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Bunkerkampf (Mortuus Orbis Part Two)	By : Sparrow & InBrightestDay Category: -Misc Video Games/RPGs > Crossovers Views: 1830 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the franchises, characters, or anything else from the settings in this collection. These include Street Fighter, Marvel, Sailor Moon, Kill La Kill, and others. I made no money from this work.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Satsuki Kiryuin woke with a start. It was almost pitch-black in the storeroom, only the faint light of the phosphorescent strips around the edge of the room providing illumination. She still felt mildly feverish, and her hair and face were soaked in cold sweat. Her clothing wasn’t damp, though in that regard she wasn’t sure it ever would be, part of Junketsu’s refusal to tolerate impurity.
Far more important than whether or not I’m sweating, though…
Satsuki rolled over, hissing through her teeth as pain flared over her belly. So much for thinking she was done with that. Pushing herself to her feet, she walked over to the wall, flicked the light switch, and after her eyes adjusted, held up her hand, moving it back and forth in front of her. There were no phosphorescent sparks, no excessive blur, no signs of whatever had happened earlier. Scanning the room, she saw no indication of change in the texture or color of the concrete, and no change in the intensity of the lights overhead.
Whatever she had been affected by, it had worn off. Nonetheless, this was potentially a very serious problem. At best, she had been drugged somehow. At worst, some sort of pathogen had infiltrated the bunker, and given the shambling flesheaters outside, that possibility was one she couldn’t risk ignoring. She would have to speak to the others, to see if—
Satsuki froze in place, her hand groping at the empty space at her hip, where Bakuzan usually rested.
When Bakuzan was made, Satsuki had known how valuable it would be in the coming war. A sword capable of cutting even the Life Fibers was a precious thing, and the substance the black blade had been forged from was so rare that it made the katana’s safety a high priority. Ever since then, she had kept it by her side, ensuring that it would not be lost or stolen. She even slept with it beside her, so concerned that the irreplaceable blade would vanish otherwise.
And then yesterday, in her rush to escape her hallucinations…
Satsuki left the storeroom at speed. She wasn’t running, as she had no desire to sow fear in the other survivors. It was vital that their leader remain calm. Nonetheless, she walked at a rather brisk pace, her heels clicking audibly on the floor as she made her way to the common room. She had set it down beside the crate she had used as a seat, she was sure of it. Reaching the door, she hit the switch and waited what felt like a painfully long time as it opened, before stepping inside.
The sword wasn’t by the crate. Satsuki walked around behind it, looking to see if the weapon had simply fallen over and landed out of sight, but it wasn’t there either. She circled the crate, checking all sides, then did the same with the other crates. To a casual observer, the girl would merely have seemed focused, moving quickly and efficiently as she crossed the room once, and then twice, her eyes scanning every nook and cranny. A closer examination, however, would have revealed how her chest was moving somewhat faster as she breathed rapidly, and the heightened tension in her set jaw.
The room wasn’t large, and it took her very little time to search it, and then to do so again, hoping that she was merely overlooking the obvious. By the time her third search ended, however, she knew she wasn’t missing anything.
When she had left the room, someone had taken Bakuzan.
Satsuki shut her eyes, doing her best to slow her breathing and slip back into the role of commander. She would have to find the weapon, but first she had to understand what had happened that had allowed it to be taken. Turning back to the door, she headed for Medical.
Either she had fallen ill with some unknown disease, or she had been poisoned. Erzsebet would be able to tell her which.
*
Báthory Mengele was in her usual haunt, cleaning a few of her surgical tools, when Satsuki entered the medical ward. The girl was clearly doing her best to appear calm, but the stress was unmistakable. Báthory smirked momentarily, before putting on a professional face.
“Are you alright?” she asked. “I heard from some of the others that you left the meeting with the new arrivals rather abru—”
“I need you to draw some of my blood,” Satsuki said, cutting her off.
“... For a medical purpose, or just for fun?” Báthory asked, smirking as Satsuki glared at her. The girl looked away as she thought about what she was going to say next, and then answered.
“I left the introduction with the new arrivals because I began hallucinating,” she said. “Either I’ve been infected with some new pathogen, or I was drugged. No matter which it is…” Báthory nodded.
“Either the pathogen will be in your blood,” she said, “or trace amounts of the toxin will.” She indicated a nearby chair. “Please take a seat. I’ll draw two samples, one for chemical analysis and one for a culture.” Satsuki obeyed, sitting down while Báthory slipped on a pair of latex gloves and retrieved the necessary supplies.
After she’d secured a multi-sample blood collection needle and two vials, she applied some rubbing alcohol onto a cotton swab and gestured to Satsuki’s arm. The girl pulled back her sleeve and allowed Báthory to sterilize her skin.
