Men called her a monster, though Charlotte would not disagree, she called men hypocrites for they hid behind fallacy; after all, if God created man and men created her, then was God not but a monster and man just like her?

Charlotte found that men so seldom entertained such a debate, and those who did never did so face to face. Perhaps that was why they locked her away, like an itsy-bitsy spider caught in a glass, to be safely observed by men too afraid of what they did not quite understand.

It was cold in that glass, that little cell she called hell, but at least she was not alone; after all, dead men made better company than no one at all.

Her guests were strewn about the ground in a disorderly fashion, their bodies slumped against the cold steel walls and sprawled out along the floor. They were men who worshipped a machine they called Emperor. In fact, the six faceless legionaries were much like machines themselves, all covered head to toe in thick plates of steel over red fatigues, each wearing the same black boots laced perfectly.

Hypocrites, Charlotte called them; after all, they were men who pursued peace with violence. What was that if not hypocritical?

Even in death, they seemed intent on forcing their will upon her own, their hands still clutching shattered blades as if to raise them against her once more. Even now they watched her with lifeless stares, their faces trapped behind steel masks embedded with three mechanical eyes—a reminder that the gaze of the Triumvirate Mind reached even the depths of this hell.

Charlotte climbed up the sides of her unlit cell, latching the pointed tips of her eight legs between the triangular plasteel plates which reinforced the otherwise plain walls. The cell itself was far too small and the ceiling far too low for Charlotte to weave a web suitable to her size—a spiteful aspect of an intentional design. 

Then again, the cramped quarters had certainly not played to her captors' advantage either, trapping them in her eight-legged maelstrom of death.

Beside her, another man, the most vile of the bunch, dangled from the ceiling, gently swinging back and forth in a silky white cocoon of her own design. The sticky threads were intricately woven around the man's entire body in layer after layer, leaving little room for movement. Though, Charlotte had taken great care in leaving him just enough to struggle—just enough to have hope.

"How are you holding up, Dr. Glazov?" Charlotte asked, tracking the body's movement with her eight black eyes—they were like little black pearls, brimming with all the allure of an enigmatic gaze. Her tone was less subtle, however, gripped with apathy, holding no hint of levity.

The doctor did not—or more likely could not—respond, lacking the strength to even so much as manage a gargled plea anymore.

The culmination of his long-faded efforts was shown in the single arm that protruded from a break in the threading, hanging limp beside his head as though he were still reaching for something. The tight white sleeve over his arm had a dirty-red line running along its edge, forming the path of a stream of blood; the viscous fluid trickled down to his hand, beading at the end of his fingertips before drizzling with a faint pitter-patter onto the ground. 

The blood collected around a shattered syringe—whatever contents it once held lost to the growing pool of crimson. 

Charlotte looked down at her own hand, which was still wet with blood. Where flesh should be, she found only a thick, black exoskeleton that sharpened to a blade's edge at her fingertips. The plate-like armor was a part of her, as though grafted to her skin, running up the length of her arms and stopping just before her shoulders. The carapace was a pair of shackles she'd been forced to wear her whole life, placed there by men without her consent, chaining her to her grotesque form. 

Even if she somehow escaped her cell, she was still a monster, trapped in her own body; that was somehow worse. 

But she was a monster by design—spliced together by doctors for purposes unbeknownst to her. Every doctor, every one of her creators, told her something different. Every time, it was a different lie. Perhaps even they didn't understand what they had created; after all, not even God had understood man enough to control them, to keep them from their nature.

Though, all men were liars as far as she was concerned. It was simply in their nature to lie and deceive those around them. Doctors were simply the worst among them, wielding rhetoric much in the same manner as a legionary wields a gladius. As a weapon. At least the legionaries were transparent in their hostilities. For a doctor, a gesture of kindness was merely a front for their malicious intentions. Better an honest prick than a hypocrite, Charlotte thought.

Dr. Glazov had been no different, like all other men—a liar and a hypocrite—yet Charlotte found him particularly revolting; after all, he was a man who spoke with a smile, claimed to have her best interest at heart, but she knew his hands were vile, harboring his true intentions from the start. 

But she had one thing to thank him for; after all, he had taught her a valuable lesson in the end. Never trust a man who smiles in the face of a monster.

"You wanted to examine me closer. Is that not what you said, doctor?" Charlotte continued to taunt, chuckling quietly to herself as she prodded his body with her foremost leg.

As though to spoil her fun, the plasteel plates on the wall begun to rattle, vibrating against the black chitin on her legs.

