The Witch of Jakarta

Chapter 13: Blue Reverie (Part 1)

    Vincent’s breath hitched as all shades of hope slowly faded, the saffron hue framing the corners of his eyes fading away. The grip on his throat became violent, clawing at his jugular vein as another hand, held his hip from bucking away. His body—cold and petrified, jostled away at the touch, only to have his torso spun and thrown to a near shelf.

    His spine hit the sharp end of the metal support, causing the shelf to fall back and take down the shelf behind it. The second thing that hit metal was the bac of his head, which left a trace of blood as his body fell on the floor. Dazed eyes slowly reawaken as the faded red hue that framed it alerted the boy. His jaw went slack, only for a moment before the same ice-cold hand pinned him towards the empty sky.

    The speed caster looked towards him, those empty f*****g eyes again. The man smiled, the stretched muscles slowly ripping apart more of the man’s lips—erupting to a thunderous laugh. Mousy hands clawed at the grip, drawing blood and tearing through the outer flesh. However, as the fine gold substance trickled down the man’s forearms, he’d earned not so much as a quiver from his grip. He attempted at screaming once more, gurgling the one word he needed to scream—though he’d expected no answers to return.

    ‘Inca!’

    Leaving no other trail of thought to form, the man stroke again, his damp hair swaying mere millimeters from his cheek. Another attempt to dodge, this time landing a firm punch to his stomach. He dropped backwards, head first towards the floor as his blurry vision screamed for his body to move.

    Barely missing the other punch, he flinched his body to the side—the impact of the man’s punch sending cracked floor and cement flying into his eyes. He looked to the side, not realizing his eyes had been watering. The man had stopped as if to warn him of what could be his last sight.

    ‘It would be better if you didn’t dodge,’ The man stated.

    ‘f**k off!’

    Another kick to the stomach sent his torso flying, tight balling fist uncoiling with the shock shattered the back of his head. The speed caster was quick on his feet, getting back up with just enough seconds to avoid the third kick. Wandering eyes darted towards Inca, big mistake—a hammering swing bludgeoning his left jaw, white noise filling his vision. Pushing further, he refused to give in as easily as last time Smiles taunted.

    He swung back, managing to graze the man’s jaw in his brief frenzy. Another swing, slender hands quickly catching him using the same trick twice. He twisted his arms, freeing himself with enough time to duck from the man’s retaliation. Yet still, the flesh on his cheek split open—letting a new river of blood flow just past his collarbone.

    The speed caster knew better now than to let his eyes off the man, though he wasn’t precisely known to be good at fighting with his flesh. Another punch flew across and his hands quickly formed a fortress on his face, sharp knuckles landing just above the joints of his wrists. Then it happened again, over and over as if to mock him while he struggled to keep himself standing.

    He shook his head, weeding out the whiteness out of his vision. Long dark hair swayed just passed him, his instincts were faster. He darted away; the man’s flying kick barely missed him as he rolled to the side. Stillness overcame the two of them, cloudy vision catching Smiles’ breath just as heavy as his. He wasted no time, hot air grazing his cheeks, sliding down to kick the man’s foot off the ground.

    It worked for a mere moment, a hard thud reverberating just next to his head. His mind spun against instinct, adrenaline shooting up his veins as if to boil him alive. He gets up to pin the body down—a lanky but firm grip suddenly spreading the top of his head. It plants itself on the roots of his hair, scratching against his scalp before a clamoring force of the man’s claws slammed him back down.

    ‘No!’ A voice screamed.

    He felt that feeling in his stomach again, the instinct to run pawning his tremored hands. He felt only the tips of his fingers, the skin under his nails scraping against the man’s firm grasp on his head. He felt a squeak of voice escape his throat for one last time, elongated limbs briskly holding his legs down. He kicked as hard as he could, the force on his tibia and patella sending shockwaves of pain up his spine.

    Another hand covered the rest of his face, obscuring what little vision he had—leaving only the farthest corners of his left eye to witness the smile spreading across the man’s face. Within an instant, the familiar force took his head off the ground—slamming it unto the concrete floor again. His vision turned white once more, the tiniest spikes of red framing the corner of his eyes.

    ‘Stop!’

    ‘Not until you speak,’ The man crooned.

