could make such a streak. The back of her mind said she had seen something like this before. It started on one side of the cloud, and was like a line drawn straight across the sky. She blinked.

Couldn’t they wipe this sweat out of her eyes at least. It was the least they could do, considering all the things they were going to do to her.

She looked up again. The white line was gone, and so was the thunder noise.

The soldier appeared again, he grinned at her and jingled the bag he held, and then he tossed it to one of the other men. “Get her up,” he said.

There was a flickering of the light, and she thought for a second that she could see right through the soldier, and look at the crowd behind him - a woman in a black dress, a young man staring at her almost naked body, soldiers, other people. Her vision snapped back into focus. The soldier was still there, solid as ever.

“Get her up,” said the soldier, turning to talk to someone else. He was suddenly back in front of her cross.

“Get her up,” he said, and finally left.

One of the men looked down at her. “Waste of your life, slave,” he said. He leaned down and pulled at her skirt. It tore at her hip and he pulled it off her. She was completely naked now.

“Please,” she croaked. “Just let me go.”

“Go where?” he asked, and grabbed hold of her ankles again. “Go ahead,” he said to another man.

There was a prick of sharp pressure at her left wrist, she turned her head to look as a hammer smashed down on a long spike, driving it through her wrist into the beam. The pain hit her a second later, radiating up her arm.

She tried to howl, but her voice didn’t come. She was choking on dust, her mouth open in a silent scream, as she tried to thrash free. The man holding her ankles held on tightly. There was another assault with a spike on her right wrist. She gasped in a choking breath and screamed, the sound of an animal, a howl of pain, defeat and despair.

The man holding her ankles pulled her down the pole, stretching her arms to a shallow V shape. He forced her to bend her legs slightly, and marked a spot on the pole with his knee. The man with the tools hammered a small block onto the pole above his colleague’s knee.

She felt her feet through the red haze of pain being placed on the small block, one on top of the other. Two men held her ankles in place while the one with the hammer drove a long spike down through both feet into the block. Then they stood up, looking down at her.

“Worthless bitch,” said one, and spat at her, the spittle landing on her breast.

“Even more worthless now,” said the one with the hammer. “Can’t even use her for fun anymore.” He rubbed the sole of his sandal over the bush of dark hair between her slightly bent legs.

She started to cry in her humiliation. “Stop,” she sobbed. “Please stop. Just kill me.”

“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said the third.

“The one with the hammer rubbed the sole of his sandal over her dark-haired mound.

She couldn’t take it anymore. She started to cry, begging them to stop and just kill her.

“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said one of the men.

She stared through her tears, wondering why they were repeating things, but they just moved behind her head to grasp the end of the cross and lift it. A couple of other men came over to help and the cross rose ponderously.

She felt herself rising and finally her small weight slid down the rough pole and she had to bear it on the three nails. The small foot rest gave her some traction, but she knew it would only prolong her life. What a precious thing was life. She would live longer, because of their “mercy”. The pain was unbearable and unceasing. She was gasping for breath, having to push up with her bent knees, never able to straighten them, never able to escape the inflamed nerves in her feet, ruptured by the spike.

She looked down as the bottom of the cross slipped into a hole and dropped about half a meter. It shuddered to a stop, jolting her. Lances of fresh agony washed through her and she howled again, but didn’t lose consciousness. That would have been a blessing. Even a few seconds of oblivion would have been welcome. Now she knew how people could long for death.

She ran out of breath and hung panting, naked and exposed, as the soldier strode over to her cross.

“So, she’s up. Good. That’s our work here done for the day…”

And suddenly he wasn’t there. He was just gone. No, there he was in the crowd again, giving orders to some other soldiers. He glanced up to see her hanging, and turned to stride over to the cross.

As he did so, the hilltop flickered, blue, green, red, and then seemed to break up into small square particles, breaking into a kaleidoscope, before coalescing back together.

The soldier strode toward her cross, and his cloak changed from red, to blue. Robed figures appeared, as the interior of a stone building with a gold cross at one end flipped into existence around her cross. The robed men stared at her in shock, while the Roman soldier looked around in surprise.

Then the Roman started to flicker in and out of existence, as the cathedral broke into squares and dissipated into nothing, leaving them back on the Roman hilltop.

The hilltop itself started to break up, which was when she heard the voice from heaven saying, “It’s going wrong. Some sort of overload. The system is failing all along this sequence. Pull her out! Now!”

Then there was darkness. At least the pain was gone.

She thought she was awake. She tried to get up. She couldn’t move. There was no pain, but she couldn’t move. She was somehow floating in a lying down position, but she couldn’t really tell what state she was in. All she knew was it was completely dark, and warm. She couldn’t feel anything. She couldn’t tell whether she was wearing anything. She felt that she was not on the cross anymore, but how can one be sure, she thought, if you can’t feel anything?

“I think you’re awake,” said a gentle male voice. “Try to relax. You won’t be used to the light so you might want to close your eyes. It won’t be very bright, but it might still hurt at first.”

Not used to the light? She had just been in blazing sunlight with sweat and blood and dust in her eyes. How could she not be used to light?

“Whcxhch,” she said, the only sound her dry mouth would make.

“Don’t talk,” said the voice, now near her left side. “You’re a bit dehydrated, I expect. Pullouts always are. We’ll sort that out in a minute. Ah, here’s the dimmer.”

A dim light faded into being around her. The pain in her eyes was intense. She gasped (so she was breathing, she thought) and shut her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said the male voice. “This is all a bit of a shock to you, I’m sure. We don’t like pulling people out, but there’s been a server glitch and your box went down. Hasn’t happened in over a century. We’ll send you back as soon as we can.”

