Planescape Torment REBORN - PART 1: The Mortuary

You haven't a clue what you were in before you woke up and where you are waking up in...

Flashes of senses course through your nervous system, sending signals for you to pick up as they yank you back to the bone-chilling slab of stone you are resting on. These signals are not normal, you’ve never been so cold that the receptors in your brain started making death threats to bring you back from what-ever-substance it was that you were in. And your head throbs as if it's being stabbed by thousands of needles.

An annoying voice slaps you from your side. you haven't yet grunted your pain away so even though there is barely any anger to be traced anywhere within the cavity of your skull, you were ready to squeeze whose-ever lungs it was that these yapping noises were coming from. As you turn to your side, you see a skull, no lungs, nothing from the neck down even, floating, and yet yapping as if it's been years since the last time he has someone to talk to.

                "Hey, chief. You okay? You playing corpse or you putting the blinds on the Dusties? i thought you were a deader for sure." - said the floating skull.                      

                "Wh...? Who are you?" - you didn't need to say anything and the winkles on your forehead from the expression that you make would've already conveyed enough confusion.

                "Uh... who am I? How about you start? Who're u?" the skull seems to be offended by the winkles.

                "I... don't know. I can't remember." suddenly you realized, nothing about this place seems familiar. logical even. there's not a single thing about your surroundings that can help track you back to whatever happened before you woke up just a moment ago. even the memories of your birth got blocked by some kind of coping mechanism against some evil force and stirring it up would result in chaotic consequences that might tip the balance of the Plane.

                "You cant remember your name? heh. well, next time you spend a night in this berg, go easy on the bub. name's Morte. I'm trapped in here too." the skull notices the serious look on your face. he knows the yapping will stop you from trying to discover these sacred secrets beyond your sanity, which can only end miserably. in most case, such psychotic episodes would mean bone-breaking tantrums, which worry Morte a bit, but he sees nothing personal in your eyes.

                "trapped?" the yapping works.

                "yeah since you haven't had time to get your legs yet, here's the chant: i've tried all the doors, and this room is locked tighter than a chastity belt." Morte tries to sound helpful even though he knows he cant bite the metal doors to shreds.

                "we're locked in... where? what is this place?" not taking any chances, you think to urself that it's best to start getting to know more about what is going on, since you’ve been too conscient so far for this whole thing to be just another exciting adventure of a dream.

                "It's called the 'mortuary'... it's a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider." and it disgusts Morte.

                "The Mortuary? So... am i dead?" you try to sound concerned thinking about your own demise even though something about the thought excites you in your core.

                "not from where i'm standing. you got scars a-plenty, though... looks like some berk painted you with a knife."

                "scars? how bad are they?" the scars explain the constant waves of stabbing needles and the amplifying spine-chill that you’ve either been casually shrugging off or grew numb to. you frown at the mention of these sensations.

                "well... the carvings on your chest aren't too bad... but the ones on your back..."  Morte pauses as he was circling you like a satellite, "looks like you got a whole tattoo gallery on your back, chief. spells out something..."

                "tattoos? what do they say?" the word 'tattoos' piques your interest, it definitely has something to do with your passion. or the fact that you know tattoos convey clear messages that might come in handy about the identity of the being you are struggling to get a hold of that is urself. actually, it's because of both. or even more than you'd like to give it credit for.

                "heh! look s like you come with directions..." Morte clears his throat. " let's see... it starts w..."

                "'I know you feel like you’ve been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to center urself. among your possessions is a journal that'll shed some light on the dark of the matter. Pharod can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he's not in the dead-book already.'"

                "Pharod...?"

                "Wait, there's more..." Morte pauses.

                'Don't lose the journal or we'll be up the Styx again. and whatever you do, do not tell anyone who you are or what happened to u, or they'll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. do what i tell u: read the journal, then find Pharod."

                "that's a damn novel, no wonder it f*****g hurts back there. what about the journal?" you scan the room knowing you’ve scanned it hard enough, there's only a few drawers you haven't look thru yet and the soulless zombies limping around the room don't seem to carry anything on them. "have you seen any journal lying around, Morte?"

                "no... you were stripped to the skins when you arrived here. 'sides, looks like you got enough of a journal penned on your body already."

                "what about this Pharod guy?"

                "nobody i know... but then again. i don't know many ppl. maybe... get out of here 1st?"   

                "and how do we do that?"

                "well, all the doors are locked, so we'll need the key. chances are, one of the walking corpses in this room has it."

                "they seem soulless," or else Morte would've had some company, "they're dead, aren't they?"