    ‘Inca don-’

    A heavier force lifted him up, dragging his hair to what felt like miles above the ground. The speed caster could almost see himself—a bloodied sack of s**t, blood-shot eyes already swelling over as metal-tanged drool dripped down his throat. He felt gravity pull at his arteries, the grip clenching at his throat slowly raising higher. The force seemed to stretch endlessly, straining not only the remaining air in his lungs but also the other wounds and cuts were strewn across his body. It tore down with each cut and cleave marked on his skin, pulling further down, spreading open each wound.

    He attempted what he’d done before, clawing at the forearms that held him—only to notice that the wounds he’d inflicted before was no longer there. There wasn’t a scratch on the man that seemed new, it was all burnt and charred flesh of course, yet new wounds refused to form on the ashen skin. He looked again towards Inca, surely, she must’ve noticed too; perhaps much sooner than he had. Dark and muddied thoughts ravaged him in the image of a hungry ghost, setting his fuzzy vision with more noise than ice and snow. The look on the rogue’s face must’ve been priceless.

    He could feel it, the overwhelming complement to rest—his hazy eyesight steadily blurring towards the obscurity, as oxygen slowly deprived in his lungs. but not because tears were welling up. Everything became white, then slowly black, darker than the endless hallways of shelves and fresh bodies—then, there was nothing left. As the tips of his hair tickled his eyelids, consciousness was nothing but abstract, floating aimlessly through the bottomless and empty space filled with a thick static noise.

    He felt the grip on his flesh loosen, a calmness filling him as he realized that there was no intent for his forever sleep; not yet at least. However, throughout the inky space, his heartbeat still pounded loud and anxious, echoing just past the snowy static ringing in his ears. Numb jaws and swaying limbs just barely out of touch, alongside fading pleas for help he so desperately mouthed out. There was no sound, only bloodied saliva and hoarse throat. It was her turn this time, whether the rogue liked it or not they both knew they needed a distraction until help reaches. The stinging feeling in the speed caster’s body drained away until finally, all was black.

    ‘You better stop stalling, dear.’

    ‘Why her?’ The rogue pleaded, ‘She’s been AOL for decades, so why now?’

    The man chuckled, remarking that she was going exactly against what he’d just said. He was using that voice again, the kind that was enough to freeze the rogue’s entire body, despite the painful smolders of the chains. However, the crisp rush of relief only lasted as long as her shock, and the pain swiftly returned to her as if it were a hot summer’s kiss.

    The smiling man in front of her no doubt cherished the view, yet something seemed to stir deep inside when she instinctively screamed for her mother. Within those few, everlasting seconds of pain she’d heard the faintest click—quickly noting that Smiles still need physical, audio stimuli to cast or remove a spell. Yet again, a flicker of hope ignited of someone stopping that son of a b***h.

    Her eyes slowly unfurled, watching as the waves of pain slowly turned calm. The glowing colors around her grew to an inky black, the wads of chains binding her gradually losing their form. It became almost gelatinous, most of it soaking the cheap fabrics of her uniform while the rest of it glide down her skin. Those chains left no mark, as it was supposed to.

    The rogue froze in her position for a beat, the shock of such pain still fettering her body. Her hazy vision slowly looked up, pained by the gash of light from the rain outside. That man’s silhouette remained where he was, abnormally still as his hands held firmly on Vincent’s neck. Her weak hands gestured towards the boy, which the man proceeded to look with a perplexed face. Though he seemed to finally understand what she meant, dropping his grip on the speed caster’s neck, letting the boy’s unconscious body drop on the ground like a half-empty sack of rice.

    She would like to ask if she could, as perhaps even the man would enjoy finding an outlet to speak of it. To call out the unspeakable name that took him by the neck as if he were a pig, skinned and drained of precious blood. The name that had the salient moral justification to turn him into an essential machine—not free just yet of consequences. A blanket of thorns that begs to prick and pry with each breath they wasted in silence—the remains of both pain and agony, it knows no bounds. The icy-permanent thought seeped through her that he could’ve just as well been one of them as she would be one of his side, another thought for her sleepless nights.

    She forced herself back on her feet, forcing away the needy look strewn across the man’s dead-white eyes. She wasn’t one for forgiveness; especially not to the man who claimed she needed to die. The air froze between them, they were two predators—one who just decided to stop hunting the other. This wasn’t mercy, and she knew very well than to test it. She’d have to walk on thin glass to not disturb the peace, though her silver tongue might end her quite soon for that regard.

    She couldn’t help but keep looking at that face, a grim yet still pleading expression barely hidden under long damp hair and burnt flesh. The second thing she might ask is what held him back. Her eyes grew tired from the bitter aftertaste of pain, though despite the tempting lulls of the rain and blue hues of the blank walls, she was one for courtesy.

