Blackwater (Episode X)

Closed Loop (1/2)

Previously in Blackwater

To see other Blackwater Files, click here

SARI

The woman lowered her weapon. “You could call me Ricki,” she said, turning away from Sari and stepping toward Jack’s sleeping form. She moved her face so that the light caught her eye. “And I could call you Rosario, but let’s not pretend it matters.”

Sari nervously looked between Jack and Ricki. His chest was barely moving, asleep as though in death.

Bring the breaker, whispered the voice, bring Jack back to me. It was loud. Sari pressed her ear to her shoulder in an attempt to banish the strange extra-entity.

“What are you doing?” she asked Ricki. She could hear the tension in her voice. It was hard to iron out fear. The chamber beneath them was now totally submerged in black water. Sari could hear fluid bubbling up from the grate. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see it spreading on the hospital’s linoleum floors.

Ricki did not answer. Instead, she wrapped a tapered finger around the main wire—it ran from Jack’s life vest to the computer—and began to pull.

Sari grabbed her wrist.

Ricki looked at Sari’s hand, almost in surprise. Slowly, her eyes raised to Sari’s. “Ah,” she breathed. Ricki smiled. “Let’s make this interesting, then.”

Sari felt her cheeks tighten and lift, mirroring the expression.

As Ricki looked at her, Sari could see herself: a head shorter with a greater center of gravity, perhaps stronger. She’d better be quick to avoid Ricki’s longer reach.

But it doesn’t need to come to blows.

Sari heard the thought and reacted. In a flash, Ricki wrenched away from Sari’s grip, her firearm raised.

Sari landed a solid kick to the raygun just as it fired. It flew across the room. Sari raised her own gun and pulled the trigger. Ricki froze.

Click.

Sari expected Ricki to go for her weapon. She did not. Instead, eyes blazing, Ricki pulled a shiv from her boot and lunged. Sari dropped her useless dream-gun and grabbed the nearest thing: a mayo tray. She swung it hard. The stainless steel connected with the crown of Ricki’s skull with a resounding clang.

It stunned Ricki. Less, however, than Sari hoped. She could see in her mind, how the chaos was nothing more than white noise.

There was a flash.

Her cheek stung.

Water rose.

The hospital room was shifting beneath their feet. Jack remained in his bed, but the lights were a red neon. She could smell liquor and cigarettes. A poster nearby showed a red-eyed cartoon rabbit juggling lemons.

CONTROL: REALITY IS LEMONS AND BLACKWATER IS MY LEMONADE.

Everything warped and expanded. The hospital room was no longer a hospital room. Fish swam in wall-mounted tanks. Shouts in Cantonese echoed across the checkered restaurant floor.

Once more they flew at each other. The Undertow’s influence furthered and physics altered. They bounded, dodged, and rolled as though they were on film. Sari felt herself flatten, her body folded into 2D. Action sequences followed in a series of short, rapid bursts. Eyes, fists, teeth, blood that burst forth like blooming roses. The walls were full of EDM music.

Sari crashed against a table. Uncles shouted in dismay as their mahjong pieces flew.

Somehow, Sari was unhurt. She snatched up an abandoned scalpel, stood, and shook herself off.

All the while, Ricki flowed through the pages effortlessly. Sari resisted. With a grunt, Sari managed to peel her arm free of pixelation. She fought against the words that threatened to tattoo her being to paper.

Whose mind was this? What was this?

There was a momentary pause as both women caught their respective breaths. Sari screwed her eyes shut. Her perspective shifted. She could see herself again, face sliced from hairline to jaw. The bleeding was delayed, but now it streamed down her neck.

The little soldier is fast and low. She shouldn't have disarmed you so quickly. Your raygun is out of reach and you try to will it into your hand while you crosshatch her face with your blade. Concentrating on your pistol: F for Fresh Blood, it drips down her cheek, L for El Tropo, you feel something turning—a change is coming, O for your omniscient narrator, V for the Horror Vacui, V for Vagus, because you're going to hit a nerve, D for Duality, she is the other, 4 is Fortune promised, and 8 is for behind the 8 ball, an unfortunate and unfamiliar position.