Charlotte caught Dr. Glazov as he swung near, steadying his movement. She listened closely as the air around her became unsteady. The faint sensation was followed by a familiar rumble; it was the familiar sound of boots against steel, the harmonious march of legionaries steadily advancing towards her. Reinforcements, Charlotte thought. The Emperor's dogs must not be too pleased with me.

It was a common enough sound—one she had heard far too often. Still, she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling which caused the pedipalps at her waist to twitch. An instinct perhaps, telling her she needed to flee.

Charlotte released the doctor and skittered along the wall so that she sat directly on the ceiling, her head hanging upside down. Though, she did not feel out of place. Quite the opposite, actually. The position offered her a cold comfort—she always did feel safest out of sight, hiding on the ceiling or in the darkness where no one could look upon her. It was a habit Dr. Athene called instinct, an undesirable trait the woman had tried to break out of her ever since she was a child.

The thought made Charlotte's pedipalps rub together in frustration. She was far too young, too small then to fight back. Not anymore.

The legionaries left her with little time to dwell on the past as their rumbling came to an orderly halt just outside her cell—cementing her suspicions. It was followed by the sound of metal clashing against metal, like a stampede of brazen bulls in a field of iron. The movement had a distinct rhythm: three successive beats repeating in a disciplined, thoroughly trained fashion.

Centaurs no doubt. She could think of no other creatures down here that could make such a sound. In fact, they were monsters—much in the same vein as her—created to be controlled, trained to be loyal. Though, unlike her, they had chosen to become man's lapdogs. A fitting role, Charlotte thought. Much like men, they too were hypocrites, holding their heads so high while they trampled those underneath. Those like her. . .

The canter outside suddenly turned to a trot, filling the air with an incomprehensible chatter. She could make nothing of the muffled words other than that they were spoken in haste.

Charlotte did not care to ponder their reasoning for coming here. Regardless of what it was, her response was bound to be the same. She would ambush the first thing foolish enough to step inside her cell—whether man or monster—then she would either die fighting or be subdued. It made little difference to her.

Soon after, the centaurs too came to a stop just outside her cell. With relative silence returned, Charlotte could begin to hear some of the discussion which had become quite heated.

". . . you can't seriously be considering the boy's request, milord," a stern, feminine voice demanded. The words sounded proud and regal to the point they became condescending. Definitely a centaur.

"The kid's putting only himself at risk," a gruff sounding man replied. "We may as well let him try."

"And if that monster kills him? What of your plans for him?" The woman retorted.

"Cornelia," the man snapped in a hushed tone, seemingly putting an end to the argument.

Cornelia? Charlotte did not recognize the name nor the voices. That piqued her interest ever so slightly, causing her pedipalps to chitter.

Thankfully, her new guests did not leave her in anticipation for long. After only a few more moments—a time so brief as not to be counted—the cell's steel door began to groan as three triangular locks at its center begun to rotate in a synchronized fashion.

It's about time, Charlotte thought. She took in a deep breath to calm her nerves, holding perfectly still as she prepared to begin a new hunt.

As the door opened, a blindingly garish red light leaked into the room, forming the shadow of a single man in the doors exposed frame.

Alone? Certainly no man could be that bold . . . or perhaps foolish. Though, the footsteps that followed in the light's wake were unlike the rigid march of a legionary; no, the movements were soft and made with nervous, uneven steps.

When the man finally made his way inside, the door quickly sealed behind him, enveloping the room once more in darkness. Charlotte immediately noticed he was not dressed like a doctor and not quite like a soldier. He wore the same red pants and black boots as any other legionary, but his jacket was a bright green, lined with several reflective silver strips. 

"Pleased to meet you, my friend," Charlotte mused, breaking the silence, for she found it was most fun when her prey knew they were found; then, without waiting for response, she rapidly skittered down from the ceiling.

With her presence made known, the man's head darted up, but he was far too late.

Charlotte towered over top of him as she did all other men. Without hesitation, she lunged forward and gripped him by the neck, pulling her left arm back, preparing to run her hand through his chest just as she had done to all the others who came before him. It all happened so quick, as though done in a single successive motion, like the adrenaline had taken control of her actions, like her reflexes were pushing her to kill without thought. There was no humanity to her feelings nor her movements; it was all pure, unrestrained instinct. To hunt. To kill. To survive. That was all she knew in that moment.

But the man just looked at her without saying a word, not even struggling in her grasp the slightest. She saw he didn't wear the three eyed mask as the other soldiers did; he just looked at her with two naive brown eyes, unblinking, unmoving. Does he not understand? Does he not know he is in death's grip?

Charlotte froze, taken aback by the man's solemn gaze. In her hesitation, she felt her adrenaline-fueled stupor wash away, causing her grip to relax ever so slightly. His face looked so young—probably no older than her sixteen.