    ‘Thank you,’ She said, as much as her voice could manage.

    ‘You thank your enemy.’

    ‘Yet you have the audacity of helping one.’

    The chains gripped her once more, and what was left of her hope spilled away unto the metal-flavored saliva she coughed out. That was indeed no mercy, she’s tested that much. As she took in what little air could travel through her mouth, she could feel the pressure around her eyes begin to rupture, blinding her temporarily as that familiar tangy feeling of blood resurfaced on her dripping saliva.

    It wasn’t physical pain, her sane mind recited, yet the pain was enough to make her entire body lock itself into the smallest shape she could manage—as if she’d been electrocuted with invisible lightning. She could feel her eyelash blinking rapidly, the thin flaps of flesh instinctively, desperately attempting to wash away the dark noise fogging her vision. How she’d kill to see how he looked with those eyes again. Still, her dry mouth hung agape, a panting mess with the barrage of burning pain; she could hardly hear or answer what he’d said.

    ‘Speak of what I need or I will end you, child.’

    ‘Y-you…fucking dickhead.’

    ‘Do you really not know?’ The man asked. ‘We aren’t fools, dear. We know she’s the one who set up your little road trip location.’

    She couldn’t help laugh at the word, knowing how much the enemy has caught them in their headlights. ‘You…m-mine as well…k-kill…kill me for it…a-and stop wasting your time.’

    A firm grip slammed her throat, hitting her head to the floor with ferocious velocity. A sickening sound thundered under her skull, reverberating against her ears as if a bomb had exploded under her. The lanky hand planted itself on her flesh, chipped and blackened fingernails scraping the nape of her neck. She cracked her eyes open, finding solace that the figure above her hadn’t done anything more; hazy vision, though enough to see that a certain unconscious body had begun to stir.

    ‘I understand now, we are quite alike,’ The man said, a shift in his voice. ‘However, it’s this visit’s been drawn out long enough.’

    ‘St-still…n-not…not talking,’ The rogue spat, though the bitter look on her face was enough to tell that she was breaking.

    The man swayed his head to the side, his hand sliding towards her jaw. ‘Why are you being so difficult?’ He asked. ‘You seem to hate her quite a bit as well.’

    She managed another laugh, though she knew well it had sounded as if she were a dying dog. ‘Say…h-how…how long can you k-keep up a spell?’

    A deep hoarse laugh escaped his throat. ‘Long enough to kill you.’

    ‘Ah…around thirty minut-’

    Another hit, this time his left hand; a backhanded slap across her cheek. The motion in her lungs stifled at the contact, a burning sensation flourishing as if it were a delicate flower compared to the chains binding her. Cruel and relentless, he was alike a deep-sea creature—a deranged osedax watching the drowning prey from beneath the sea floors. It was death or betrayal, that’s what she needed to convince him of, just for a little longer.

    She mustered all the strength she had left, playing jester as her right arm broke free for a moment—looping past the scorching chains and grabbing the man’s ankle. A sharp heel swatted away her touch, breaking her wrist as it pummeled it on the floor. Violent popping sound barely registering in the rogue’s ear as the mere churn of the chain’s position made her scream with vile and thunderous momentum. However, the motion didn’t stop, and the pop was quickly followed by a sharp c***k. The numb icy-hot pain on her wrist suddenly stretched beyond what would be the length of a human hand—grinding and crunching as bones fractured and pierced her skin.

    The hand on her jaw slithered away, gripping her by a swift motion, taunting her by the memories of what he did to Vincent. Her mind focused on one thing; all coherency left in her pinpointed towards counting down how many minutes were left of the man’s spell concentration. It shouldn’t be more than a few more seconds, as he’d previously released her to take a break. Those few seconds couldn’t possibly be enough to rest him, he was still human no matter how much the other side had drugged him; she hoped. As chipped and burnt nails curled tighter on her rogue mane, the man’s long damp hair brushed her face, as if to call for her attention.

    Tear-filled eyes looked up, discomforted by how close his bucket hat was—yet his eyes seemed to glow brighter despite how long he’s been keeping this up. Their past conquerors would’ve called him magnificent, angel-like if it weren’t for his burnt flesh. His soul ignited from within yet unyielding regardless; she was never more certain that she would die.

    ‘I will burn him and you unless that pretty little mouth of yours starts making sense.’

    Her eyes darted at Vincent, who seemed to react quick enough for Smiles to not notice he was awake. ‘Do the maths honey, we’d die a winner.’