You continue to slash and grab her wrist with your free hand, twisting her arm, she drops the scalpel and you kick out with your long leg into her belt, flipping her over your head, trying to throw her closer to your gold accomplice.

Sari hit the linoleum floor with a crack.

The scalpel! Where did it go?

Water and blood flooded her eyes, but she could make out the glint of the edge of Ricki’s blade. Ricki grunted and pressed down. Sari pushed away and managed to trap Ricki’s arm and neck in a tightening vice. The salt of her sweat stained her tongue. All Sari could do was will her body not to give in to exhaustion. The knife slipped from Ricki’s fingers.

A mist of rage and the sound of knuckles on skin. The strength behind the strike was too much for Sari to even feel. Stars exploded in her eyes.

Now, Ricki was on her feet again. Sari’s body drew itself up on its own accord. A marionette on strings, she raised her fists. Her chest heaved.

Get in the pocket, get in the pocket, get in the pocket…

Sari knew she’d sacrifice a tooth to get beyond Ricki’s wingspan. All she had to do was stay on her feet long enough to get there—

Wham!

Sari was on her back, wheezing.

Isaac stood in the corner. His expression was drawn and pale. “Why are you fighting?” he questioned. “Just let her take him.”

It was raining and there was a pulse coming from somewhere. The tide was drawing her in; Sari could feel its heartbeat.

Ricki had a knife again. Sari found the scalpel. It was in her hand. The chaos was not where she lived, but it was where Ricki made her home. It faded into silence; into a sort of blindness. In her fight for control, Sari’s eyes remained open.

Dispatch and destroy Ricki. This fight needs to end now. But you've underestimated this tiger. She is fighting like a woman possessed. You crack her with elbows and knees then roll for the shank and in one movement, backward somersault into a Paranza Corta¹ figure, ready to thrust and finish this distraction.

One fist on the sleeve, pulling her armed hand away.

Both women switched hands. The free arm raised toward the collar.

Sari felt Ricki’s knife enter the junction between shoulder and neck. Sari watched as the tip of the scalpel sank into Ricki’s jugular.

It's finished, Ricki.

You're done.

She's done.

You gurgle like a brook and collapse in the rising pool. You can flow free now. One blood, one love. You picture the face of your lover, then the arms of your father, and hear the voice of your god.

One last time, you try and summon the last drops of power.

F is for Forever—

—But you don't make it any further. The end of the road sinks into the blackwater and your body descends sending bubbles to the surface. A last gasp. A cycle complete.

Sari watched the life leave Ricki’s eyes. Ricki made a strange noise. Then, she collapsed face-down near the edge of the grate.

Sari’s hands were cold, the edges of her vision darkening. Her hand closed on the handle of Ricki’s dagger. She shouldn’t pull it out. Not yet.

Frowning, Sari observed the destruction. The hospital room was quiet. The restaurant, the tables, the mahjong players; they were all gone.

The observation glass was smashed in a perfect circle.

With trembling fingers, Sari touched the back of her head. When she pulled it away, she saw red.

But did it even matter? Looking down, Sari could see more of the damage. Her breath caught her throat. So much blood.

“I’m not dying,” she whispered to herself. “I’ve got full control.”

Yes, and you will live, said that voice. Just bring him to me before he wakes.

Urged by an unseen force, she took one step forward, then another. She couldn’t stop. Sari looked down with horror as her hands began to pull out Jack’s plugs. He was twitching, slowly awakening.

Hurry! Hurry! the voice shouted. The breaker is escaping!

“Leave me alone,” she whispered.

The only way to escape, the only way Sari could see, was to give in to the dull ebb of life.

Sari pulled herself away. With the back of her hand, she wiped liquid from her eyes—blood, black water, sweat; she didn’t know. Her boots slipped. Something rattled in her lungs.

