Terror Cell

With a groan, Tibdid began to remove the cerebral oscillator. “Tibdid….. Tibdid nooo…. Tibdid come ba…” The nearly androgynous voices called after him like despairing phantoms as he fully extracted himself from the vasolonic pleasure vat. Leaving the vast electrolysis orgy behind he walked over to the sterilization exit booth. Tibdid sighed as the robotics hands removed the orifice stimulators along with the trans-tracheal lung catheter from his neck then sprayed him down with a warm antimicrobial liquid and wiped any remaining vasolonic gel from his body. Tibdid had grown tired of the pleasure vat, the dopamine fatigue had finally hit him. He was ready for something new, something different, so he made his way barefoot along the artificial sand, admiring the desert sunset through the acrylic dome that encapsulated him his whole life.

Approaching the vertically large octagonal stainless steel structure Tidbid’s heart skipped a beat, it had been a while since he indulged. At the fore of the building, Tibdid could no longer see the top of it.

“The Terror Cell. You know the price.” the cold metallic voice boomed authoritatively and a small seamless compartment opened in the steel structure. Tibdid reached in, his hand trembling as he removed the small but sharp knife.

“You know the price.” the metallic voice said again as Tibdid hesitated.

Shaking Tibdid held the knife at the top of his epidermal pocket on the right side of his chest. He took a deep breath and began to cut open the stitches at the top of the skin pocket.

“NO!” the voice commanded.

Tidbid stopped confused, looking at the lifeless steel in front of him with a bewildered expression, his own distorted reflection staring back at him.

“Pick a different side of the pocket.” the voice ordered almost snidely.

Tibdid nodded, tears already trickling down his moist hairless face. He took the knife and began to cut through the left side of the small epidermal pocket. Cutting through the fresh unstitched flesh he yelped and whimpered as the blood ran down onto his stomach.

Grimacing he worked his left index finger into the skin pocket and pulled out the thin three-inch-long cylindrical piece of metal. Trembling he placed the metal along with the knife into the small compartment and wiped off his tear-covered face.

“THE PRICE HAS BEEN PAID!” The voice boomed so loud it hurt Tibdid’s ears.

The small compartment disappeared and a large entryway appeared in its place.

Tibdid entered the Terror Cell still bleeding from the chest. The entryway disappeared behind him, taking back on the appearance of a solid steel wall. In the center of the room it stood, perhaps fifteen feet in, the tall tri-hexagonal structure made Tibdid’s heart skip a beat. The Terror Accumulator- it had been too long. Tibdid took no more than two steps along the cold steel floor when suddenly small slots opened on each wall of the octagonal building and aluminum baseball bats shot out of them, bludgeoning him upon impact. Tibdid screamed in agony at first, falling to his knees, his journey to the Terror Accumulator at the center of the room reduced to the speed of a slow painful crawl. He whimpered now, only five feet from the Accumulator, small spikes appeared on the ground, slashing his hands and knees with small incisions as he crawled. Finally, he set one hand on the Terror Accumulator and the metal baseball bats ceased. He climbed to his feet gripping the hexagonal structure, wailing as the spikes made one final incision into his feet.

He’s slid his hands and feet into the metallic braces his body stretched out into the shape of a star. A small drone descended from the vastness above. With a mini-flamethrower it sprayed Tibdid’s wounds, painfully cauterizing them. Next, it placed a spiked metallic crown on Tibdid’s head and he entered the terror simulation.

He looked around himself in agony, a seething crowd cursing him, spitting at him, the nails in his hands and feet, the bloodied crown upon his head- he was Christ upon the cross. A vintage terror. The simulator flashed through all different vintage terrors, the whipped slave, the burned witch, the man hung in the town square, and one of Tibdid's least favorite- the man upon the rack during the Inquisition. He felt his body being pulled apart slowly limb from limb, his screams so shrill it scared him, fearing he may have permanently damaged his vocal cords. Then it all stopped and for a second Tidbid felt relieved seeing the metallic room again, until he heard the crank of the hexagonal rotator. It was time for the final terror sequence to begin, he felt the electricity start to flow through his veins and through the crown on his head. Screaming as he rotated at high speed. Then everything turned white and he was by himself, for an undeterminable amount of time. The room, or the white abyss was a sort of anechoic chamber where it was so quiet it became disorienting. Tibdid started to beg to be let out, or tried to but no words could escape his mouth. Strange characters appeared, like mimes but with big spinning mirrors for eyes. They prodded him with cattle prods, they seemed to be laughing- their mouths endless black voids. Everything still silent, the hexagonal structure rotating him slowly now at varying speeds and changing direction causing Tidbid to suffer through nauseating vertigo, trying to close his eyes to avoid the mimes, to avoid the mirrors in their eyes and the twisted reflection of his own pain riddled face. But he couldn't look away, his eyes were stuck open, painfully so, bulging. And at the absolute moment of agony and hopelessness, at the very moment Tibdid’s sense of self fully disappeared when he had nothing left to grip onto not even pain, he found himself back in the metallic room, the crown being lifted off his head. Wounds that he could no longer feel cauterized with the mini-flamethrower. And then he walked out of the entryway which had once again appeared. The tiny compartment appeared once again on the outside of the building, he removed the metal cylinder and placed it into his epidermal skin pocket which he then stitched back up.

“The Terror Cell” the bombastic voice declared, “Until next time!”

Tibdid smiled contently as he walked back to the pleasure vat a new man. Before diving back into the vat he watched the sunrise for a moment, twelve hours of terror was all he needed after all. One day Tibdid hoped they would find a way to combine the two- he always dreamed of a terror pleasure vat, of a terror orgy. But for now, he would have to settle for them separately.

And with his cerebral oscillator, trans-tracheal lung catheter, and orifice stimulators all firmly in place Tibdid dove into the vasolonic pleasure vat with a smile. His friends greeted him “Yay he’s back.” “Yay Tibdid.” “Tibdid we missed you!” the phantoms sang excitedly.