“These tests may take some time,” the doctor said, “so it would also help to think of how you may have been exposed to whatever brought on the hallucinations. You haven’t left the bunker, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Satsuki replied. Báthory nodded methodically, slipping the needle into a prominent vein. Fitting a vial into the plastic assembly attached to the needle, she watched as it began to fill with blood.
“If I recall correctly, the last potential source of disease you were exposed to was the creature you and our visitor killed. You did contract a secondary infection, but at no point during your sickness did you hallucinate.” Removing the first vial, she slipped the second one into place. “In my opinion, this makes drugs more likely.”
“That makes sense,” Satsuki said, frowning—more than usual, anyway—as she thought. “Who would have done this, though? This is...this is absurd.” Báthory shrugged.
“We have taken in several new arrivals recently,” she said. “That’s a noble thing of you to do, but it carries risks, depending on whom you decide to take in.”
“The one with the purple hair who just got here described herself as being some kind of law enforcement,” Satsuki said, shaking her head with growing irritation, “but she looks more like a gang-member than any police officer that I've ever seen.” She brought her anger under control, the visible effort required for the task deeply amusing to Báthory.
“I hadn’t had any physical contact with her, though, and I only met her a few minutes before the hallucinations began.” Satsuki shook her head. “It couldn’t have been her.”
“Well…” Báthory started, but then stopped. Satsuki locked onto her aborted statement, one of her prominent eyebrows rising.
“What?”
“It’s not exactly good for a doctor to plant suspicions,” she said. Satsuki tilted her head now, her shoulders tensing as the doctor’s silence ate away at her.
“Someone drugged me, Erzsebet. Now is not the time for you to be overly concerned with decorum.” Báthory made a show of struggling with her decision, and then sighed.
“She did help out on the search and rescue operation, but the other woman we took in, the one who goes by ‘Copperhead’, has admitted to being an assassin, and more importantly one who works with poisons. She seems like she would be best equipped to drug you.” Satsuki’s fists clenched, and then relaxed as her mind raced.
“It’s not a very good theory, I’ll admit,” Báthory said. “She would know how to do it discreetly, but she would need a motive, and she didn’t gain anything from you hallucinating.” Satsuki’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes she did,” the girl finally said. “My sword is missing.”
“You think she took it?”
“No one else would,” she growled. Báthory removed the second vial before pulling the needle out, offering Satsuki a cotton ball and instructing her to press it to the bleeding spot. The muscles in the girl’s jaws tensed and relaxed, her breath coming rapidly.
“Of course she took it,” Satsuki said, rising from the chair and pacing back and forth, moving like a caged panther. “She’s a criminal, an assassin; she admitted it herself. I should never have taken her into the shelter in the first place. It’s like I said to Isabeau and Chun-Li: the safety of everyone in this bunker is dependent upon discipline, and I made the mistake of bringing in a dangerous, radical element.” Snatching a roll of cloth from a nearby table, she dressed her arm and slid the uniform’s sleeve back down over it. After that she turned and headed for the door.
"I'll do some tests on these and get back to you later,” Báthory said. “In the meantime, what are you planning to do?" Satsuki whirled back to face her, long black hair swirling around her.
“I’m going to get Isabeau,” she said, “and we are going to bring this radical element under control.” Turning back she left the room, the door sliding shut behind her.
Silence fell for a moment, before Báthory covered her mouth with a hand and doubled over with silent laughter. It had been all she could do to keep a straight face while the girl had worked herself up into a rage- god, she never would have believed it would be so easy!
Once the giggles had faded, Báthory levered the rubber cap off one of the vials with her teeth and knocked it back like a shot of whiskey. Tasting the still-warm blood left on her tongue, she made a pleased sound- the flavor of the blood was different from what she was used to, familiar, yet with a little extra something, seasoned distinctly by what she assumed was the fentanyl she had injected into Satsuki’s IV the day before. The warnings on the bottle had said something about it potentially causing hallucinations, she wished she had been there to see the girl panicking at things only she could see.
It was amazing. The girl had such a keen mind, and yet she had never suspected the one person best positioned to administer drugs to her. It had barely taken any prodding for Báthory to send her after someone else. The thought brought a grin to her lips.
Chuckling, she drank the second vial. It had been child’s play to snatch the girl’s fancy sword from the common-room after that. Báthory couldn’t wait to see what sort of mischief she could get up to with it.
Johnny was awakened by the sound of the bedroom door sliding open. Half-conscious, he thought for a moment that Copperhead was leaving the room to get something to eat or drink. It made sense, given how… active they’d been overnight.
After they established some loose rules for their little competition (whoever climaxed first lost, and that first round hadn’t counted) they’d had two “rematches”, and were currently tied, with plans to establish a definite winner when they woke up. Apparently Copperhead didn’t want to start again right away.