She didn’t understand any of that. Where was she. Who was this that was casually telling her about a box. What box? What she did understand was that he was going to send her back. Back to her crucifixion. Panic washed through her.

“No,” she croaked, in a whisper.

To be continued…



Wow! I love the way this is going. I was trying to figure out in the beginning why the color change in the Roman soldier's cape, then where on earth that Puritan figure came in, and now, the situation has changed from an ordinary crucifixion story to one in which far future technology has been imposed.

How is it that she understands these future techs' language? Some kind of universal translator like Star Trek?

And send her back, I have an idea how I might write that, but I'll wait and see - I don't want to inject my thoughts into things at this point.
 
Amazing! I love the attention to detail and how you phased in the glitch to the point of pull out. This story spins my mind into overload into what may come next and just how the cosmology or cosmo-technology function in your universe. Looking forward to more.
 
Love it!
My first thought was that she was being incepted by Leo to enjoy submission, but now I've settled on this being either a Crux Westworld or the matrix. I mean how do you repeatedly torture someone without killing them? Simulate it. Over and over again!
 
"O sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul. "

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772–1834

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
 
As long as no one shows up with three breasts ... I'll will be happy to be plugged in to the feed.

lilSisHangingBASE2.jpg

:eek::eek:
 
Just have to always give credit to a guy that is a master of beautiful manipulation!

MH ... thank you!
 
This is a bit of a departure from my last few stories, most notably because it isn't written specifically as a comedy. It's based on an idea I got from an article I read. I won't say too much more about that right now, because I'm hoping you'll have some fun figuring out what is going on. I'll try not to make it too obscure. Some of the experiences of the characters will at least be real.

I would also note that I wrote this chapter about a week ago, and have done some slight editing since then, but have had no time to write the second chapter, so I'm not sure when I can promise the next section. I have, more or less, worked out how things work, so there should be more chapters soon. I apologize in advance for delays.

I also need to beg Wragg's indulgence. I sort of indicated to him that I would be writing an entirely different story. I will get to that one too, and I am sort of writing it, but the first chapter went funny, and I have to work things out, so for the moment, we have this story instead.


Chapter 1: More than Real

Sweat burned in her eyes as she struggled up the path, the hot late morning sun beating down on her, heat radiating back up from the dry ground. Her bare feet, already sore were now bleeding from the sharp pebbles that lined the pathway, and the thorny brambles that grew everywhere.

She was so tired, and her back hurt, bleeding from multiple wounds.

Another drop of sweat stung her eyes. She wanted to wipe the sweat away, but of course, she couldn’t. Her arms had to steady her burden, not that she had much choice, she thought grimly. They were bound to it with rough cord that bit into her forearms.

Why didn’t she just stop carrying it, she thought, as she slowed briefly to struggle around a bend in the path. The path went up at a steady grade. Always up through the dust and thorns and stones.

“Move, you bitch!” growled a voice. There was a push on her back from a spear butt, not hard enough to make her fall. The man knew his business. But it was enough to make her stumble forward again, her eyes glazing over with the strain.

What if I just faint here, she thought. But she didn’t, she took a gasping breath of dusty air, and pushed on. She knew that if she stopped or fell they’d just bring out the whips until either she got moving again or died. They didn’t care. She wasn’t anything to them.

It’ll be over soon, she tried to tell herself.

That wasn’t true either was it. It was going to be over, certainly, but not that soon. Something would happen soon, but she wasn’t sure that her current fatigue and pain wasn’t better.

She could recover from this, she thought. If they just untie me, remove this weight, and let me lie down, I’ll be better in a couple of days. It was surreal and terrifying to think about her reality. In a few minutes I’ll be dying. The thought sent a shiver through her.

There was a flip of the whip on her back. She yelped and tried to move faster.

“Almost there now, sweetie,” said a taunting voice. The soldier again. “Then you can have a nice lie down for a minute.” He jingled a bag in front of her face, then he swished his red cloak over his shoulder and strolled on jauntily.

She knew what that meant. He wants me in terror, she thought. Well, it’s working. A stream of urine came from under the rag they had tied on her as a makeshift skirt, and ran down her leg. She wanted to sob in her anguish, but she was so tired and her throat was so dry. She couldn’t even cry.

The crest of the small hill came into view, swimming in her eyes through the sweat and blood running down her face.

“Don’t stop now,” said the soldier, adjusting his blue cloak.

Blue, she thought as she struggled on. Wasn’t it red? She was seeing things. She was delirious, that must be it. Maybe that was better.

“Witch!” hissed a voice.

She turned her head to her left to see who had said that. She was a recaptured slave, not a witch. She was a slave, wasn't she? Funny that she couldn't remember doing slave work, or her master, or anything about that. She was sure that she wasn't a witch.

“Burn in hell, you witch!” hissed the man in the long black jacket and black square hat. There was a silver buckle on the hatband. She didn’t know what he meant. Burn? She wasn’t going to be burned. And what sort of clothes were those? Hell? Part of her mind said that Romans didn't believe in Hell. Where did that thought come from?

She looked again, interested, even through the pain and fatigue. A typical Roman slave woman was there, sneering at her. “Vicious whore!” said the woman. “Now you’ll learn your place.”

She shivered. Where was the man? Delirious – she was delirious, that must be it.. She hoped she would forget who she was soon and just fade away. That would be best.

“Move it, cunt!” said the soldier. His cloak was red. She didn’t care anymore.