    The man’s face twisted into his usual everlasting smile; a smile that stretched wider as he lifted her head just above the floor, ready to bash her head in. Bony fingers stretched across the rogue’s face, the feeling of coarse leathery skin enveloping her cheeks as her tears swelled and poured down her cheeks. Primal instincts kicked in too slow, but she fought and scratched through the man’s arm regardless; bidding more time.

    The grip locked tighter across her face, scrunching her cheeks as the man’s sickly golden blood drip down from the rogue’s pitiful attempt to escape. The rise in momentum paused, perhaps as a last kind effort to give her the warning. However, her eyes merely focused on the figure behind the man’s thick damp hair, bloodied but standing.

    ‘Arakata!’

    Blinding light flourished from his hands, just barely catching Inca before the strike hits. The sunbeam-colored shield rattled as it planted itself on the ground, barely holding up as his concentration withers. The man wasted no time striking again, sensing the weak magic left within the boy—he raptures on the momentum, clawing at what he could. Vincent was far away enough, dodging the first few swings before getting caught in a corner. The smiling man ravaged the sight, a hard kick sledding the speed caster by the ribs.

    Vincent shrieked as he felt a garish c***k around ribs, a stinging and unbearable pain washing over him as quickly as the rain falls. The man’s laughter invaded every corner of the room, drowning his mind as if it were another thick cloud of drugs. But his knees refused to give in, and his blurry vision will not simply go back to sleep after what the wicked man did. His arms quickly snaked around the man’s leg, twisting the limb as hard as he could. Those glowing white eyes churned along with the rest of the man’s legs and torso, and there was his chance.

    ‘Gumphalon!’

    A surge of energy coursed through the speed caster, as if a bullet had spat and surged through his fingertips. Familiar white hues filled and intertwined with the dark bloodshot color framing his eyes—melting throughout the rest of his vision. For a moment all he saw was Inca, barely visible under the long midnight hair of the smiling man. A silly thought popped up for a moment, slowly scorching his mind as it invaded his mind, followed by the horrible realization that he’d just casted ice magic after the rogue had been subjected to burns.

    Yet no matter how much he screamed, the blast of ice and snow from his hands were louder and more painful than he’d ever comprehended. An array of frozen blooms erupted, painting everything a pure white as it stole away the calm air; replacing the very atmosphere that exists within the blood-stained walls. Isolated in an ice-box, he heard nothing but the cold air and the frozen rain outside slowly trickling down—breaking into a starry sky once it reunited with the ground beneath.

 œ

    Nature’s determination, forced across a single point as if the room had been a snowed globe. It was too much, his chattering teeth now the only indication that the frost and pain hadn’t been the hell their enemy had preached. He assured himself, pleading voices in his head telling him that the snow had a limit—that the vast unending white spreading across the room couldn’t possibly be limitless.

    The thought took his mind back to the rogue, frenzied eyes quickly searching for the slightest red hair between the thick blanket of snow. Though there was nothing to discern from the boundless blanket of snow—flickering lights above him quickly freezing over and covering the rest of the warehouse with darkness. He staggered forwards, nearly dropping himself on the thick pile of snow in front of him—no doubt Smiles was out cold after the impact.

    His mind begged for nothing but help, his feet frozen in place as the glow in his eyes remained their bright colors. Unable to move, he waited for the right moment—nearly frozen eyes fixated towards the lump of snow in front of him. Once he’d decided Smiles would stay unmoving, only then that the white hue in his eyes subsided, turning back into the pitch-black hue that matched the inky substance coating his fingertips. The only noise left to hear was the thumping beating inside his ribcage—frantic from the adrenaline and shock as his eyes and bloodied fingers tried desperately to ground his mind back to earth.

    The first thing that helped was the open end of the dim-lit warehouse, blue light shifting through the impenetrable open space outside that once showed a rainy sky—now frozen mid-air as if the beads of water had never been liquid. They remained still as stone, suspended by nothing as the blue sunlight refracted through the gleams of ice alike an elaborate stained glass. The lights slithered into blue shadows across the white, blood-stained floor—dancing against the jet-black liquid despite its stillness, forming the an almost metallic peacock color his eyes had never seen before; nearly convincing the wounded boy that he’d died by his own spell.

    Instinctively, his lacerated fingers reached for the fine colours refracted on the floor, yearning to hold the peculiar blue beads of light—he was a mere magpie, surrounded by the finest blue pearls he couldn’t seem to grasp. But his eyes were daggers as they were a curious child, and the panic hunted him like such once he looked at his own wounded digits. He couldn’t help but look at them, it was impossible not to look at such a thing carved into one’s own flesh.