He might not want to keep calling her Copperhead. They were probably at the point where they could start using first names. Then again, his actual last name was “Silverhand” now, so he wasn’t about to push her. He should probably get up and see what she was—
The covers were suddenly thrown back, weight on the bed shifting suddenly, and as a body was dragged over Johnny, he was brought fully awake and realized several things at once.
Copperhead hadn’t gotten up.
She had been asleep beside him.
And she was currently being dragged, kicking and cursing, out of the bed by her hair.
“The fuck are you doing?” she spat, kicking and thrashing the person holding her—Isabeau, Johnny realized—hauled the naked blonde from the bed to land with a painful-sounding thud on the hard floor. Letting go of her hair, the British woman grabbed Copperhead by her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. Isabeau’s expression matched her actions: hard and unsympathetic. For a moment, Johnny thought that maybe this was about last night; that they’d embarrassed her by stumbling into her room while making out and this was some kind of extreme overreaction.
Then he looked past Isabeau and understood that wasn’t what this was about.
Satsuki was standing in the doorway, radiating anger from every pore. She didn’t have that sword she always seemed to be carrying with her, but everything else was the same, from the uniform to the immaculate hair to that sense of iron-hard authority that would make the corpos back home shrink back in fear. She hadn’t said a word, but Johnny knew immediately that she had ordered whatever was happening here.
“What the hell is this about?” Johnny said as he stumbled out of the bed, not particularly caring that, like Copperhead, he was naked at the moment. He walked up to Satsuki, moving in close to make the difference in their heights clear. Even in her heels, she was maybe an inch shorter than he was, but if that intimidated the heiress, she didn’t show it in the slightest, glaring up at him with her hard blue eyes.
“What are you people doing?” he demanded with barely restrained anger. Satsuki looked away from him, shifting her gaze to Copperhead.
“I brought a self-described criminal into this shelter,” she said, “and that was a mistake.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now I am going to restore order.”
“Puta verga de su madre!” Copperhead hissed, and slammed an elbow into Isabeau’s midriff. The blow landed with a sound like someone dropping a flipbook, but Isabeau didn’t even flinch. The older woman maintained her hold with ease, pulling her captive toward the door. Satsuki turned away from Johnny and walked calmly from the room, followed by Isabeau and the struggling Copperhead. Johnny wanted to follow them, to press Satsuki on what she was doing, but this whole thing had happened so fast he was almost in a state of shock.
He also had to admit that even he wasn’t immune to the aura around their corporate princess. It shamed him to realize he was actually a little nervous about confronting her, even now.
Eventually, the door slid shut, and he was alone with his thoughts. He wandered back over to the bed and sat down, trying to work this out. He’d figured Satsuki would push, sooner or later, but he hadn’t expected it to happen this soon, or under these exact circumstances. There’d been none of the insidious power creep you usually saw with corpo types, none of the ‘we just want these laws changed; it’s totally harmless, trust us” bullshit. The girl had just gone full authoritarian right out of the gate. It really wasn’t what he’d expected.
But the more Johnny thought about it, the more he realized that might be a good thing. The oppression had been blunt; simple. That meant the response could be simple as well.
Johnny got up from the bed and moved around the room, grabbing his clothes off the floor and slipping them back on, all while he planned out his next move. He’d need an amplifier, if possible, something that would give him the sound he needed. Once he got rolling, the audience would provide itself. The last piece he’d need was his guitar.
It was time to make some noise.
**
April O’Neil was beginning to worry her suspect wouldn’t move.
She’d done her profiles of almost everyone in the bunker. It had been quite the experience. It had been fascinating, if also disturbing, to hear about Kyle Reese’s future and the war against Skynet, and Chun-Li’s account of fighting off an assassin in her New York hotel room would have been the makings of one hell of a story back home. She hadn’t gotten to Vi or the new doctor, McCoy, yet, but she would eventually. This chronicle of hers had started as a side benefit, but she was genuinely looking forward to finishing it.
But as fascinating as it was, it wasn’t the real reason for the project. Each interview she’d conducted had contained different questions relevant to each subject, but all of them had contained a few questions about the good Doctor Báthory.
The responses painted a clear picture. The woman was tight-lipped about where and when she was from, but there were hints of German ancestry, if not nationality. She seemed quite proud of herself, her self-confidence verging on narcissism. She displayed an interest in surgery that was somewhat unsettling, which could mean simple enthusiasm over her subject matter, or a level of sadism she kept hidden. She had seemed decidedly unfriendly to the late Eliza Cohen, taking a noticeably superior attitude to the Jewish officer. Above all, she almost never left Medical.
That was why April found herself waiting in the hall, just around the corner from Medical, leaning out far enough to watch the door. The doctor’s trips away from the room were rare, but they did happen, if for no other reason than for the woman to take a piss, and when that happened she would have her opportunity.