Stumble forward up the path. Now up to the crest, the path ending at the top, a flat plateau. There were two crosses up already, a man on the left – that would be Marcus – and a middle-aged woman on the right – that was Tuva. Tuva looked like she was already dead. She was a bit heavyset, with poor muscle tone, her breasts sagging on her chest. She just hung there motionless. Marcus had been fit. He would last a long time. She heard him groan as he pushed up to relieve the pain from his nailed wrists.

There was a long gray pole on the ground. She knew that was where she was going. Why fight it? They’ll only whip me and it will end the same. She shuffled forward the last few meters.

Hands came out and grasped the ends of the wooden beam she was carrying. They weren’t rough, but they were firm and businesslike. They turned her around, and then they were guiding the beam down to the long pole, laying her back onto the pole with it. The world tilted and reeled past her eyes as she was tipped over backwards, still bound to the crossbeam, finally leaving her panting for breath and dizzy, looking up at a clear blue sky. Other hands grasped her ankles and pulled them to rest on the pole.

The beam was fitted to the pole under her and lashed to it with more rope. She lay there, her arms stretched out on the beam, looking up at the deceptively calm blue sky.

There was an odd thunder sound that she couldn’t place, quiet and steady, as she watched a white streak through the puffy clouds, wondering what could make such a streak. The back of her mind said she had seen something like this before. It started on one side of the cloud, and was like a line drawn straight across the sky. She blinked.

Couldn’t they wipe this sweat out of her eyes at least. It was the least they could do, considering all the things they were going to do to her.

She looked up again. The white line was gone, and so was the thunder noise.

The soldier appeared again, he grinned at her and jingled the bag he held, and then he tossed it to one of the other men. “Get her up,” he said.

There was a flickering of the light, and she thought for a second that she could see right through the soldier, and look at the crowd behind him - a woman in a black dress, a young man staring at her almost naked body, soldiers, other people. Her vision snapped back into focus. The soldier was still there, solid as ever.

“Get her up,” said the soldier, turning to talk to someone else. He was suddenly back in front of her cross.

“Get her up,” he said, and finally left.

One of the men looked down at her. “Waste of your life, slave,” he said. He leaned down and pulled at her skirt. It tore at her hip and he pulled it off her. She was completely naked now.

“Please,” she croaked. “Just let me go.”

“Go where?” he asked, and grabbed hold of her ankles again. “Go ahead,” he said to another man.

There was a prick of sharp pressure at her left wrist, she turned her head to look as a hammer smashed down on a long spike, driving it through her wrist into the beam. The pain hit her a second later, radiating up her arm.

She tried to howl, but her voice didn’t come. She was choking on dust, her mouth open in a silent scream, as she tried to thrash free. The man holding her ankles held on tightly. There was another assault with a spike on her right wrist. She gasped in a choking breath and screamed, the sound of an animal, a howl of pain, defeat and despair.

The man holding her ankles pulled her down the pole, stretching her arms to a shallow V shape. He forced her to bend her legs slightly, and marked a spot on the pole with his knee. The man with the tools hammered a small block onto the pole above his colleague’s knee.

She felt her feet through the red haze of pain being placed on the small block, one on top of the other. Two men held her ankles in place while the one with the hammer drove a long spike down through both feet into the block. Then they stood up, looking down at her.

“Worthless bitch,” said one, and spat at her, the spittle landing on her breast.

“Even more worthless now,” said the one with the hammer. “Can’t even use her for fun anymore.” He rubbed the sole of his sandal over the bush of dark hair between her slightly bent legs.

She started to cry in her humiliation. “Stop,” she sobbed. “Please stop. Just kill me.”

“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said the third.

“The one with the hammer rubbed the sole of his sandal over her dark-haired mound.

She couldn’t take it anymore. She started to cry, begging them to stop and just kill her.

“Oh, we’re going to do that,” said one of the men.

She stared through her tears, wondering why they were repeating things, but they just moved behind her head to grasp the end of the cross and lift it. A couple of other men came over to help and the cross rose ponderously.

She felt herself rising and finally her small weight slid down the rough pole and she had to bear it on the three nails. The small foot rest gave her some traction, but she knew it would only prolong her life. What a precious thing was life. She would live longer, because of their “mercy”. The pain was unbearable and unceasing. She was gasping for breath, having to push up with her bent knees, never able to straighten them, never able to escape the inflamed nerves in her feet, ruptured by the spike.

She looked down as the bottom of the cross slipped into a hole and dropped about half a meter. It shuddered to a stop, jolting her. Lances of fresh agony washed through her and she howled again, but didn’t lose consciousness. That would have been a blessing. Even a few seconds of oblivion would have been welcome. Now she knew how people could long for death.

She ran out of breath and hung panting, naked and exposed, as the soldier strode over to her cross.

“So, she’s up. Good. That’s our work here done for the day…”

And suddenly he wasn’t there. He was just gone. No, there he was in the crowd again, giving orders to some other soldiers. He glanced up to see her hanging, and turned to stride over to the cross.

As he did so, the hilltop flickered, blue, green, red, and then seemed to break up into small square particles, breaking into a kaleidoscope, before coalescing back together.

The soldier strode toward her cross, and his cloak changed from red, to blue. Robed figures appeared, as the interior of a stone building with a gold cross at one end flipped into existence around her cross. The robed men stared at her in shock, while the Roman soldier looked around in surprise.

Then the Roman started to flicker in and out of existence, as the cathedral broke into squares and dissipated into nothing, leaving them back on the Roman hilltop.

The hilltop itself started to break up, which was when she heard the voice from heaven saying, “It’s going wrong. Some sort of overload. The system is failing all along this sequence. Pull her out! Now!”

Then there was darkness. At least the pain was gone.

