The elevator rumbled, the rushing lights whooshing past as they travelled up and up. Gravium pulsed through the metal, hints of purple glittering around them. Under different circumstances, Lorelai might have been in awe---an ancient warship relic, still functional. Instead, her fingers curled uselessly at her side, forced to listen to the scraping rails as levels rushed past.

  Meanwhile, the General’s stiff, statue-like posture made Lore question whether an imposter had taken her place. There was neither a squeak nor a grunt from the general or her men, but just an ambient rust and the slow, deliberate hum of Gravium.

  Lore sucked in a shake-infused breath, trying to calm her tail, but it only twitched more. The flickering lights, the chill rising with each floor.

  Suddenly, everything went still as the floor slammed and doors whooshed open. She was quickly guided forward, with no chance to run. Squinting through the glare, she stepped into a dazzling, brightly lit room, her eyes darting around to take in the scene.

  The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were pristine white, and the smell of fresh alcohol and disinfectant filled her nostrils. It was a laboratory, an entire lab on the highest floor. She could see the mist coat the glass ceiling above, the chill seep in between the cracks.

  Then, as Lore watched, the woman approached a counter. Her fingers grazed the metal case, the latch clicked open, and she saw it---fumes rising around the needle’s tip. Inside, it was liquid yet moved like a gas, the substance oddly clumping near the General’s grip as she held it.

  Hell, she even observed the plunger moving as the metallic substance was pushed upward, almost as if it wanted to escape.

  “Now then”, said the Archdemon, her eyes narrowing on Lore.

  ...

  “Hold her.”

  Lore flinched, and before she could turn, two hands grabbed her shoulders. The force knocked her to her knees, feeling as heavy as a hundred metric tons. The white tiles beneath her trembled with the pressure, nearly cracking.

  “Test six hundred and sixty-one”, said the General, “gender: female, the estimated age: late two-hundreds, possibly older.”

  “What do you want?” Lore shouted, “What the fuck is that?”

  The woman cleared her throat and flicked the tip.

  “This may hurt...”

  Like a caged animal, Lore screamed, thrashed, and refused to let the woman even so much as a meter close. The one man’s fingers snatched her arms, and another craned her neck toward the injection site.

  “Get off,” she kicked. “Touch me, and I’ll gut you.”

  Her heart pounded, fangs clenched, and she writhed in defiance like a limp snake. She slipped into her own sweat, showing frantic, hopeless, yet determined grit, glaring directly at the devilish woman. However, strangely, that brought a smile to the General’s thin lips, her cold eyes like frostbite burns. That stare challenged Lore to prove her will, to her to come at her.

  “How fascinating,” said the woman“, Bartolo, Dario, you can... release her.”

  Like a coiled spring poised to burst, Lore accepted the challenge. As soon as the brutes’ grip twitched, she was already in motion, mid dash, with her arms extended to strike.

  Lore's stamping legs thudded against the slick surface, that smug expression a mere hair away. But when she connected fist with face, the woman was no longer there.

  Instead, with icy soft fingers, Lore got pulled back, and then came that dry, bemused smile.

  “You have guts, I can tell you that.”

  The syringe plunged into her neck, and the substance, like a spider finding a home, dug in. Its claws raced down her chest, flooded her toes, and wrapped her fingers. Even her tail wasn’t safe. Even her dormant core shook.

  “Pulse elevated within expected threshold,” Said the woman, now taking notes.

  Lore gasped, “Expected?”

  Fire and ice tore through her; burn, freeze, on loop, her skin lit up, screaming in a way her voice could not. She opened her fangs, but no air came out, only liquid---metal.

  She coughed it out.

  Cried it out.

  Started to sweat it out.

  All signs told her that her body rejected it, that this was poison. The sensation felt like she was moving through mud, as if the substance were fighting her. Like something pulled at her strings.

  Then a vague silhouette of the woman’s finger collected a tear from her face; the drop held up like a marvel of discovery.

  “Signs positive adaptation, pupils fully chromatic.”

  Lore pressed her foot into the reflective puddle and started to rise, her fingers looking for a general to strangle. Her fists wrapped into a knot.

  But as soon as she found the wretched woman, suddenly, a cloth was dabbed at her leaking eyes, wiping away her tears.

  It was gentle.... soft.

  “Sample forty-two has successfully bonded with the bloodstream,” said the woman. “Further compatibility tests are required; however, current adaptation is likely at stage three or possibly even stage five.”

  “Stage five?” Lore echoed.

  The General quickly wiped away another tear, dabbing her tissue in the metallic substance. But when Lore noticed that look, with its flicker of intensified hunger for answers. Her tail stiffened. A shiver spiking from base to tip.

  The General was...

  Excited.

  Eyes wide.

  A flush of discovery written in her face.

  Even her tail swished side to side.

  "So..." Lore began, a gulp hitching in her throat. "Are you going to tell me what you just drugged me with?”