It was obvious that Satsuki trusted Báthory quite a bit, and it wasn’t like April didn’t understand. They had apparently been among the first people to arrive here, so it was natural that they had banded together. That made what April was doing even more important. She had gone over it in her head several times, and the doctor was the only one she could think of who would have not only the means, but also the opportunity and the motive to hide those antibiotics. After all, if a quick and reliable means of treating infectious disease vanished, suddenly everyone was that much more dependent on the only doctor they had. It would fit with the hints of narcissism.
The door to Medical opened, and Doctor Báthory emerged, heading the other way down the hall. April made for the door.
She couldn’t just go to Satsuki with her suspicions. She would need some kind of proof, either of the doctor moving the antibiotics, or of her other fear.
Inside, the medical ward was immaculate, as she suspected it would be. Standing in the middle of the room, April scanned it, letting her eyes drift from the cots to the surgical area as she thought.
If the doctor really was… what April thought she might be, then there would likely be physical evidence. Medals, maybe, or a red armband with everyone’s favorite insignia on it. On the face of it, the idea of looking for this in Medical was absurd. If the doctor was smart enough to hide what she was, then she would hide anything incriminating elsewhere in the bunker, like she had the antibiotics, or just destroy it.
But April had reported on a lot of things back in New York. Some of them were, even to her, downright silly, but she’d also covered the arrest and prosecution of violent criminals, and something she’d seen they had in common was that they were never tremendously good rational thinkers. That was usually how they got caught; because they never saw the inherent wrongness in what they had done, they seldom put much thought into covering it up. April had a hunch that this doctor was no different.
And Doctor Báthory almost never left Medical.
April kept looking, passing over the operating table, over the medical sink… to the desk. If there was a trophy collection in Medical, this was where it would be.
April knew she didn’t have much time before the doctor returned, so she moved quickly, opening and closing drawers rapidly. Notebooks and pens, files and documents, a set of steel medical tools. One by one she checked and dismissed the drawers, until she came to one that was locked.
If the treasure trove was here, this was it. The question was where the key was. If Báthory was smart, she’d keep the key on her at all times, in a pocket of her white coat, and April would have to find a way to get it off her and wait for another chance.
But narcissistic sociopaths tended to think they couldn’t be caught, and that meant they made mistakes.
April scanned the desk—nothing—and then looked at the chair. It was a basic metal frame and a cushion; not a lot of places to hide something. She lifted up the cushion.
The key was underneath. April tried it, and the lock opened easily. The reporter moved fast, pulled open the drawer.
And froze.
There was a cardboard box in the drawer with what, at first glance, just looked like random bric-a-brac inside. April reached in and lifted out the largest item, a black visored cap, an old-fashioned one like she’d seen in all kinds of war movies…
Stunned, unable to quite believe that it would be this obvious, she turned it over so she could see the grinning skull and crossbones badge pinned to the front, underneath the familiar shape of an eagle with its wings spread, atop a swastika. April felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, a chill going through her as she realised how right she’d been.
Setting the hat aside, she tipped the box forwards to look at the rest of what was in it; a fancy-looking dagger with another swastika on its hilt, in a scabbard fitted with a belt-chain printed with the same skull and crossbones as the cap-badge as well as a rune of two jagged lightning-bolt shapes. April searched the corners of her mind for a moment to remember where she’d seen that design before, and with a jolt of shock remembered it as the insignia of the SS, the Nazi elite goon squad.
It didn’t seem entirely real to her still, a tiny part of her hoping this was some kind of mistake, that it was just a coincidence, rather than having to face the truth. Next to the dagger was a hair-tie made of green plastic beads- it seemed vaguely familiar to April but she couldn’t place why, a medal on a neckband of red cloth, and a small silvery ring.
The medal she immediately recognised as an Iron Cross, but the ring was a mystery to her, and she picked it up to take a closer look.
It had the skull and crossbones on the front again, flanked by seemingly meaningless symbols, each looking like a backwards letter N inside of a triangle. More silly symbols were engraved around the circumference of the ring. For all April knew it could have been a cheap Halloween decoration, but when she tilted it just so, and peered at the inside of the band, she made out the words “Báthory Mengele”, a date, and something else. April leaned forwards, trying to get the ring into the light so she could make the words out.
“Well aren’t you a nosy one?” hissed a voice from above her, oozing cold contempt.
Quivering, April slowly looked upwards. Báthory was leaning over the desk, her blue eyes fixed on April. She’d been so engrossed in looking through what she’d found that she hadn’t heard the door open or the doctor approach.
“Scared the hell out of me there,” April said, voice trembling, figuring her best chance was to feign ignorance. “I’m sorry about this.”
“You will be.”