She thought she was awake. She tried to get up. She couldn’t move. There was no pain, but she couldn’t move. She was somehow floating in a lying down position, but she couldn’t really tell what state she was in. All she knew was it was completely dark, and warm. She couldn’t feel anything. She couldn’t tell whether she was wearing anything. She felt that she was not on the cross anymore, but how can one be sure, she thought, if you can’t feel anything?

“I think you’re awake,” said a gentle male voice. “Try to relax. You won’t be used to the light so you might want to close your eyes. It won’t be very bright, but it might still hurt at first.”

Not used to the light? She had just been in blazing sunlight with sweat and blood and dust in her eyes. How could she not be used to light?

“Whcxhch,” she said, the only sound her dry mouth would make.

“Don’t talk,” said the voice, now near her left side. “You’re a bit dehydrated, I expect. Pullouts always are. We’ll sort that out in a minute. Ah, here’s the dimmer.”

A dim light faded into being around her. The pain in her eyes was intense. She gasped (so she was breathing, she thought) and shut her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said the male voice. “This is all a bit of a shock to you, I’m sure. We don’t like pulling people out, but there’s been a server glitch and your box went down. Hasn’t happened in over a century. We’ll send you back as soon as we can.”

She didn’t understand any of that. Where was she. Who was this that was casually telling her about a box. What box? What she did understand was that he was going to send her back. Back to her crucifixion. Panic washed through her.

“No,” she croaked, in a whisper.

To be continued…
very good...this is going to be one interesting story. i look forward to more!!!!!
 
Chapter 2: Is beauty only skin deep?

“You’re a bit disoriented,” said the man’s voice from somewhere near her right ear. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen without your consent. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

She had no idea what he was talking about. As far as she could tell, she had not consented to anything. She certainly had not consented to being forced to drag a beam of wood up a hill, to be whipped and abused, to be stripped of all her clothing and her dignity, and then to have iron spikes hammered into her wrists and ankles, and left to hang on a cross in the hot sun. She hadn’t consented to being magically brought here to this place where the lights hurt her eyes and where she couldn’t feel her body. She couldn’t even make sense of it, never mind consent to it. She wanted to scream. Instead a tear rolled down her cheek.

She could feel the tear. That meant she had cheeks, a face, didn’t it? She knew she had eyes, because they were hurt by the lights. Actually, they felt a bit better now. She wanted to see. Maybe she could try opening her eyes a crack just to see if she was more used to the light.

She tried it. The light was dim, but it was still hard to take. It wasn’t as painful and she could feel herself getting used to it. It was hard to focus.

Something was hovering above her face. Part of it moved.
“I think the first step should be to try to get you a bit more hydrated,” said the something. It looked a bit like a face, now that she had some context. A face looking down at her.

“You need more water now that you’re out of your box. And I’ll try to explain things a bit so you know where you are.”

The face moved away slightly. She couldn’t move her head, but could see him out of the corner of her eye as he stood up straighter. Oddly, that brought him into clearer focus.

He looked sort of tall, she thought, but how could she tell. She was obviously in a lying down position. He was standing. That made him taller than her for now. If she was about two feet off the ground, like in a normal bed, that would make him about six feet tall, she thought.

He had dark hair, short on the back and sides, and longer on the top of his head. He also wore round wire-rimmed glasses that made him look both slightly awkward and friendly, she thought.

How did she know what they were? Romans did not wear glasses, nor did they wear tunic style jackets that fastened in front with a zipper.

Where was she? She was a Roman slave, wasn’t she? She was the slave of…

There was the problem. She remembered being crucified for her alleged crimes, but she had no memory of servitude, either to a master or a mistress. No slave quarters, no market errands, no recollection of slave life at all. Nothing before carrying the wooden beam up the hill.

The man came back to her side and looked down at her. He seemed to be a bit concerned, but not alarmed. She hoped that meant she was going to be okay. Why couldn’t she feel her body? She couldn’t even move her head to see her body.

She suddenly had a panicked thought – what if she had no body. She was a head, floating here, only able to cry a tear or two and nothing else.

The man seemed to see her alarm. “Please try to stay calm, “ he said. “You’ll be fine in a little while. It’s just that you’ve been in the box for a long time, and you’re not used to reality. I’m afraid you’ll find it quite dull outside here by comparison, but we’ll try to help with that. Now, I’m going to engage the hydration function, it’s a tube that will come to your mouth. I can’t touch you or do anything much, since I’m outside your bio-stasis field. If I tried, my hand would just go to sleep anyway.” He gave a small laugh, as though that was a funny thought.

She found the laugh somehow reassuring. Maybe he would help her after all. She saw a silver tube extending down from above her face. It seemed to know where her mouth was. The end of the tube touched her lips and a drop of water fell into her mouth.

There was an explosion of sensation, searing cold, a contrast of dryness in her mouth, a dryness like no other she had ever experienced, as if her mouth had never had water in it before. All her nerve endings on her tongue, her lips, her gums, seemed focused on that droplet of water. She could feel it sliding like quicksilver down her tongue. She wanted to swallow, but she couldn’t. The water would drown her. She panicked as her throat constricted. She would drown in one drop of water. She had to spit it out, the glorious, dangerous droplet. She wanted it, but she would die of it.

The man seemed to see her distress, or had some way of knowing, and she suddenly couldn’t feel her throat. It just seemed to fade away.

“You see?” he said, as if there was some point being made. “We have to do this slowly. You don’t know how to swallow. I’ve extended the field to include your throat now, so the water will sort of slide in. The machine can deal with swallowing for now, same as it’s managing your other functions. In a few minutes, you should be able to swallow on your own.”

She felt helpless. She wanted control over her own body, if she had one, and swallowing water suggested that the water was being swallowed to sustain something. She assumed she had a body. She felt good about that. It was a reassuring thought.

