Feed the Machine.

“You can never understand my reasons.”

Those were the only words I could extract from Ashley. In a way, she was right. To have her list off what molded her into the person over the course of a lifetime was not feasible. So, she took the easy way out. She gave the most comfortable answer she could. But curiosity and determination are powerful traits. I wanted an answer. I wanted to know why.

The hardest part was pushing myself to my feet. To even make it to the place that Ashley oversaw her world from was a feat in of itself. Bruised ribs. Aching muscles. Nothing was sacred to Ashley. And that was the way she liked it. Total control. Ever since her first kill that started her on this path of darkness. A fact I knew. Because this confrontation was the culmination of years of laborious searching. And I needed closure.

“I don’t give a fuck about your reasons, Ashley. Because I already know them. Power. That’s what you’ve always craved. Every fiber of your being focused on attaining it. I’m sure you remember Brandee Richardson,” I said.

“A pretty face, that one. Not something I could forget. Yes, I killed her. I’ve never denied that. You think you’re the first one here, Detective? The first to make the ascent to where the heart of the machine lives? No. You aren’t. And I can guarantee you will not be the last,” Ashley said in a low voice.

More important than hearing her words was the fact I gained her attention. Sure, she was five-foot squat, but her presence alone was more intimidating than a strongman competitor in the vein of a Mark Henry or an Eddie Hall. I could sense why so many people threw themselves with willing fervor down before her. But so rare were her forays from the towering structure she referred to as ‘The Machine,’ many never knew her face. It was the perfect safeguard against assassination. But I was no assassin. Not that Ashley could tell, as I showed no fear toward her words.

“People disappear all the time. This ‘Perfect World’ of yours ensures that those people down there never live past forty. You know, the people who worship you as a false God? The people who speak your praise as though they believe your claim to be the Second Coming? You feed them blatant lies and expect no one to confront you at some point?” I said.

I dragged my left foot behind me. I was in no condition to fight, but the best thing I could do was prove to Ashley that fear was no longer her greatest weapon. I wanted to look her in the eyes before she killed me. She seemed to find the idea amusing. And in a sick, demented way, she was a beautiful woman when she gave a genuine look of admiration. A relic of what she once was.

“Lies? That’s what you call them. To those that listen, they are a mandate from heaven. A way to attain divinity, even if none of them are pious enough to do so! And then, then there is you. An outlier. A fighter, a survivor, a champion! Cute titles. Nothing more. As for myself, I know no names save mine. Ashley Hudson. Simple enough to not spark anguish in the minds of my enemies. All by design, you understand. Everything by design. The motto of my precursors. And look what happened to them,” Ashley smirked.

She turned her head to the left and I followed her gaze as I continued to inch toward her. And there above an ornate, gold-plated mantelpiece, were four kite-shield-shaped plaques. Not gruesome by themselves, but seeing what Ashley used them to display horrified me. And I promised I would spare no detail, however foul or obscene it might be.

Because, attached to those four plaques were four names. Salvatore. Heather. Lacey. Elisabetta. And above each name was a skull. But not your typical skull. A skull in the midst of a long and slow rot. Hair and flesh and viscera still clung to the bone. Each of them displayed all the hallmark signs of torment and torture. A brutal death, even by Ashley’s standards. I heard stories circulate that these were Ashley’s most influential victims. Integral in helping her embrace her inner demon. And for that, they died a horrible death. Embalmed in the same manner as the mummies of Ancient Egypt. Though, there was a key difference. These mummified heads were created while the victim still lived.

“You have no remorse,” I muttered.

“And that, my detective friend, is why I am a good villain to people such as yourself. But the world isn’t so black-and-white. There are no heroes and there are no villains. Only predator and prey. And the prey in my world serves one purpose. Do you know what that is?” Ashley asked.

“No,” I said.

Ashley cupped my chin and pulled me close. I felt her hot, sweet breath on my face. Her eyes no longer shined with the radiance they had in her youth, as pictures of her showed. A hollow shell. A vessel of evil. Those were the best words to describe what Ashley had become. Even if the reality was far, far worse.

“The prey living in the streets down there, serving my will, they are nothing to me. Their life is dedicated to one purpose. And that is to feed the machine.”

Ashley’s sadistic laughter would be the last thing I ever heard. Not even when she assassinated me with the cruel and unusual method of defenestration through an oversized window brought any other sound back into my world. All I could hear was Ashley’s laughter. A hundred floors I fell.

Then, there was nothing.