“I-I am already, I said,” April stammered, shrugging in embarrassment. She used the movement to smoothly drop the ring into her pocket. “I shouldn’t have gone through your stuff. Cool medals, though. I’m not really up on ones from overseas, but honestly if you’ve served in the military, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I was brought to this city while in service to my nation,” Báthory said. “It’s deeply personal to me; something I’ve dedicated my life to.” April nodded nervously, considering whether to try and leave quietly or just make a break for it.
“I get it,” she said, slowly going to rise to her feet. “For what it’s worth, though, you’re in good company. Kyle might never have worn a uniform, but he’s a vet, and Isabeau’s definitely got some stories on that front. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.” She just needed to slip out of the room and get to Satsuki, or maybe Chun-Li. Both of them knew about World War II, and if she explained the ring to them…
“You made a mistake,” Báthory said.
“I know,” April said, shifting her weight to the side, going to sidle around the desk and get past Báthory that way. “I really am sorry, but it’s part of what reporters are; we’re pretty much born curious, so sometimes we get on people’s nerv—”
Báthory sprang over the desk and cannoned into her in the space between syllables, toppling her to the ground amidst a squawk of surprise. One hand seized her wrist, the other a hank of her hair. Pinned underneath the doctor, Báthory’s face was suddenly a handspan away from April’s own, blue eyes blazing with fury. Her breath smelled of blood.
“You made a mistake, Miss O’Neil,” she said, her tone utterly cold. “That ring was a gift from Reichsführer Himmler himself, and you took it because you knew that.” Her grip on April’s wrist tightened, fingers digging into flesh until April gasped in pain. “Give it to me.”
April withstood the pain of bones grinding together for another second or two, and then gave in, letting her hand open and the ring drop to the ground. Releasing her, Báthory picked the ring up and delicately slid it onto her left hand ring-finger.
“Thank you,” she said, flexing the hand and seeming to admire the ring for a moment. Then she reached into the drawer, drew the dagger from its sheath and went to plunge it into April’s chest in one blinding-fast motion, only held at the last moment by a desperate screech from April.
“They know!”
Báthory paused, the tip of the blade hovering a centimeter from the dip between April’s clavicles.
“People know I was investigating you,” April said rapidly, pinning all her hopes on this one last, desperate lie. “They’ll know what’s happened if I’m gone.”
“Who?”
April’s mouth moved silently for a moment, then she closed it and shook her head.
“Tell me. Was it the Chink? I always expected it to be her who came sniffing around here sooner or later.”
April shook her head again, and Báthory made a sound of annoyance, yanking her up by the front of her jumpsuit. She dragged April across the room and then threw her onto the operating table. April tried to get up immediately, but the doctor pushed her back down onto the table with her knife-hand, the blade slanted across April’s chest. Báthory didn’t seem to be expending any effort at all, but April was helplessly pinned as the doctor went about strapping her legs to the end of the table, then her arms.
Once the reporter was helplessly restrained, Báthory went back over to the desk and picked up the box, setting it on the desktop, taking out the scabbard and returning the dagger to it before putting it back in the box. Then she took out the hat and gently set it on her head, adjusting it slightly before coming back over to April.
“Why did you keep all that shit?” April said, heart pounding in her chest, desperate to do anything to distract the doctor from whatever she had planned. “You could’ve thrown it away and nobody would have ever known!”
A slightly affronted expression crossed Báthory’s face. “The dagger and the ring are both very dear to me, I couldn’t just throw them away like garbage. Besides, I like this hat.” She walked out of April’s field of view, and April heard her rummaging through things behind her.
Quickly, April tested her restraints. This was hardly the first time she had been tied up or thrown into a cell, and usually all she had to do was wait for rescue. The turtles hadn’t been brought here, though, not as far as she knew, and that meant she was going to have to get out of this herself. Barring that, she would have to get someone else’s attention.
Báthory reappeared, this time dragging over a trolley with a toolbox on the top of it. She flipped it open, trailing a hand over the contents.
“Are you gonna ask me if it’s safe?”
Báthory frowned. “What?”
“Marathon Man. It’s a movie, and… oh, fuck it, I’m not explaining this to you.” April knew what was coming, and had a pretty good idea what her captor would want from her, not just information, but fear. She knew putting on a brave front wouldn’t matter, but somewhere deep down, some part of her refused to allow the fear to show. She wasn’t giving Báthory that satisfaction.
“Have it your own way,” the doctor said, rolling her eyes. She took out a scalpel from the toolbox and held it up to the light, gently testing the edge with her thumb. “Last chance,” she said, looking down on April. “Who did you tell?”
April thought quickly. If she told Báthory the truth, she was dead, a loose end tied up. If she lied, and named someone, they were dead along with her. That left the best of three bad options: stall for time and hope someone found you.