“There have been a lot of improvements in our bio-technology since you went into the box,” said the man with the glasses conversationally. “You wouldn’t have noticed, of course. We do upgrades pretty seamlessly. We used to have to induce stasis while we changed over, especially for hardware upgrades, but now we can usually just transfer to other systems while we upgrade. You never come off the box grid. You’re the first “pullout” I’ve done.”

“Mmmm?” she said.

“I should have told you my name,” said the man. “I’m James. James Caldwell. I’m a Senior Bio-technician – just a fancy way of saying that I know these machines and how they work with you when you’re in the box. Anyway, everything seems to be working, so you can relax. The machines even take care of regulating your menstrual cycles. Do you want to try talking now? I think your throat has remembered how things go. You’ve been swallowing on your own now for about 15 minutes.”

She suddenly became conscious of the feeling of water, still dripping into her mouth, but she was definitely swallowing it. It just felt like water now. She felt a sense of loss that she no longer had the ecstatic sensation of that first drop. So vibrant and glorious, as if it was more real than any water she had ever had. Now it was just water again – cool, refreshing, and soothing to what still seemed like a parched throat, but still common, everyday water.

“You could start with something simple,” said James, smiling at her. “You can tell me your name. Just try saying your name.”

She tried it. “I’m…” She stopped.

“Still too dry?” asked James.

She thought, trying to dig into her memories. She felt something was there, but she couldn’t access it. All she could remember was “bitch” and “whore”, and the feel of the Roman’s sandal grinding into her pubic mound. That was no help. She had no name. She felt lost and worthless. The tears started again.

“No, no, no,” said James, “please, don’t cry. What’s the matter?”

“I,” she gasped through a suppressed sob, “I can’t remember my name. I can’t feel my body. Everything I remember before this place is horrible. I’m nothing, nobody. I’m just a condemned slave, and I have no name.”

James looked miserable and a bit shocked, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear. He looked at her sympathetically as she cried.

“You really can’t remember your name?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I really tried. It’s like there should be a name in my memory, but it’s like I’m not allowed to see that memory.”

“What do you remember?” he asked.

“Only walking up the hill, carrying the heavy beam of wood and then…” she stopped, not wanting to relive the horror again.

“Why were you carrying a beam of wood?” James asked. “Were you building something?”

“No,” she sighed. “It was so they could nail me to it.”

“What? Who was going to nail you to a piece of wood? That’s not in any of our programs.”

“They nailed me to the beam, and then let me hang there. I would have died there if you hadn’t taken me out of the box.”

“That shouldn’t happen,” James said finally. “You must have some memories. I mean, I suppose it’s possible that your memories were wiped, but it’s not procedure. And I’ve never heard of someone doing a crucifixion plot in any box. Our standard is more real than reality, so crucifixion would be appallingly terrible. Something is strange here.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “It’s the worst thing that I’ve ever experienced. Are you saying it wasn’t real?”

“Do you remember going into the box?”

“I don’t even know what a box is. I have only horrible memories. I can’t move. I can’t even tell if I really have a body. I remember what glasses are,” she said.

“What?”

“I know I must be more than just a slave,” she said, “because I remember things like glasses, and words like bio-technology. So there must be memories somewhere in my mind.”

“I suppose so…”

“James,” she said, “do I have a body?” she asked. She waited.

“Um,” said James. “You have a body,” he said, “but it’s not quite what you might expect it to be. You’ve been in the box a long time.”

“I want to see,” she said.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea right now,” said James. “Just trust me, please. You have a body, but we have to keep it in bio-stasis for a while.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Look, your physical body isn’t even important. It’s a shell for your consciousness. We keep it going in a sort of hibernation state and you live your life in the box, doing whatever you want. More real than reality, remember. You would need a lot of physical rehabilitation before you can use your body again,” said James. “Since the plan is to get you back into your box as soon as we can, there isn’t any point in making all that effort.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “It’s my body. Why is there no point in rehabilitating it? Was I in an accident. Did the Romans damage me so now I’m paralyzed?”

“The Romans?” James asked, feeling like he had missed a step in the conversation.

“When they nailed me to that wood thing.”

“No,” said James. “Any Romans you met in the box couldn’t harm your body here. I’m not sure they could even kill you in the box. They shouldn’t be able to.”

“They didn’t seem to have any worries about that rule,” she said. “They just kicked me, and beat me and hammered nails into me. If that’s what happens in the box, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Like a crucifixion,” said James.

“I don’t know what…” she said.

“The Romans used to hang slaves and prisoners on crosses until they died as a punishment. It's called crucifixion. It’s part of old religious stories my mother told me. You’re saying you didn’t choose that scenario?” James asked.

“Why would I choose that?” she asked. “Anyway, I can’t remember my past, remember? I can’t tell you what I requested. As far as I know, all of this happened without any input from me.”

“Well, we’ll have to look into that as well,” said James. “Anyway, we don’t produce fantasies like that, so I really want to know where it came from.”

“That wasn’t a fantasy,” she said. “That was hell. I want my real body back.”

“Your body has gone through a lot of muscle atrophy, over the time you were in the box, “ said James.

“Is that why I can’t move?” she asked.

“Your body wouldn’t be able to handle the strain, even of gravity. We had one “pullout” who had only been in a few years, and we had to take him out for some reason. He tried to get up and just dropped dead of a heart attack. His muscles and heart couldn’t take it. If you’re going to stay out, you need a lot of physiotherapy before you can even sit up.”

“How long have I been in the box?” she asked quietly.

“It’s really not a good idea,” said James.

“James!”