                "yeah, the mortuary keepers use dead bodies as cheap labor. the corpses are dumb as stones, but they're harmless, and wont attack you unless you strike 1st." Morte pauses, then eyes around at the bloody shelfs and cabinets "i'll find somthing to defend myself with if i were u."

                U want to ask Morte why hasn't he tried to find the key yet, but it's obvious he doesn't want to be crushed into tiny pieces. These zombies might be as slow as molasses, but they surely pack a punch.

 

                Since your legs are now feeling less static, you hop off the stone slab, try to get some more blood to the tips of your toes and head towards the cabinets. as you go thru all the drawers, you found a scalpel and some dirty bandages. the scalpel would come in handy in sticky situation and holding it reminds you of the dexterous man that you r.

                "u look dangerous with that thing in your hand, chief." Morte seems impressed with your capability to make the blade dance with the arms that he lacks, "i'm right behind you with all the good advice whenever you need, which are hard to come by these days if you ask me."

                "u can, like, help me with your bites too, you know."

                "me? i'm a romantic, not a soldier. i'd just get in the way, trust me" Morte continues his yapping. he knows that you and him are a team now and you are his only hope to get out of this damped place. there's this mutual thing between you and Morte now and he would bite if you ask him to.      

               

                With the scalpel in hand, you turn your head facing the 3 walking corpses in the room. something tells you that you are gonna have to pry open lot of rotten flesh as you go thru the mortuary and it makes you less hesitant navigating thru the system of transporting rails webbing the whole place. your stone slab and many more similar contraptions with dried blood, rotten remains and corpses in the middle of being turned inside out on them can be moved around using the railings. One of the zombies is standing  next to a slab with a fresh corpse on it, some sort of device at the head of the table is peeling the forehead skin off of the corpse giving direct access to the its skull, this zombie seems like the slowest out of the 3. you are inspecting it 1st.

                This corpse's head lolls back and forth on its shoulders... judging from the angle of the neck, it looks like this man may have been hanged. The number "825" has been painted on the side of his head. No signs of it carrying any keys so you turn your attention to the next one.

                As you approach the second corpse, it turns to you and stares blankly. the number "782" is carved into his forehead, and his lips have been stitched close. the faint smell of formaldehyde emanates from the body reminds you of your nose and how dampened all the rotting flesh has been reeking the entire volume of air in this confine. as you examine the body further, you notice a key being squeezed tightly in its left fist, its thumb and forefinger locked around the key in a death grip.it looks like you'll need to hack the corpse's hand off to free the key.

                "i need that key, corpse... looks like you are not long for this world."

                you start slicing carefully at the thing's shoulder, multiple small incisions at the start of the shoulder blade where the arm connected to the body should let you access the shoulder joint, and with all the muscles out of the way you should be able to snap the arm off with less force. the rigor mortis makes it even more easy as you watch the skin peels off opening up the first few layers of muscles. fascinated like a lead surgeon working on his 1st case, you forgot that the zombie doesn't just lie around anaesthetized to be dissected, so the swing of the arm that was being sliced caught you off guard and almost knock you off balance. if you were standing just a bit further, the rusty finger nails of the corpse would've caused some serious infection.

                "don't you dare touch me", and you swear to yourself to not let the mindless creature or any of its peers get a sense of your skin anymore from there on, which seems rather easy considering how dull these walking corpses are.

                you dodge the 3rd blow, then the forth, and kick the side of the zombie's knee mid 5th swing. it collapses, face down. a flash of a strong blow to the neck of the thing from behind as it lies on the floor makes a loud crack. considering how these things might be operated by magic, lethal blows shouldn't knock it out cold, but it works. and as you wait for a few more seconds to make sure the zombie is finally immobilized, you realized you know how to fight. since the 1st thing you wake up to this place is having to kick some zombie's asses, these 2 fists of your should come in handy later, you think to urself as you hold your hands up. there are some rotten bits on the right knuckle.

                now that the zombie is nothing but a pile of meat, you stomp on its fist and pry out the key. you pick the key up, walk to the door and open it.

                *click*

                "there you go."

                for a second, you forgot Morte was there. he seems impressed and it surely quiet him down a fair bit. he trusts you a lot more now.

                before opening the door the next room, you look back at the last zombie. maybe you should inspect it too. and you did. 

                This shambling corpse looks like it has been dead for several years. the skin along its forehead has peeled back, revealing its chalk-white skull. someone has chiseled the number "569" onto the exposed bone.

                "it was pleasure meeting you."

                you turn away from the corpse, head back to the now unlocked door and open it. more mindless corpses are in sight.