April kept her mouth shut, and said absolutely nothing.
Báthory scowled, and reached in. April recoiled when the blade flashed toward her, but fabric tore rather than flesh. The doctor worked efficiently, cutting open the front of April’s jumpsuit, leaving the redhead in only her bra. Bringing the scalpel back down, she trailed the lethal blade along April’s skin, stopping on the upper slope of a breast, where she pressed. April’s breath came faster as she felt her skin dent inward and then begin to give under the sharp tip, the first hints of pain coming in from the soft flesh.
And then Báthory stopped.
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t think we want to go for anything so permanent just yet. Perhaps…” The blonde looked pensively up at the huge lighting rig above them, then reached up and pulled it down. Opening a panel on its side, she started ripping out lengths of wire, and soon April had a pretty horrible idea of what was about to happen.
“HELP!” she screamed. “SOMEBODY! ANYBODY HELP ME!”
“Don’t bother,” Báthory said. “People have died screaming in this room before, and nobody ever came to help them. Besides, things are getting very tense out there right now.”
As if to punctuate her statement, the muffled sound of some kind of music started playing outside, loud enough that it could be heard through the thick metal door. April couldn’t make out the tune, but whatever it was, it was loud.
“I must admit,” Báthory said, “that’s more than even I was expecting, and all over a sword.”
“What?” April asked, still trying to wrap her head around all of this.
“Evidently the people out there are at each other’s throats because Satsuki thinks Copperhead stole her sword.” Báthory jerked her head back to another part of Medical. “That being the sword I have in the supply closet.” Pulling lengths of wire from the overhead light, she peeled open the rubber coatings and unravelled two ends. Flicking the switch on the light, she touched the wire ends together and was rewarded with a bright spark. Setting to work on April’s bra, she cut through the fabric, exposing some of the underwire, and wrapped the ends of the electrical wires around it.
“Anyway, time to scream.” Reaching up, she flicked the switch for the operating lights.
At first, nothing happened. The lights overhead flickered, but there were no muscle spasms, no pain. April wondered if maybe Báthory had wired something wrong or tripped a circuit breaker. In spite of the situation, she felt the beginnings of a smile. She knew the doctor was just going to do something else now, but whatever happened, she was off to one hell of an awkward start.
The redhead was about ready to say something, to chip away at her would-be torturer’s sense of superiority just a little bit more, when she felt the heat.
Her chest was heating up. It had started slow, but it was picking up speed now, becoming more and more painful by the second. She realized what was happening, that the current running through the underwire of her bra was causing the metal to become scorching hot, just as the cloth padding stopped providing any protection, and the hot metal began to burn her skin.
April panted, instinctively writhing away from the pain, but her arms and legs were bound, and all she could do was squirm as the pain intensified. Her panting became hissing through clenched teeth, and she began pulling at her bonds, trying to work her hands free. The straps holding her limbs in place did not give, though, and as the cloth of the bra started to burn through and the wires became like branding irons, April began to scream.
The sounds of her own agony echoed off the walls of the medical ward as sweat broke out all over her body, and she fought harder, no longer trying to slide her hands free but just pulling frantically, arms straining and muscles protesting as she fought with the simple, mindless desperation of a panicked animal, every muscle in her body tightening with the horrible need to get the burning thing off of her.
Nothing worked, and it felt like the heat was going deeper now, that blood vessels must be bursting under her skin; that the fat inside her breasts must be cooking. April swore that even over her screams, she could hear the soft flesh sizzling as the wires became impossibly even hotter. The thought crossed her pain-addled mind that she might die like this, that her skin would cook until it just split open, and there would just be this awful, bubbling mess where her chest used to be.
And then Báthory turned the switch off. Slowly, so slowly April thought it would never end, the heat began to diminish, though she could still feel pain radiating from the burns where the wires touched her. Breath rushed in and out of her, and tears stung her eyes, but she squeezed her eyes shut. She was not going to cry for this monster.
“Hmm…” Báthory said, hooking a finger between the bra and April’s breast, pulling the covering back to look at the burns. “If I burn you any more, you'll stop feeling it.” She looked up at April and smiled, the expression devoid of any amusement. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Bringing out the scalpel again, she cut through the straps of April’s bra and pulled the garment off.
Bits of burned skin came away with it.
“Now let’s try something else,” the doctor said, dropping the bra and moving over to the trolley, where she’d left her toolbox. She rummaged around in it for a moment, and then stopped, nodding slightly as she withdrew a set of pliers. She opened and then closed them, the metal jaws closing with a loud *click*. She looked back at April.
“Tell me who you’re working with,” Báthory said. April shook her head. “Fine.” The blonde brought the pliers down to April’s left hand, and gently closed the jaws around her index finger. Slowly, she began to squeeze, the cold metal pressing into flesh, the grip tightening until it became painful… and then released. Looking back up Báthory, April saw the look on her face, pensive once more.