“Okay, a long time. A really long time,” he said.

“I want to know what I’m in for,” she said. “I want to see my body.”

“Oh, alright. But it’s not something you’re going to like,” he said. “I’ll get a mirror.”
He returned a minute or two later with a long wall mirror.

“Before I do this, which I think is a really bad idea, I want you to remember that whatever you see is not permanent, and that it can be remedied with nutrients and physio, okay? If you stay out of the box, you can make a full physical recovery.”

“It’s got to be better than being nailed to something,” she said.

“Maybe,” said James. “Anyway here you are.” He held the mirror so she could look at her full length reflection.

She looked at the emaciated thing in the reflection, the dry skin, tight over the skeleton, and the bony feet that seemed to be too big. Her body had flat collapsed breasts like empty bags, and seemed to be mostly ribs in the chest area. Large dark eyes stared at her from a mummy skull, grayish skin taut over cheekbones, with stringy brown hair. That couldn’t be her, she thought, and licked her lips. The monster licked its lips at the same time.

She screamed, a long howl of despair, humiliation and pain. The “thing” in the reflection opened its mouth, parodying her scream – a rictus of an animated mummy in agony.

She screamed again. Then she started sobbing.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” said James, jumping to his console. He picked up a control tablet and made a few changes, fingers dancing over the screen. All movement stopped abruptly, as did the screaming.

She was on the shore of a turquoise lagoon. A fish leapt out of the water and arched back down in a perfect dive. There was an umbrella and a colourful striped towel on the beach. Behind her, across pristine white sand, was a thatched roof beach house with a veranda. She looked down at her body – not the mummy-monstrosity of James’ room, but slim, tanned, and well-toned, about 25 years old. Somehow she knew she was 25 years old. She was wearing a green bikini, her favourite colour. She remembered her favourite colour. That was something, wasn’t it?

Had she always been here? Was the monster in the dark room really her, or was this her and that was a dream? Why was she on a beach? She walked back to the beach house and up the stairs to the veranda. There was a card on a wicker table – the sort of welcome card that hotels put out to let you know where the fire exits are. She picked it up. It read:

“Miss,

I put you back into a temporary box, while we sort out what happened to you. It's sort of a small maintenance box where you can have a holiday while we sort out your future. It will be more pleasant than "reality" for the moment. I will start your physio so that when you come back out, your body will be more rejuvenated. In the meantime, if you need anything, please just use the phone in the beach house. It will allow you to select new options. Crucifixion is not one of them. I hope you like the beach. Take the time to rest and consider your options. You should be safe – this box is a stand-alone unit, and is not linked to the main systems. I’ll personally monitor you while you’re in there. Try to relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in touch soon.

James.”

The wood of the floor felt real. The sand between her toes seemed real. The sun was bright, and there was a scent of tropical flowers, mixed with the smell of the ocean. Somewhere a bird sang. She was happier being a young healthy woman than imagining herself as an emaciated museum piece. If she stayed right here, she thought, it could be real, for now.

If only she could remember her name.

To be continued…
 
Chapter 2: Is beauty only skin deep?

“You’re a bit disoriented,” said the man’s voice from somewhere near her right ear. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen without your consent. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

She had no idea what he was talking about. As far as she could tell, she had not consented to anything. She certainly had not consented to being forced to drag a beam of wood up a hill, to be whipped and abused, to be stripped of all her clothing and her dignity, and then to have iron spikes hammered into her wrists and ankles, and left to hang on a cross in the hot sun. She hadn’t consented to being magically brought here to this place where the lights hurt her eyes and where she couldn’t feel her body. She couldn’t even make sense of it, never mind consent to it. She wanted to scream. Instead a tear rolled down her cheek.

She could feel the tear. That meant she had cheeks, a face, didn’t it? She knew she had eyes, because they were hurt by the lights. Actually, they felt a bit better now. She wanted to see. Maybe she could try opening her eyes a crack just to see if she was more used to the light.

She tried it. The light was dim, but it was still hard to take. It wasn’t as painful and she could feel herself getting used to it. It was hard to focus.

Something was hovering above her face. Part of it moved.
“I think the first step should be to try to get you a bit more hydrated,” said the something. It looked a bit like a face, now that she had some context. A face looking down at her.

“You need more water now that you’re out of your box. And I’ll try to explain things a bit so you know where you are.”

The face moved away slightly. She couldn’t move her head, but could see him out of the corner of her eye as he stood up straighter. Oddly, that brought him into clearer focus.

He looked sort of tall, she thought, but how could she tell. She was obviously in a lying down position. He was standing. That made him taller than her for now. If she was about two feet off the ground, like in a normal bed, that would make him about six feet tall, she thought.

He had dark hair, short on the back and sides, and longer on the top of his head. He also wore round wire-rimmed glasses that made him look both slightly awkward and friendly, she thought.

How did she know what they were? Romans did not wear glasses, nor did they wear tunic style jackets that fastened in front with a zipper.

Where was she? She was a Roman slave, wasn’t she? She was the slave of…

There was the problem. She remembered being crucified for her alleged crimes, but she had no memory of servitude, either to a master or a mistress. No slave quarters, no market errands, no recollection of slave life at all. Nothing before carrying the wooden beam up the hill.

The man came back to her side and looked down at her. He seemed to be a bit concerned, but not alarmed. She hoped that meant she was going to be okay. Why couldn’t she feel her body? She couldn’t even move her head to see her body.

She suddenly had a panicked thought – what if she had no body. She was a head, floating here, only able to cry a tear or two and nothing else.