    His long bangs shielded him, the disturbance in his own visage hidden under a black curtain as he twirls the black, nearly frozen liquid between his fingertips. The pain didn’t register as much, his mind urging him to focus any other matter as thick white vapor escaped his every breath. He thanked the frozen lights for the darkness, giving him what he needed to ignore the wounds on his hand—yet they were also criminal, giving him nothing but his hazy vision to look for a girl trapped in the snow he’d made.

    ‘Inca…’

    The real agony of the freezing temperatures finally caught up with his stunned system, though it was far too late to realize his hands had been deep-freeze from the drawback effect. The second thing to go was his nerves; the cold and numb sensation quickly filling in what was a momentary but torturous pain, weighing on his frozen hands until he thought he’d lost them for good. As much as he hated to admit it, he felt himself staggering towards the floor, the smell of snow quickly filling his white vision as he held on to the cold air for stability.

    He had no senses left but the smell—something that isn’t so keen when all that surrounded them were now ice and snow, and he could only pray to dear stars that the wicked man was either unconscious or simply stuck and buried beneath the ice. Eyes alert and frenzied, searching for the one thing that separated the other dead bodies between his friend—anything that struck out sending a warm blaze inside his ribcage. Feeling small once more, but not helpless—a revenant, he was driven by hope. He wandered for a moment, calling for the rogue haired girl—alike an ant lost from its colony, before accidentally tripping on her leg and finding her.

    ‘I-Inca please get up,’ He whimpered, his voice a cloud of mere dust compared to the cold unforgiving wind.

    He was begging now. ‘Inca please, you have to get up.’

    ‘Please.’

    His knees bent down with a hellish crackle, ice and frost sending charging bolts inside his skin; but his eyes were only set on the rogue. Her red hair buried in a lump of snow, a stark image of a fiery blaze in a clear white sky. The snow was already melting, merging into marble-like colors as the jet-black substance of the dead spell merged with the still fresh snow; showing that both his spell and Smiles’ had already dissipated.

    His hands, thankfully still intact—quickly dug through the soft lumps of snow. The cold feeling simply lost on his skin, he dug as if he’d never touched such a thing. After a few seconds he could finally see her face, her skin ghostly pale and tense, her lips already bluish. Though her eyes are closed she doesn't have the appearance of sleep, and Vincent couldn’t help but dig faster.

    ‘Come on…’

    The rogue haired girl was free down to her torso now, he quickly scrambled onto his feet, pulling her by the hands to free her legs. His eyes darted back to the lump of snow behind him, decreasing in size but still as a rock. Back to the unconscious girl, who’s skin seemed to grow paler compared to her damp and messy red hair.

    He mumbled a quick healing spell, the rim of his vision slowly turning a warm mixture of green and orange—glowing oh so weak and gleam under the dim-lighted room. A warm sensation pulsed from the cold and numb sensation in his veins, turning hot enough to boil water as it reached his fingertips. Slowly, he let his fingers touch the skin under her neck, releasing the warmth wiliest—hoping he’d still be alive after.

    It should be enough, though the drained feeling in him didn’t turn any better as his eyes turned back to their jet-black hue. His blood flowed endlessly from the contact, thick and sluggish, forming from the s***h scattered across his hands, letting out a nest of glistening black tendrils he was now indifferent to. He jostled the girl with his legs, not finding much strength left within his other limbs—it earned a low sigh, but a sign either way that he wasn’t alone. He hushed the panting girl, watching as the rosy color slowly bloomed back into her cheeks; they needed to do this quietly.

    The girl shuffled up, chattering teeth slowly stilled as the snow melted more. The faintest of white vapor escaped her chapped lips, wandering eyes looked at him as if he’d been a foreign object in front of her. She lifted herself up, though not able to stand just yet—he made a note to look at the ground once he realized the marbled mixture of snow and the dissipating spell had soaked into her clothes.

    Dark eyes flickered open, barely visible in the dim-lit room. She looked at him for a moment, hazy vision and heart barely beating—he’d hug her if it weren’t for her soaked clothes. But the rogue is not one to hesitate, and the jolt of the cold fabric against his warmer skin reminded him just why.

    ‘Hi,’ She greeted, her fragile voice bouncing alike cotton in the snow.

    ‘You’re alive,’ He whispered back.