Soul Stitcher

"You're lost. And where your body is, your mind will follow. Perhaps it's already there." - Alice: Madness Returns

Snow mingles with blood on the factory grounds, padding the earth and enforcing the silence of every footstep. In defiance, each hiss of breath seems to carry twice the volume, and the echo of childish laughter ricochets between the husks of abandoned machinery.

Rust and metal on every side, and beneath dragging feet, a slurry produced by water and dust. Clinging to the boots and slowing progress, making every distance seem twice as long. The chain link fences have fallen away, and if the machines were running, nothing would stand between the visitor and death.

That thought seems to intrude on the conscious mind and open eyes, drawing their focus to the first hint of alien movement. To the left of that makeshift courtyard, a series of pistons have begun lurching amidst red light, casting neither luminescence nor shadow beyond their borders as they strike the ground in sequence.

As if in answer to their heartbeat reverberations, the factory is groaning to life. The scream of displaced metal is briefly dominant, stealing breath and vibrating bones with its intensity. The sanctity of the night is destroyed, and steps are taken with greater speed as another glimpse of motion catches the eye.

A sense of fearful responsibility falls heavy at the sight. The form of a child on hands and knees, reaching for something that has become trapped beneath the pistons. Their arm far too close, straining less than a centimetre from the pulverizing force of the machinery.

Three desperate strides are taken, and lips are parted to deliver a warning. The next blink of the eyes, however, erases the daring child from sight. The rhythm of the pistons continues unabated, and from the open doorway at the courtyard's far end, a shadow beckons amidst the spill of scarlet light.

With the first step across its threshold, that mess of mud and blood falls away from heavy boots. The air defies the winter chill that it should have been admitting, crowding hot and oppressive on every side as progress is made toward the corridor's first corner.

Around that bend, the factory's disarray becomes all the more apparent. The chain links that should have guarded against running machinery have been peeled away again, casting their own spiderweb shadows against the floor. In their absence, one could reach out to touch the constant grinding of gears and sharpened points, churning like the guts of some great beast within that inset portion of the wall.

Beneath the whirling mess, another child is far too callous about putting themself in danger. Splayed on their belly, wriggling a hair's breadth beneath the danger. The sight is enough to freeze body and mind, far too dangerous to intervene, too dangerous to refrain. If the child is startled or incorrectly moved, hair or clothing could catch on those spinning blades. But if they continue to crawl, they'll be out of sight and reach within moments, and what greater danger lies beyond?

Once again, a mere blink of the eyes is enough to remove the decision. The child's bare, squirming feet are gone, and for the second time, laughter beckons from a corner ahead. At that point, there is so little choice but to continue. They have to be found before they risk themself again �" never does it occur to the racing mind that a disappearing child can likely take care of themself.

Steps are quickened to a jog, hands pressed against the corridor's corners in order to speed passage. Never does it fork, never are there doors that would betray other routes to be taken. It is a gullet, hotter and darker with every turn. The steady increase in temperature is only noticed, however, when it falls away between one moment and the next.

The chill that occupied the outdoors has returned, though there is no snow to be seen. Ahead, the corridor opens into a larger room, its floor woven of metallic mesh to reveal the fans that cycle below. Where the corridor burned red, its light is pure, frigid white, exclusive to a diagonal line across the centre of the room. On the opposite side, another door, promising a swift return to the heat of the hall.

Steps are taken with greater care, a hand trailing against the wall until the doorway is reached and nothing is left to be touched. Another step is taken into the chill and silence of the room, and in its wake, control abandons the body.

The mind hovers between thoughts, like an insect encased in amber, while the body is turned toward the staircase that occupies the room's left side. A dozen steps of rusted metal, a sort of loft or walkway above, its rails straining against the blackened twine that has been lashed around them at regular points. The eyes are forced to follow those taut, quivering lines to their source, where they disappear beneath folded skin and what remains of a ruined leather coat.

Supporting or restraining a man too old for life to cling to his protruding frame, yet he is in motion. Eyes without colour and feeling rest heavy upon the one whose body has been commandeered, and a hand is raised by a matter of centimetres to beckon for an approach.

Even if the mind could stir itself long enough to give orders, the body would not obey. It is shuffling toward the first of those stairs, raising a foot to begin the ascent. With each step taken, the movements become more natural, and the mind retreats further from what is happening. Watching from some back corner of itself, lulled into perfect tranquillity as the walkway is reached.

The aged man is slow to reach out, yet utterly deliberate. Hands come to rest on the body's shoulders, and in answer to their motion, two points of utter cold lance through the body's centre. Pain immeasurable, but only for a moment. The body is empty, and the mind is held by an unseen tether, inexorably drawn to the crisscross of wires and the stranger's frigid breath.

It is conveyed with such care, set with the greatest deliberation into its new body, a repurposed corpse that stands propped against the closest wall. One where flesh is bound over metal instead of bone, and only the thoroughness of its preservation has prevented it from rotting away.

The mind sinks to rest in its new frame, and slowly, its new eyes slide open to behold the face of the soul stitcher.