“I’ll do that later,” she said. “First, though…” she took the pliers away from the finger itself, instead closing them on one manicured nail. Squeezing the grip tightly, she began to pull back.
The pain came immediately, the horrible pulling inside of April’s finger becoming agony faster than she could have imagined. She could actually feel the attachment point of her fingernail, down beneath the skin, beginning to stretch, the pain ramping up worse and worse.
“Please stop!” April begged, not caring about staying brave anymore. “Please!”
Báthory just kept pulling, and the pain reached a crescendo as the binding tissues finally reached their limits and began to tear. April screamed again, and the doctor drew the pliers back very slowly, ensuring that the reporter had all the time in the world to feel her fingernail ripping away from the root and sliding out from beneath the skin. Báthory held the nail up to look at it, idly examining the scraps of red tissue at the back end, and then dropped it onto the trolley.
And reached for the next one.
She tore the nail from April’s middle finger, and then her ring finger after that, each one pulled slowly enough for the redhead to experience every little jolt of pain as her flesh was broken and shredded. She screamed and begged and pleaded, and Báthory ignored all of it, dropping all the severed nails onto the trolley. The doctor finally stopped just before reaching her pinky, pausing to ask the now familiar question.
“Who else knows what you’re doing?”
April still didn’t have an answer, so she said nothing, gritting her teeth to deal with the pain.
That turned out to be a mistake, as April saw Báthory look at her jaws, and then reach out and close a hand around her chin. Pressing thumb and forefinger inward, Báthory opened April’s jaw, and the redhead gasped in horror as she slid the pliers inside. April shook her head frantically, trying to say something around the metal reaching back into her mouth, but nothing worked.
Cold steel clamped shut on one of her molars.
April was breathing frantically, and as her captor began not only to pull, but to turn her wrist, twisting the gripped tooth, she thrashed on the table, trying futilely to escape, all while she begged for Báthory to stop, for anyone to help her, for help from any god who was listening, for anything, just to make it stop.
Báthory kept pulling and turning her wrist, and the bone of the tooth flexed and for a moment April could swear she felt it vibrate. Finally there was a loud crack as the root of the tooth broke away from her jaw, and pain exploded through April’s head. She screamed and twitched, her head slamming back against the table as blood from the horribly removed tooth poured into her mouth. She was forced to swallow the coppery liquid as Báthory took the pliers from her mouth, holding up her prize for both of them to see.
April stared at her own tooth for a moment, and then burst into tears. She didn’t want to do it, not in front of her torturer, but she couldn’t help it. She wanted it to stop hurting. She wanted to leave this awful place, to go home and crawl into bed and not have to deal with this again. She wanted her mom.
She didn’t know how long she cried, having to stop and swallow blood sometimes, but eventually her sobs died down, and she was just breathing raggedly. Báthory set the pliers down, and leaned in close to her.
“Well,” she said, “are you beginning to understand just what silence will cost you?” April didn’t answer, but nodded. “Excellent,” Báthory said with a smile. “Now, tell me who you have working with you.”
April lay there for a moment, looking off into the distance. Pain radiated from her ruined fingers, the burns under her breasts and the bleeding stump where her tooth had broken away. She felt hollowed out, but she knew it was going to get worse. She had six fingernails and all ten toes left, and all the rest of her teeth for Báthory to rip out. Even after that, the doctor could burn her again, or do a hundred other horrible things she couldn’t even think of. No one was helping her, and if she just admitted that it would be over. She would die, and it would be over; no more of this. She wouldn’t gain anything from staying quiet anymore.
Crying, through a mouthful of her own blood, she managed to speak.
“Eat shit, you Nazi whore.”
Báthory’s smile disappeared, and she scowled as she stood up and walked away, back over to her desk, and went through a drawer. She came back with a pair of antique surgical clamps, and locked one onto April’s left nipple, squeezing it tight enough that the redhead wheezed in pain, and then locked it in place. She did the same with the other nipple, and then unwrapped the electrical wires from April’s bra and tied them to the clamps.
She didn’t say anything, just reached up to the light switch and turned it on.
April seized up on the table, the pain like white hot knives being driven into her breasts, carving through flesh and dragging along her nerves. She screamed louder than ever before, spraying droplets of blood into the air.
The pain went well past the previous electric torture. The burning from the hot metal against her breasts was nothing compared to the electricity streaking directly through her body. April screamed and screamed and her body seized and thrashed as everything just became worse and worse. Her body wasn’t even acting on commands from her brain anymore, just bucking and spasming and writhing pathetically in a desperate bid to not hurt anymore.
