0027 — The Separation
1595 Words
The kitchen smelled of ozone and lemon-scented fear.
Carmilla stood atop the milk crate, clutching her skirts like a diver on a very shaky platform. She looked down into the open maw of the top-loader, then back at Victor, her eyes wide with a specific kind of aristocratic horror—the realization that dignity was about to be stripped away by an appliance.
"This violates three treaties," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the low, rhythmic gurgle of the manor's plumbing. "And basic decency."
"It's a medical necessity," Victor said, his voice tight. He grabbed a jug of bleach from the counter. It was the cheap stuff, 'Sunlight Lemon', the kind that burned your nose hairs just by looking at the label. "Think of it as a spa treatment. A very... vigorous exfoliation."
Valeska tapped her pen against the clipboard. The sound was sharp, like a bone snapping. "Patient hesitation is delaying the procedure. Efficiency drop: 12%. Recommendation: Forced entry."
Iron-Jaw took a step forward, his servos whining. The metal bucket on his head tilted menacingly.
"I am going!" Carmilla hissed.
She swung one leg over the porcelain rim, then the other. It was an awkward, rustling descent. She had to wiggle her hips to fit past the agitator. The green slime-water rose around her waist, bubbling softly. It hissed against the fabric of her dress, releasing small puffs of steam that smelled of mint and rot.
"It's cold," she complained, her teeth chattering. "And slimy."
"That's the electrolyte gel," Victor lied. It was mostly dish soap and gastric mucus he'd harvested from the kitchen's own walls. "Keeps the curse from sticking to the drum."
The bleach gurgled into the dispenser. The liquid was thick and yellow, glowing faintly in the dim light. As it hit the slime, the mixture turned a violent, neon purple.
Carmilla looked up at Victor from the depths of the machine. She looked small. Vulnerable. A queen in a can.
"Victor," she said. It was the first time she used his name without a title. "If this kills me, I will haunt your plumbing forever. Every faucet you open will bleed."
"Noted," Victor said. "Tuck your head in."
She curled into a ball, hugging her knees. The Vantablack stain on her wrist pulsed, sensing the trap. It lashed out, a tendril of shadow striking the porcelain wall, but the bleach-mixture sizzled against it, forcing it back.
The lid slammed shut.
The lock engaged with a heavy, mechanical clack that echoed in the silent kitchen.
He didn't breathe. His hand found the dial. The label 'HEAVY DUTY' had been crossed out with a Sharpie and replaced with 'EXORCISM'. He twisted it past 'Rinse', past 'Spin', all the way to the end.
The knob clicked as he pulled it.
The machine didn't start with a hum. It started with a cough.
A deep, wet, hacking sound erupted from the motor, shaking the floorboards. The pipes in the ceiling groaned in sympathy. Then, the rotation began.
Slowly at first. Swish. Swish.
The slime-tubes connected to the back pulsed rhythmically, pumping more fluid into the drum. The pressure gauge on the wall spiked into the red.
"RPM increasing," Valeska narrated, her eyes fixed on the vibrating lid. "Centrifugal force at 3G. Curse separation initiating."
The swish-swish turned into a continuous roar. The machine began to rock. It wasn't a gentle vibration; it was a violent seizure. The metal feet hammered against the linoleum, chipping the tiles.
Warning: Structural Integrity Compromised.
The text burned itself across his retina, bright red and flickering. His ancestors were screaming at him in binary code. Bearing Load: Critical. Curse Density: Heavy.
"Hold it down!" he yelled over the noise.
Iron-Jaw threw himself onto the machine. He wrapped his massive, hydraulic arms around the white metal box, bracing his feet against the stove. The machine bucked like a rodeo bull, lifting the thousand-pound cyborg off the ground before slamming him back down.
Inside, he could hear Carmilla. It wasn't a scream. It was a doppler-shifted wail as she spun at six hundred revolutions per minute.
"Faster," Valeska ordered. She wasn't looking at the machine anymore; she was looking at the drain hose.
His eyes followed hers.
The hose, which led into the kitchen sink, was convulsing. Something was trying to come out.
"It's working!" Victor shouted, his hands gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned white. "The density variance! The curse is heavier than the blood!"
A glob of black tar shot out of the hose and splattered into the sink.
