Night 43: Intercom, Late Night
I.R.I.S.' mechanical voice faded in again among the incoherent chorus of moans. It was counting up, slowly and deliberately.
95...
96...
NoW aT 97... cOmPLEtiON...
98...
99...
100%
CoMPleTe... cOMplETE... PrOGRam... coMPLeTe...
For a single second, the intercom went completely silent. Then, an all-too familiar voice began broadcasting at high volume, distorted as if being played from a recording.
YoU... bASTarD...
In the background, a faraway screaming could be heard. That voice, too, could be recognized.
YOu... fORgOT onE thING... mARTin...
Suddenly, the distortion stopped and the voice came out completely clear and level.
"You forgot that I never give up."
The intercom went silent again.
Then, the discord of yelling and moaning came back, this time with even more volume than before. There was something profoundly different, about it, though - something that set most of the patients on edge regardless of whether or not they could discern the change or if they had seen the apparitions from earlier.
Those that had seen the haunting figures, however, had another experience entirely. Slowly, from the confusing mesh of voices on the intercom, one became louder and louder as the seconds and minutes passed by, its words clearer, its voice more recognizable amongst the rest. A patient hearing this voice might first think it was created from their imagination - simply an echo of a loved one brought on by seeing their figure for that one split second, but it would soon become apparent that something more was going on. One of these patients might experience a strange discomfort in their chest, or in their abdomen, or in their head; they might find themselves begin to bruise around an area where they hadn't been hit, or start bleeding from a cut that had appeared spontaneously under their clothes.
As the voice became more and more distinct, they might start feeling their flesh tear. They might start coughing up blood. They might feel their insides being eaten away by disease; they might feel their bones slowly twist out of their sockets and break. They might lose control of higher mental functions as a nonexistent bullet dug deeper and deeper into their brain; they might fall to the floor and gasp for breath under the weight of water that was building in their lungs.
They might realize, in their agony, that they were already well-acquainted with this torture, though from an outsider's perspective. As they cried out, they might see the faint and fleeting shape of a familiar weapon in their wounds; they might see a vision from the past that fit their own matching memory.
And, when the voice that only they could hear became loud enough, when the injuries became dire enough, when the patient went quiet and the light left their eyes, they might know in an entirely personal way what it had been like for that loved one to die.
95...
96...
NoW aT 97... cOmPLEtiON...
98...
99...
100%
CoMPleTe... cOMplETE... PrOGRam... coMPLeTe...
For a single second, the intercom went completely silent. Then, an all-too familiar voice began broadcasting at high volume, distorted as if being played from a recording.
YoU... bASTarD...
In the background, a faraway screaming could be heard. That voice, too, could be recognized.
YOu... fORgOT onE thING... mARTin...
Suddenly, the distortion stopped and the voice came out completely clear and level.
"You forgot that I never give up."
The intercom went silent again.
Then, the discord of yelling and moaning came back, this time with even more volume than before. There was something profoundly different, about it, though - something that set most of the patients on edge regardless of whether or not they could discern the change or if they had seen the apparitions from earlier.
Those that had seen the haunting figures, however, had another experience entirely. Slowly, from the confusing mesh of voices on the intercom, one became louder and louder as the seconds and minutes passed by, its words clearer, its voice more recognizable amongst the rest. A patient hearing this voice might first think it was created from their imagination - simply an echo of a loved one brought on by seeing their figure for that one split second, but it would soon become apparent that something more was going on. One of these patients might experience a strange discomfort in their chest, or in their abdomen, or in their head; they might find themselves begin to bruise around an area where they hadn't been hit, or start bleeding from a cut that had appeared spontaneously under their clothes.
As the voice became more and more distinct, they might start feeling their flesh tear. They might start coughing up blood. They might feel their insides being eaten away by disease; they might feel their bones slowly twist out of their sockets and break. They might lose control of higher mental functions as a nonexistent bullet dug deeper and deeper into their brain; they might fall to the floor and gasp for breath under the weight of water that was building in their lungs.
They might realize, in their agony, that they were already well-acquainted with this torture, though from an outsider's perspective. As they cried out, they might see the faint and fleeting shape of a familiar weapon in their wounds; they might see a vision from the past that fit their own matching memory.
And, when the voice that only they could hear became loud enough, when the injuries became dire enough, when the patient went quiet and the light left their eyes, they might know in an entirely personal way what it had been like for that loved one to die.