  The woman paying her no attention finished bagging and labelled the tissue as evidence. Batch number forty-two was imprinted on the plastic. Her pen quitlely jotted down a scrible no demon could decode.

  “Hey, are you listen---”

  Lore took a step, but as she did, the General spun around. Then, along with her white, pristine hair, the clipboard flapped open, revealing a new page.

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  Then came a finger, index under chin, pulled up to face those sapphire blue eyes.

  “Are you able to remember who you are?” the woman asked.

  “Remember?” Lore frowned. “I can remember how you owe me powers, you said you can awaken them.”

  The woman prodded her neck, fingers like ice.

  “A yes or no would suffice.”

  Lore leaned in, perfume lingering in the air.

  “Well, if you won’t follow through, shall I test if cannibalism works?”

  The General smiled, the same smile that the knight had. Like she asked something stupid. Like they underestimated her.

  Lore whipped her tail and wanted to slap the demoness, smug grin.

  HELL NO.

  She refuses to get teased again with zero follow-through. She wrapped her fingers on the woman’s lab coat and pressed the fabric tight enough to hear it warp.

  “I’m not a toy, I have a price. And you know the cost.”

  The General just pursed her lips, her tail slowly brushing the counter behind her, something behind those eyes changing.

  “Go on...” she slithered.

  Lore chewed her lip, felt the General’s breath mix with hers. Sucubus x Sucubus, claw vs claw.

  “Power.” She whispered, “I want it.”

  The woman licked her fang, pressing closer, skin meeting skin.

  “Only a child wants power. An adult... asks for freedom.”

  Lore held the woman’s gaze for a moment, General vs Servant. Of course, they both knew who had the true freedom between them. But pondering it further, what if there was something else under those words? She didn’t say power was bad, just naive. So what would freedom look like in her situation?

  The woman smiled, a hint of Neurte likely reading her mind.

  But Lore focused on the facts.

  This General had shards, wealth, and authority. And if she couldn’t create that on her own, what if she could take a piece of that pie, in exchange for something?

  “I reckon my work is less... demeaning. At least compared to whoreing yourself out for pocket change.” The General said, “Who knows, maybe you might gain minor nobility as a personal Inquisitor.”

  Lore squirmed at that. She wasn’t wrong, but...

  Could she trust this demon?

  “Trust is a vague term,” the General said. “Think of it as a high-risk investment, and I *trust* you will be rewarded for it.”

  Lore glared up at the woman, staring at every microexpression. It was a gamble, a all or nothing game. And would she call or fold?

  “Fine. What are the conditions?” Lore said.

  The General leaned back and then began to crack her knuckles. Her posture curved, as if she were flaunting that irritating figure of hers. Then she smiled.

  “Last longer than five mins.”

  “Doing what... exactly?” Lore frowned.

  The General chuckled, “Nothing as filthy as what you just imagined.” Then she pointed to an empty space.

  A hiss of steam jolted the sterilised tiles, and then came the racks of weapons emerging from the walls. Blades of every size and shape gleamed, their points reflecting her own wide-eyed stare. No guns, no machinery---only the brutal simplicity of cold steel

  “Pick one.” Said the woman.

  “You still haven’t told me the terms,” Lore said, “I want to know---”

  The woman flicked her finger, and a sword breached the tiles. Purple light punched through the metal and wavered just on the tip of Lore’s nose.

  “I’m the one who decides what you do and do not know.”

  Lore leaned back and nodded, her skin one inch from a carved face. The Gravium sword hummed, twisted and pondered just like the General’s fingers.

  “I would suggest dualing myself, but I doubt you could last a nanosecond.” The woman moved her gaze to her silent bodyguards, not even breathing in the corner. “Bartolo.” She called.

  And then the larger of the two stepped forward.

  Lore felt her heart pulse with energy, her fingers already cutting segments off one by one. And then an image of a siren entered her mind.

  “About the terms,” she heard herself saying, “I have two sisters, and I imagine they could---”

  “Are you referring to the twin Neurite weavers?” the woman asked, “I did ponder, but I don’t have a need for---”

  “If I beat both gaurds let them join.” Lore interrupted.

  The General eyed her, her gaze lingering up and down, her brows furrowing at the odds.

  “Bartolo is the slower of the two, but Dario, that monster, will kill you.”

  The horned man grunted, half chromatic eyes lingering on her.

  However, not taking this shit, Lore snatched a long sword, the curved blade heavy in her grip.

  “If I win, I will.... Help you with your experiments.” She said.

  The general narrowed her gaze, then nodded.

  “Kill one, and I’ll even give you a salary.”

  Lore’s tail tightened like a drawn wire. The Batrakin men grumbled at her, their stares challenging her claims. But she simply tightened her fingers, watching as the rack slammed back into the floor.

  It was too late to swap it for something lighter.