It didn't flow like liquid. It hit the porcelain with a wet slap and stayed there, quivering. Then another glob. And another. The sink began to fill with a substance that looked like melted shadows and smelled of old graves and ozone.
The machine screamed. The metal casing was warping, twisting under the strain. The lid bowed upward.
Alert: Uneven Load. Patient is shifting.
"She's moving!" he yelled. "Iron-Jaw, don't let it tip! If it tips, the kinetic energy will turn her into soup!"
Iron-Jaw roared, his servos smoking. He slammed his shoulder into the side of the machine, forcing it back level. Sparks showered from his joints.
Then, chaos.
The Fenrir-Cube, which he'd left on the floor because it weighed as much as a collapsed star, had been migrating. Driven by the room's vibrations, the heavy black block slid across the linoleum like a curling stone from hell. It gathered momentum and slammed directly under the front left leg of the washing machine.
The machine tilted.
The balance was gone. The drum slammed against the side of the casing with a sound like a car crash. The entire appliance jumped three feet into the air, tearing the slime-tubes from the wall.
Green goo sprayed everywhere. Steam erupted from the motor.
"Kill it!" Victor screamed, lunging for the plug.
Valeska, safe behind a shimmering geometric barrier she'd erected to keep her uniform clean, finally acted. She hadn't intervened earlier—presumably because chaos was part of the assessment—but equipment failure was a step too far. She drew her pen and slashed the air. A blade of pure white light severed the power cord cleanly.
The machine died.
The roar cut off instantly, replaced by the hiss of escaping steam and the wet sound of slime dripping from the ceiling.
Silence returned to the kitchen. Heavy, suffocating silence.
Iron-Jaw slid to the floor, panting, his metal bucket dented. The machine sat in the center of the room, smoking. It was crooked, leaking, and looked like it had gone twelve rounds with a tank.
He stared at the lid. It was still locked.
"Carmilla?" he whispered.
Nothing.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He scrambled over the wet floor, slipping on the soap, and grabbed the lid. The lock was jammed. He yanked it. Stuck.
"Iron-Jaw! The crowbar!"
Iron-Jaw handed him a spatula. It was the best he could do. He jammed the metal under the lid and pried. The metal groaned, bent, and then—pop.
The lid flew open.
Steam billowed out, thick and white, smelling strongly of lemons.
He waved it away, coughing, peering into the drum.
Carmilla was there. She was pressed against the side of the drum, held in place by the lingering centrifugal force. Her hair was a frizzy, static-charged halo that defied gravity. Her dress was plastered to her skin.
She peeled herself off the wall with a wet peeling sound. She blinked. Her eyes were spinning in opposite directions.
"I..." she croaked. She held up a hand.
Her wrist was clean.
Pale. Flawless. The Vantablack stain was gone. Not a trace remained. She smelled like a freshly mopped hospital floor.
"Clean," Valeska announced. She walked over to the sink and peered at the black sludge. "Separation successful. Curse matrix isolated."
Victor slumped against the counter, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "We did it. It worked. The Maytag Exorcism."
Carmilla tried to climb out. She got one leg over the rim, lost her balance, and tumbled out onto the floor in a heap of wet lace and lemon suds. She didn't get up. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling fan.
"Never," she whispered to the spinning blades. "Again."
"The audit is satisfied," Valeska said, tucking her pen back into her pocket. "The contagion is removed. The patient is sterilized."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," Victor said, pointing at the sink. "What about that?"
The sink was full. The black tar was pulsating. It wasn't just sitting there; it was organizing. The globs were merging, pulling themselves together. A bubble formed on the surface, popped, and released a sound that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.
Valeska paused. She looked at the sludge, then at Victor. Her expression didn't change, but the air temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"That," she said, "is hazardous waste. Class 5 metaphysical pollutant."
She checked her watch.
"According to Sanitation Bylaw 99, you are required to dispose of it in a designated containment facility."
"I don't have a containment facility!" Victor protested. "I have a septic tank!"
"Then I suggest you improvise," Valeska said, opening the swinging doors. "You have ten minutes before it develops vocal cords and starts demanding voting rights."
She walked out.
He looked at the sink. The sludge rose higher, forming a pseudopod that tapped against the faucet. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It mimicked the sound of Valeska's pen.
"Iron-Jaw," Victor said softly, not taking his eyes off the sink. "Get the bucket."
- Writer