Her limbs wouldn’t obey. They hung uselessly. She allowed herself to sink to the floor with her back against the bed.

The water covered her knees now; the Undertow on the surface. There was an alarm going off somewhere. Sari was vaguely aware of shadows racing past the room’s window.

“Jack,” she croaked, “You’ve gotta wake up.” Using her head, she nudged his hand. “Wake up,” she repeated.

He didn’t move.

Her teeth chattered and the room spun. “C’mon, Jack. I know I owe you, but don’t make this harder on me.”

The ghost in the corner neared.

She blinked blearily at Isaac. “Are you here to save me?”

Not this time.

---

JACK

Jack was confused. One moment he was crawling up a chimney flu and the next… Well, the next moment he was here.

Tick, tick, tick, tick. A clock acknowledged the rapid passing of time. Hearing it filled Jack with anxiety. He was late, he was late, late, late.

For what, though?

The lake’s black pebble beach. There were faces in the stones, twisted and blended like a crowd in a dream. Jack felt himself shrinking, his mind simplifying. He was young once again.

Benji stood before him, at eye level, water lapping at his sneakers. His expression was blank and his face a frightening shade of blue.

Jack covered his eyes. “Go away!”

A chill settled over his bones. He turned, hands falling from his face as he prepared to escape. Before him was the endless dark of the Drowned Orchard. The trees… they weren’t the same. Yellow lights glowed from redwood trunks.

Jack hesitated.

He knew if he ran, he’d be going deeper into the Undertow. That’s what the Riptide wanted. The whole world flexed like the wet gullet of some great and awful creature.

“Isn’t that why you came?” asked Benji, voice echoing along the skyscrapers and redwoods. “This is a place for people like you. You think you’re any different than the patients here? The dark calls all those who need its shade.”

Mud sucked at his boots, dragged him deeper. Jack crouched and covered his head with his arms. “Go away! Go away!”

A high-pitched ringing pierced his ears.

Somewhere in the house, a phone was ringing off the hook. No one answered it. Jack was sitting on the edge of his bed. His feet dangled over the edge, he swung his sneakered foot back and forth.

Dad’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Jack,” he said. “It’s not your fault.”

“But you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad. I’m sad for Benjamin.”

His sneakers were hard to see; blurring. “You wish it was me instead.” A fat tear plopped onto his corduroy pants. “You hate me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You hate me,” young Jack repeated. “I hate me too.”

Dad scooped him up and squeezed him tight.

No matter how hard or often Dad hugged him, Jack couldn’t really ever shake the suffocation of everything else. He was sad. Maybe that was just the state of everyone. Maybe it had nothing to do with Benjamin at all.

Jack never really planned to do anything about it; the depression never went that far. Still, Jack would often find himself thinking about how the world would just continue to turn without him in it.

That’s what this job was about, Jack supposed.

Then, his father veered from the memory’s script. “There’s someone who needs you, Jack. You’ve got to wake up.”

Jack pulled away. He searched his father’s eyes. “Who are you?” he asked.

Dad smiled and ruffled Jack’s hair. “You know who I am.” There was a pause and Dad’s expression sobered. “Now, it’s time for you to wake up, buddy. You’re nearly home.”

“But I’m tired. I can’t run anymore.”

“I’ll make it easy for you, Jack. Don’t run.”

Fear not! It was a little too long for one episode, but I didn’t want to sacrifice what I’d written. Part B of this episode will be out this Friday.

A big, fat thank you to

Jon T

for taking the time to write this piece with me. It was a lot of fun brainstorming. He’s a brilliant, creative mind so if you have’t read his work, I highly recommend it!

Thank you so much for reading ♥️

---

^{1 Paranza corta, the Sicilian art of knife fighting, is still an underground secret-ninja type of thing. There are no gradings or tournaments. You have to root around to find someone willing to teach you. Since it was the art of the assassin, this is hardly surprising. There were versions of this art practised all over Italy, but the Sicilians were the masters, who have kept it alive to this day. This is mainly because it was widely used for fighting duels in Sicily.}