None of it worked. There was no escaping this. The current kept flowing through her, hammering at her brain with perfectly transmitted, shrieking pain, all while the flesh of her nipples darkened and pinkish feather burns spread across her formerly pale breasts, capillaries bursting beneath the skin as the electricity ripped them open.
Then Báthory turned the light switch back off, and the pain stopped. The burned, peeled edges of April’s consciousness began coming back together, and she started sobbing again. She wanted to curl into a fetal position, but she couldn’t with her arms and legs strapped down. All she could do was lay her head on its side, her chest hitching as she cried. Blood pooled in her cheek to run out of her open mouth, mingling with her tears on the table.
She expected a question, some other demand for information, but there wasn’t one. Instead, the pliers clamped shut on another fingernail.
“No, no, no-” April whined, but Báthory didn’t even look at her this time, taking hold of her pinky fingernail. Instead of pulling, though, she tilted it back. The front of April’s pinky bent back with the nail, before stopping as the joint reached its limit. The pliers kept moving, though, and April begged, and whined, and then screamed again as the nail started to lift, peeling away from the flesh below, pain amplifying even greater than before as the nail was brought horribly vertical, and then Báthory pulled slowly, the soft ripping audible as it was pulled up and out of the finger, dragging strings of ragged red flesh with it.
April shut her mouth, locking her jaw so tight her teeth ached, screaming through the sealed dam of her mouth, thumping her head back on the table. The straps bit into her wrists and stomach as she convulsed, her body trying instinctively to get away. Báthory’s fist slammed into the side of April’s head with incredible force, the blow shattering whatever thoughts she’d had and rattling her skull against the table. More blood poured into her mouth, hot and salty, as another two of April’s molars broke away from her jaw, slick and still against her tongue. She turned her head away and weakly opened her mouth to spit them out, sobbing openly as strings of bloody drool leaked from her mouth.
“Shut up,” Báthory hissed, and reached down to the surgical clamps. Instead of opening them, the doctor simply ripped them off of April’s nipples, little caps of damaged skin peeling away from the sensitive buds and staying clenched in the harsh metal grip. Smirking a little, Báthory walked down April’s body, down to her waist. Setting the clamps down, she ripped open the rest of April’s jumpsuit and pulled the leggings down to her ankles. Next she slipped April’s panties as far along her legs as she could.
“There we are,” she said quietly. Picking up one of the clamps with her right hand, she sent the fingers of her left burrowing into the folds of April’s vagina, searching under the hood until she caught hold of her clitoris. Keeping hold of it, she brought the clamp in and snapped the metal tips shut around the nub of flesh, squeezing tighter and tighter until April whined again, louder and louder as the little bud compressed and turned red from the sheer pressure. Finally, the clamp locked into place, and Báthory looked back at April.
“Anything to say to me now, Miss O’Neil?” April wanted to say something, but nothing came to her. She should, she really should. It would all be over if she did. But whatever impulse was bruised deep inside her, whatever tiny shred of self she had left, it wouldn’t let her.
There was no insult; no defiance. Those had been burned from her with the last electrocution. All she could do now was shake her head. Báthory scowled and reached for the light switch.
“I’m sorry,” April said, her voice cracking, words breaking apart as she cried. “Please, just please don’t—”
Báthory cut her off, leaning in until their faces were very close together, all while keeping one finger on the light switch, until their eyes met.
What April saw in those blue eyes was like nothing she had ever known before, in all her years, throughout all her adventures. Even since she had come to this dead world. All traces of the sexy, eccentric, almost amusing doctor were gone, and April saw at last the truth of what she was.
There was nothing human behind those eyes. No sign of mercy, disgust at what she was doing, or sympathy for April. Only hate, and rage, and a desire to inflict pain upon others for no other reason than because it gave her pleasure, for nothing else mattered to this monstrous being than itself.
For the first time in her life, April O'Neil saw true evil.
“You and all your kind will die like vermin,” Báthory spat. “Your bodies broken, your skin charred and your fats rendered. Your breed exterminated. In the end, I will feed your flesh to the furnace!” Never breaking eye-contact, she flipped the light switch, and the electricity crashed through April.
The burns had been bad, the shocks to her nipples had been worse, but there had been nothing like this. It was like burning hot needles were being driven into her flesh, burrowing out from her clit and ripping their way up along every nerve she had. She screamed, and then screamed again.
There was no April at this point, only agonized, quivering flesh, twitching and moving as the bundle of sensitive nerves perfectly channeled the merciless, elemental force of the electricity. The pain slashed and burned and stabbed at what might have been a human consciousness, and it began to unravel, and still the current flowed.
The tortured thing that had once been April O’Neil screamed and screamed and screamed, the sounds rising higher and higher until they didn’t even sound human anymore.
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Bunkerkampf (Mortuus Orbis Part Two)