"You—you're bleeding," the man stammered awkwardly and yet his voice sounded smooth and sweet as honey. Not a hint of fear. Just a misplaced calm. 

Charlotte felt herself blink several times in surprise. Bleeding? Had he mistaken the blood on her hands for her own?

She didn't bother to answer him, instead she looked down at his obnoxiously colorful jacket, searching for some clue as to who this man was in her cell. On either side of his chest were two patches. One depicted only a grey numeral I. Unhelpful. The other—on the left side of his chest—was a circular patch emblazoned with an orange bird rising from a flame; beneath the blazing avian creature were two words she was unfamiliar with.

"Milites Medici," Charlotte said with a butchered pronunciation. "What does that mean?" She found herself asking, perplexed.

"Just an archaic way of saying military medic," the man calmly replied, remaining still in her grip.

"Great, another doctor," Charlotte groaned. She pulled the man in a little closer. "I guess I should kill you after all," she whispered in his ear with a smile on her face—halfway between a joke and a threat.

"Not a doctor. Just a medic," he replied, seemingly a bit flustered as he did not seem to take her remark as either.

"Hmph, well—" Charlotte paused, suddenly feeling something wet on her face. She reached a hand up to her cheek and felt something thick and warm. Must be the blood he was talking about. Looking up, she saw Dr. Glazov hanging directly over them, the blood from his fingertips dripping onto her.

"What's your name?" The man abruptly asked.

Charlotte released him—deeming him to be of little threat—and scooted further up the wall to avoid being splashed with anymore blood. "Don't pretend like you don't know," she replied with a growing sense of annoyance. "They must have told you at least that much before sending you in here."

"Sure, but they also told me that coming in here was a death trap." The man began nervously brushing his fingers through his short black hair. "And clearly, they lied about that."

Really? Charlotte looked around at the bodies scattered about the floor, then tilted her head back up to Dr. Glazov still overhead. She wasn't quite sure how he had come to such a conclusion. He must be messing with me.

"Perhaps you're not as naive as I thought," Charlotte muttered. "As for my name, well, Charlotte will suffice; after all, I've never been called anything else really . . . And what about you, my friend?"

"Kim."

"Just Kim?"

"Well, that's what my friends call me."

"What if I don't want to be your friend?"

"Did you not just call me your friend?"

Charlotte let out an involuntary chuckle before catching herself in the act, quickly recomposing herself. "Alright, Kim, I bothered to learn your name; now, what do you want?"

"Well, officially, I was sent in here to check on these men." Kim gestured to the bodies on the floor. "Uh, you wouldn't happen to know what exactly happened to them, would you?"

Officially?  Charlotte wondered. She stared blankly at Kim for a moment. Did she really need to spell it out for him? No, he had to be jesting with her. There was no way he couldn't know.

"Let's just say we didn't quite get along . . . I'm sure they were expecting a softer sort of girl, if you know what I mean," Charlotte said, resting her head in the palm of her hand.

Kim's eyes widened in surprise as if suddenly realizing what she meant. "Are you serious? Tha—That's horrible!"

"And what about you?" Charlotte interrogated, trying to get something useful out of the man. She spread out her legs and crawled closer, appearing much larger—a strategy that had worked to intimidate even the legionaries. "I can only assume I'm the first Arachne you've seen." 

Kim backed up, bumping into the wall. "Well, you're certainly bigger than I was expecting," he replied innocently, rubbing the back of his head.

Charlotte sighed, relenting. It wasn't quite the response she was expecting, but she would have to work with it. "Perhaps standards are different where you're from, but I don't think most girls would consider that a compliment." 

"Sorry," Kim quickly replied. "Well, you have very pretty eyes." He seemed to briefly struggle on deciding which of the eight to look at. She found it kind of endearing in a way—most men would find a way to avert their gaze entirely. Ultimately, though, he settled on the two biggest near the center of her face where a human's may normally be.

"Well, I guess that'll have to suffice. It's not often I get compli—"

"Kim! Kim, you alive in there?" The man's voice—whom Charlotte had overheard outside earlier—suddenly began shouting as though in the room with them. "You got about thirty seconds to answer me before I send in the exterminators!"

He must have turned on the intercom, Charlotte thought. Kim seemed to come to the same realization as he gestured for her to come closer. She decided to humor him and skittered to the corner furthest from the door.

"Look Charlotte, I had another reason for coming in here—a selfish reason," Kim whispered.

So, he was hiding something from me, Charlotte thought, listening quietly. Perhaps, his true hypocritical colors were about to be revealed; it was only a matter of time, after all.