The man seemed to see her alarm. “Please try to stay calm, “ he said. “You’ll be fine in a little while. It’s just that you’ve been in the box for a long time, and you’re not used to reality. I’m afraid you’ll find it quite dull outside here by comparison, but we’ll try to help with that. Now, I’m going to engage the hydration function, it’s a tube that will come to your mouth. I can’t touch you or do anything much, since I’m outside your bio-stasis field. If I tried, my hand would just go to sleep anyway.” He gave a small laugh, as though that was a funny thought.

She found the laugh somehow reassuring. Maybe he would help her after all. She saw a silver tube extending down from above her face. It seemed to know where her mouth was. The end of the tube touched her lips and a drop of water fell into her mouth.

There was an explosion of sensation, searing cold, a contrast of dryness in her mouth, a dryness like no other she had ever experienced, as if her mouth had never had water in it before. All her nerve endings on her tongue, her lips, her gums, seemed focused on that droplet of water. She could feel it sliding like quicksilver down her tongue. She wanted to swallow, but she couldn’t. The water would drown her. She panicked as her throat constricted. She would drown in one drop of water. She had to spit it out, the glorious, dangerous droplet. She wanted it, but she would die of it.

The man seemed to see her distress, or had some way of knowing, and she suddenly couldn’t feel her throat. It just seemed to fade away.

“You see?” he said, as if there was some point being made. “We have to do this slowly. You don’t know how to swallow. I’ve extended the field to include your throat now, so the water will sort of slide in. The machine can deal with swallowing for now, same as it’s managing your other functions. In a few minutes, you should be able to swallow on your own.”

She felt helpless. She wanted control over her own body, if she had one, and swallowing water suggested that the water was being swallowed to sustain something. She assumed she had a body. She felt good about that. It was a reassuring thought.

“There have been a lot of improvements in our bio-technology since you went into the box,” said the man with the glasses conversationally. “You wouldn’t have noticed, of course. We do upgrades pretty seamlessly. We used to have to induce stasis while we changed over, especially for hardware upgrades, but now we can usually just transfer to other systems while we upgrade. You never come off the box grid. You’re the first “pullout” I’ve done.”

“Mmmm?” she said.

“I should have told you my name,” said the man. “I’m James. James Caldwell. I’m a Senior Bio-technician – just a fancy way of saying that I know these machines and how they work with you when you’re in the box. Anyway, everything seems to be working, so you can relax. The machines even take care of regulating your menstrual cycles. Do you want to try talking now? I think your throat has remembered how things go. You’ve been swallowing on your own now for about 15 minutes.”

She suddenly became conscious of the feeling of water, still dripping into her mouth, but she was definitely swallowing it. It just felt like water now. She felt a sense of loss that she no longer had the ecstatic sensation of that first drop. So vibrant and glorious, as if it was more real than any water she had ever had. Now it was just water again – cool, refreshing, and soothing to what still seemed like a parched throat, but still common, everyday water.

“You could start with something simple,” said James, smiling at her. “You can tell me your name. Just try saying your name.”

She tried it. “I’m…” She stopped.

“Still too dry?” asked James.

She thought, trying to dig into her memories. She felt something was there, but she couldn’t access it. All she could remember was “bitch” and “whore”, and the feel of the Roman’s sandal grinding into her pubic mound. That was no help. She had no name. She felt lost and worthless. The tears started again.

“No, no, no,” said James, “please, don’t cry. What’s the matter?”

“I,” she gasped through a suppressed sob, “I can’t remember my name. I can’t feel my body. Everything I remember before this place is horrible. I’m nothing, nobody. I’m just a condemned slave, and I have no name.”

James looked miserable and a bit shocked, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear. He looked at her sympathetically as she cried.

“You really can’t remember your name?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I really tried. It’s like there should be a name in my memory, but it’s like I’m not allowed to see that memory.”

“What do you remember?” he asked.

“Only walking up the hill, carrying the heavy beam of wood and then…” she stopped, not wanting to relive the horror again.

“Why were you carrying a beam of wood?” James asked. “Were you building something?”

“No,” she sighed. “It was so they could nail me to it.”

“What? Who was going to nail you to a piece of wood? That’s not in any of our programs.”

“They nailed me to the beam, and then let me hang there. I would have died there if you hadn’t taken me out of the box.”

“That shouldn’t happen,” James said finally. “You must have some memories. I mean, I suppose it’s possible that your memories were wiped, but it’s not procedure. And I’ve never heard of someone doing a crucifixion plot in any box. Our standard is more real than reality, so crucifixion would be appallingly terrible. Something is strange here.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “It’s the worst thing that I’ve ever experienced. Are you saying it wasn’t real?”

“Do you remember going into the box?”

“I don’t even know what a box is. I have only horrible memories. I can’t move. I can’t even tell if I really have a body. I remember what glasses are,” she said.

“What?”

“I know I must be more than just a slave,” she said, “because I remember things like glasses, and words like bio-technology. So there must be memories somewhere in my mind.”

“I suppose so…”

“James,” she said, “do I have a body?” she asked. She waited.

“Um,” said James. “You have a body,” he said, “but it’s not quite what you might expect it to be. You’ve been in the box a long time.”

“I want to see,” she said.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea right now,” said James. “Just trust me, please. You have a body, but we have to keep it in bio-stasis for a while.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Look, your physical body isn’t even important. It’s a shell for your consciousness. We keep it going in a sort of hibernation state and you live your life in the box, doing whatever you want. More real than reality, remember. You would need a lot of physical rehabilitation before you can use your body again,” said James. “Since the plan is to get you back into your box as soon as we can, there isn’t any point in making all that effort.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “It’s my body. Why is there no point in rehabilitating it? Was I in an accident. Did the Romans damage me so now I’m paralyzed?”