  “You’d better not disappoint me, girl,” the woman said. “I’d rather not pluck my compound from your corpse.”

  “You assume I’ll lose,” Lore asked.

  Then, before she could turn, the General disappeared into a black Obsidium tear in reality.

  “Five minutes, begins now. ”

  And in her place, the two men closed in like vultures, cracking their knuckles and puffing steam from their lips.

  But one thing she did not foresee was the glowing red eyes infused with Hemerite’s strength.

  Her fingers trembled as sweat rolled down her face. She bit her fangs, gripping the blade tightly against her skin. Despite her desire to let go, she couldn't---the throbbing in her hand kept her grip firm on the sword, her only defence against the two Hermite surgers.

  She had to focus. She had to fight.

  Then, first, the larger of Batrakin barreled toward her, a wall of muscle and speed. Bartolo.

  “HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SLOW!” she cried.

  She flung herself aside with a yelp, barely avoiding death.

  The ground shattered beneath the Bartolo landing, the force of impact shaking her bones. Where she had been standing a second ago---nothing remained. Just dust and splintered shards of her old box.

  Lore gulped. One second later, and she’d have been part of that wreckage, flat like a crimson pancake.

  But not giving her a break, Dario fired a punch at her. The immense cannon of an arm slammed her sword, the metal not even resisting as the fist shattered it like glass, the momentum almost knocking her off her feet. She backed up, her frantic footwork earning her a near miss as the arm swiped past her. A blow that might have taken her head off.

  She flicked her now dagger and regarded the men. Slow but lethal. If she had a chance, she needed to take advantage of it. But then, in a flash of sparks, Dario, using his other arm, hammered her gut. The surge of electricity bolted through her.

  She gritted her fangs.

  “He was a Voltite user too?”

  But like a jackhammer, the fingers that seemed to hang in her stomach exploded, propelling her into the wall with a crash.

  Flip.

  Scrape.

  CRACK!

  Her spine hit ceramic. Red fractured across her vision. She coughed --- nothing came back in. Liquid replaced air. Organs, bone, her failing body, falling apart.

  Even so, she tried to stand, but her knees betrayed her, and her body rejected her; her arms slipped into traitorous blood.

  But worse, her breath came out wet, thick, her pained throat searching for glimmers of air. Hell, she was dying; no, it was an execution. It didn’t take an expert to know she couldn’t survive this; she was no self-healing archdemon.

  However, the show was not over; she got yanked by her horn and screamed. Her numb hands were unable to do anything but lie at her side. Dario gripped her horn, the sharp pull wrenching her head back, forcing her to meet his empty, lifeless eyes. This was it. This was how she would die---broken, humiliated, a failure.

  She could barely keep her lashes open and even questioned why she should, some part of her wanting to stare down death. Resist just like Ego did. Ego always fought. Ego was better than her.

  “EGO,” Lore screamed. “EGO!”

  She didn’t want to die alone. Let her have an imaginary friend.

  However, instead of Ego, a wispy shadow reflected in her sight. The dark form was not alone, as many of them swarmed around her. Eyes like bottomless chrome voids, faces smooth yet undulating.

  Then, like a butcher, the old, slow Bartolo gripped her arm and squeezed, her scream roaring out of her broken lungs, blacking her sight of the strange crowd that circled her, watching in interest.

  One stood closer than the rest. Larger. Older.

  Not kind---

  But... patient.

  Like a hand that had always known she would reach. Motherly, her mind thought. Ancient her core told her. Like a story, like a narrative that drew strings. Fuck hell! Whatever they were, creatures of the void or some god, it didn’t matter.

  “HELP ME!” she tried to say, her fangs limp to her call.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t think about it. Her tears and mental screams howled for someone, anyone, to give her what she needed.

  I don’t care what you are.

  I don’t care what it costs.

  “Give me power,” she thought, her mental scream piercing the darkness.

  The shadows paused, seeming to glance at one another with unspoken understanding, their smooth faces unreadable.

  “Forty-Five point three seconds,” said the woman, “Below projections.”

  Lore screamed.

  Ego screamed, “NO! Don’t let them---”

  The shadows answered.

  They did not slip inside---they tore their way in.

  Engulfed in black, every pore and nerve stretched taut as shadowed fingers---too many, too long---forced themselves into her flesh, burrowing, writhing, filling her up.

  Hands, arms, and entire forms forced themselves inside, tearing through her body in a torrent of searing pain and mental white noise.

  Hundreds and hundreds of them forced, tore and scraped their way in, her sobs, her pain, her mind splitting as every pore, every orifice cracked open.

  She was hollow, and they were making themselves at home.

  She felt herself slipping away, consciousness a thin thread fraying at the edges. Who had she let in? Who...had---

  “You wanted power, princess.” One shadow said. “I gave it.”

  Lore fell limp, her body hanging in the Batrakin’s tight grip.

  The woman cleared her throat, “Subject status: deceased.”