"The man out there is Centurion Haze Traunt of the 1st Cataphract Division," Kim anxiously continued. "He's going to offer you a deal in exchange for your freedom, like he did me, like he did the Centaurs . . . he wants to use you as a weapon, Charlotte, a tool in the Emperor's war machine." 

Charlotte felt lost in Kim's words, though she lingered on one. Freedom. She didn't know what Kim's aim was; actually, she wasn't even sure if he was telling the truth at all. But what could he have to gain from lying? She considered. No, he was a man. Not to be trusted. Men needed no reason to lie. 

She looked into Kim's eyes, searching for some hint of deceit. 

"No matter how enticing it may seem, don't take it," Kim pleaded, looking back at her with his solemn gaze. "Please, promise me you won't take it."

A small part of her wanted to trust him, wanted to believe he was telling the truth. But even if she could, she still couldn't make such a promise. After all, she wasn't sure she'd be able to keep it. And a broken promise is just a lie; and if she lied, was she not a hypocrite too?

"I'm afraid I can't do that, my friend," Charlotte finally replied, trying to refuse his plea gently, though she wasn't quite sure why she cared. "How could I decide on a deal to which I do not know the terms? No, I must speak with this Centurion Haze alone." 

"Last chance, Kim," the intercom rang out again.

Kim slowly nodded his head, quickly accepting her answer.

Charlotte watched Kim quickly walk to the intercom only a few steps away. It was a little black box by the door—she had never bothered with the thing herself as it only worked if someone outside cared to listen. 

Kim pressed a flashing red button at the bottom of the box and leaned in close to it. "Centurion, this is Kim, it's safe to come in."

"Good to hear from you, kiddo. We'll be coming in shortly," Haze replied in a chipper tone that contrasted his prior harsh tone. How deceptive.

"Sir, she wants to speak with you alone," Kim insisted.

"An absolutely ludicrous request—" Cornelia's voice cut in for just a moment, sounding much further away.

"Lady Cornelia, calm yourself!" Haze shouted. "Kim, are you certain that's wise?"

Kim looked back at her for a moment, though Charlotte wasn't quite sure what he was hoping to find.

"She's harmless," Kim said confidently.

Harmless? She was far from it. In fact, she wasn't quite sure whether to feel flattered or insulted by the remark. Though, she didn't have time to decide as the door opened once more. Three times in one day, how lucky—for most she was fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, to see it open at all.

Charlotte hung back, watching silently as Centurion Haze Traunt walked alone into her cell. This time, the door did not close immediately, as though someone hesitated to do so. His attire was similar in style to the average legionary, but far more colorful. Ceremonial rather than practical. He wore clean, chartreuse painted plate armor and a matching sagum over well fitted, grey fatigues. In his left hand he held a chartreuse helmet with two glowing green eyes and adorned with a similarly colored plume; his right hand, meanwhile, rested upon a gladius sheathed at his waist. 

Haze looked around the room, taking notice of the bodies. "Harmless, huh?" He glared at Kim with his olive-green eyes. His bearded face was rugged as his voice, showing an age that was likely deceptive of his youth.

"I stand by what I said, centurion," Kim replied. Charlotte found his response a bit strange—it was quite unlike a man to take her side.

"Fine, then you can leave, Kim; I'll handle things from here—"

"Actually, I think I'd like him to stay." Charlotte crawled out from the corner, stepping slightly into the light seeping in through the door's exposed frame. She felt certain things would go far more smoothly with Kim around; after all, he seemed much more familiar with her new guest.

Suspicious, Haze directed his gaze between the two of them. "Well, alright then," he finally replied. He raised a gloved hand into the air, prompting the door to close behind him. "Charlotte, the Arachne, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," he began, subtly placing his hand back on the hilt of his blade, nervously rubbing its golden pommel with his thumb. He didn't seem too certain of Kim's assessment; though, that may be why he let him stay in the first place.

"You can cut the formalities; tell me what you want," Charlotte said—her apathetic tone returned.

"Do you want to be free?" Haze asked, unphased by her shrewdness.

Charlotte laughed. How typical, she thought. "Is that really the best hook you could come up with? I know you want to use me as a weapon, don't you?" Charlotte could feel the anger well up inside her. How dare this man offer her something she so desperately wanted in exchange for his own personal gain, dangling her freedom just out of reach. I ought to kill the bastard.

Haze shot a look at Kim, who was standing quietly beside her. "Look, as much as Kim may think otherwise, I'm not going to send you into hell empty handed." Haze took a step back, bumping into the door, not realizing how small the room was.