“The Romans?” James asked, feeling like he had missed a step in the conversation.

“When they nailed me to that wood thing.”

“No,” said James. “Any Romans you met in the box couldn’t harm your body here. I’m not sure they could even kill you in the box. They shouldn’t be able to.”

“They didn’t seem to have any worries about that rule,” she said. “They just kicked me, and beat me and hammered nails into me. If that’s what happens in the box, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Like a crucifixion,” said James.

“I don’t know what…” she said.

“The Romans used to hang slaves and prisoners on crosses until they died as a punishment. It's called crucifixion. It’s part of old religious stories my mother told me. You’re saying you didn’t choose that scenario?” James asked.

“Why would I choose that?” she asked. “Anyway, I can’t remember my past, remember? I can’t tell you what I requested. As far as I know, all of this happened without any input from me.”

“Well, we’ll have to look into that as well,” said James. “Anyway, we don’t produce fantasies like that, so I really want to know where it came from.”

“That wasn’t a fantasy,” she said. “That was hell. I want my real body back.”

“Your body has gone through a lot of muscle atrophy, over the time you were in the box, “ said James.

“Is that why I can’t move?” she asked.

“Your body wouldn’t be able to handle the strain, even of gravity. We had one “pullout” who had only been in a few years, and we had to take him out for some reason. He tried to get up and just dropped dead of a heart attack. His muscles and heart couldn’t take it. If you’re going to stay out, you need a lot of physiotherapy before you can even sit up.”

“How long have I been in the box?” she asked quietly.

“It’s really not a good idea,” said James.

“James!”

“Okay, a long time. A really long time,” he said.

“I want to know what I’m in for,” she said. “I want to see my body.”

“Oh, alright. But it’s not something you’re going to like,” he said. “I’ll get a mirror.”
He returned a minute or two later with a long wall mirror.

“Before I do this, which I think is a really bad idea, I want you to remember that whatever you see is not permanent, and that it can be remedied with nutrients and physio, okay? If you stay out of the box, you can make a full physical recovery.”

“It’s got to be better than being nailed to something,” she said.

“Maybe,” said James. “Anyway here you are.” He held the mirror so she could look at her full length reflection.

She looked at the emaciated thing in the reflection, the dry skin, tight over the skeleton, and the bony feet that seemed to be too big. Her body had flat collapsed breasts like empty bags, and seemed to be mostly ribs in the chest area. Large dark eyes stared at her from a mummy skull, grayish skin taut over cheekbones, with stringy brown hair. That couldn’t be her, she thought, and licked her lips. The monster licked its lips at the same time.

She screamed, a long howl of despair, humiliation and pain. The “thing” in the reflection opened its mouth, parodying her scream – a rictus of an animated mummy in agony.

She screamed again. Then she started sobbing.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” said James, jumping to his console. He picked up a control tablet and made a few changes, fingers dancing over the screen. All movement stopped abruptly, as did the screaming.

She was on the shore of a turquoise lagoon. A fish leapt out of the water and arched back down in a perfect dive. There was an umbrella and a colourful striped towel on the beach. Behind her, across pristine white sand, was a thatched roof beach house with a veranda. She looked down at her body – not the mummy-monstrosity of James’ room, but slim, tanned, and well-toned, about 25 years old. Somehow she knew she was 25 years old. She was wearing a green bikini, her favourite colour. She remembered her favourite colour. That was something, wasn’t it?

Had she always been here? Was the monster in the dark room really her, or was this her and that was a dream? Why was she on a beach? She walked back to the beach house and up the stairs to the veranda. There was a card on a wicker table – the sort of welcome card that hotels put out to let you know where the fire exits are. She picked it up. It read:

“Miss,

I put you back into a temporary box, while we sort out what happened to you. It's sort of a small maintenance box where you can have a holiday while we sort out your future. It will be more pleasant than "reality" for the moment. I will start your physio so that when you come back out, your body will be more rejuvenated. In the meantime, if you need anything, please just use the phone in the beach house. It will allow you to select new options. Crucifixion is not one of them. I hope you like the beach. Take the time to rest and consider your options. You should be safe – this box is a stand-alone unit, and is not linked to the main systems. I’ll personally monitor you while you’re in there. Try to relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in touch soon.

James.”

The wood of the floor felt real. The sand between her toes seemed real. The sun was bright, and there was a scent of tropical flowers, mixed with the smell of the ocean. Somewhere a bird sang. She was happier being a young healthy woman than imagining herself as an emaciated museum piece. If she stayed right here, she thought, it could be real, for now.

If only she could remember her name.

To be continued…

Duh, dun, Duh!

Dig it. I think some naughty young intern is replacing the "Tea and Biscuit" scenario with "Hanging around with Barb"
Really want to know why they called her a witch in her crucified slave story. I'm keeping an eye on that.
 
'More than real' - I love the intensity of the descriptions, the drop of water,
She wanted to swallow, but she couldn’t. The water would drown her. She panicked as her throat constricted. She would drown in one drop of water.
vs the parched dryness
the hot late morning sun beating down on her, heat radiating back up from the dry ground. Her bare feet, already sore were now bleeding from the sharp pebbles that lined the pathway, and the thorny brambles that grew everywhere.
Really want to know why they called her a witch in her crucified slave story. I'm keeping an eye on that.
Well there is obviously some 'crosstalk' in the system, some signals leakage...
just use the phone in the beach house. It will allow you to select new options. Crucifixion is not one of them.
Since the operators of the 'boxes' don't seem to understand quite what's going on yet ... who knows what options might be on the menu there ... or whether it might be something/someone completely different who answers...
 
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