"Oh, but you are sending me to hell? Pulling me from one hell just to throw me into another," Charlotte hissed, skittering closer to Haze until they were face to face.

Kim jumped in front of Haze and locked eyes with her. "Charlotte, please."

Charlotte looked at Kim's solemn eyes once more. She could easily push past him; she could easily kill them both. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to do so. To do so, she would need to hurt a man who had not yet done her wrong. Perhaps it was inevitable Kim would betray her, but if she killed a man on assumption, then she was no better than the men who created her.

Charlotte relaxed, slinking back into her corner.

Haze grinned, easing his grip on his blade. "I've made deals with devils and saints; and certainly, monsters greater than you," he proclaimed as he stepped out from behind Kim. "I suppose then, it's just a question of how you want to get to hell: feet first or head down?"

One hell to another, Charlotte repeated to herself. Maybe I ought to take Kim's advice after all. She looked around her cell. It seemed almost suffocating now. Sixteen years she had endured this place. Sixteen years of beatings and tests from doctors who despised her. Freedom. That was her only escape.

"Can you truly set me free?" Charlotte inquired.

"A deal goes two ways, milady," Haze replied. "If you're willing to pay the price then I'm happy to provide, but your freedom is worth only as much as your use to me." 

"And how much am I worth exactly?"

Haze knelt down beside a body against the wall, placing his hand on the dead man's shoulder. The soldier's steel armor torn open, exposing his bloody innards. "Quite a bit, from the looks of it," he replied as he stood back up.

Charlotte pursed her lips in frustration. She had no reason to trust him. Then again, she had no reason to trust any man more than another. 

"If all goes according to plan, this war will be over before the year's end, then you will be rewarded. You see, the Emperor has written me a blank check in this matter." Haze began pacing around the room, inspecting the bodies, searching for any excuse to not look her in the eye. "Here's my offer: fight for me and I will make you a full-fledged citizen of the Collective once the war is won."

Charlotte knew nothing of a war. She knew little of the happenings in the world at all really. But she felt that was soon about to change. "And why should I care about that?" Charlotte asked. 

"Because then you will be afforded all the rights of any other man. that is how you will be free," he confidently proclaimed.

"And who are your enemies whom you would have me fight?" Charlotte probed.

"Well, men, of course."

"Men fighting men, who would have thought?" Charlotte retorted. "I'm not even sure why I bothered to ask."

"So, then, do we have a deal?"

Charlotte looked around once more. The dark room, however, had nothing more to offer her. She settled her gaze on Kim. He looked at her in silent encouragement, making no objections, giving her no further input. 

"I want a room I can stand up in, and a bed; I don't want to just be trapped in another cell, you understand me?" She demanded.

"That can be arranged," Haze replied, reaching his hand out to her. He finally looked her in the eyes, finally took his hand off his blade, and he smiled.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes; every instinct told her not to trust this man. She knew his deal would not be so simple—though, nothing in her life ever was. 

She knelt down and took Haze's hand into her own. Her carapace squeaked against his leather gloves as their hands shook briefly.

"Fantastic," Haze whispered, pulling his hand away. "I'll have you out of here within the hour." He turned away and knocked on the door three times. The door quickly opened, and Haze left the room with his head held high.

 Charlotte turned away, waiting for the door to close.

"Would you like some company while you wait?" Kim finally spoke up.

What's this guy's deal? Charlotte turned her head back to face him. "Gonna lecture me on my choice? Tell me how much of a fool I was to trust a man like that?"

"No; it was your choice to make, and it was selfish of me to try and take that away from you," Kim replied—it almost seemed genuine, if anything a man said could be considered genuine.

Charlotte sighed and placed her head against the wall. "You can stay, if you'd like." She didn't bother to look as the door closed, but she knew Kim had stayed. "So, you said you made a deal with him too?"

"That's right."

"How did someone like you get mixed up with a man like that?"

"Someone like me?"

"You just don't seem the soldierly type is all."

"Well, you would be right about that . . ." She could hear Kim trail off as he slumped against the wall beside her. "It was less than a year back when the war first broke out; I found myself in a cell, awaiting my execution."

Charlotte picked her head up, intrigued. She almost didn't believe him. "How did you manage that?" 

"Treason. I was caught providing aid to an enemy, a Silverblood crusader too injured to be a threat to anyone . . . so I thought." Charlotte had no words, but her gaze encouraged Kim to continue. "On the day I was to be killed, Haze came into my cell, and he asked me: do you want to be free?" Kim looked up, locking eyes with her. " He made me a deal so simple, I thought, how could I refuse?"

"Well, I suppose you and I have at least that much in common," Charlotte solemnly replied.