A scrawny and brittle middle-aged man takes a seat on the shiver-inducing concrete floor of what can only be described as a torture-dungeon ripped straight from the pages of a horror novel. The old and degraded room is secured by a thick metal door that serves its purpose to the full: instilling fear and unease within him to perfection.
He tunes his ears to the only available sound --unless you count his thoughts and the scurries and occasional chatter of his roommates, the rats bigger than his foot-- the soft pitter-patter of rainwater that slips between the spider-web cracks in the ceiling that he fears might cave in at any time.
As rainy weather becomes more of a frequent occurrence, sometimes lasting for several days, the rain-droplets that weasel their way into the torture-dungeon fall into a loathsome cycle: slipping in through the ceiling cracks and splattering themselves across the floor, leaving mini-puddles in their wake.
These puddles, left unchecked by John and the one who brought him here, then begin to grow larger with each passing second of outside weather making its way inside of his 'living-space', if he can call a dungeon such a thing, creating large reservoirs of water in an already cramped space, with nowhere to go.
Creating not only a flooding issue --that rarely gets addressed-- but also leaves what little clothing he has on his back in a constant state of being soaked in water, as well the tattered blanket his captor was 'nice enough' to gift him on a particularly cold and windy night.
He's not sure why. Maybe out of a strange sense of pity, or maybe he just wanted to ensure his slave's prolonged survivability.
John leans more toward the second option.
He knows the man better than that.
Not in the conventional sense of knowing his favorite color, show or movie, none of that. But John does know his general behavior and personality well. They've spent more than enough time with each other this past...however long it's been.
The man doesn't feel.
Not guilt, not frustration or anger.
Nothing.
It's frightening and confusing to the degree John wonders if he's even human.
And so, in his mind, there's no way he would ever do something without an ulterior motive in mind.
It just wouldn't make any sense.
How could it?
How can the same man who took him off the streets, away from his friends and family without so much as a second thought, then throwing him into a dungeon to torture and experiment on him, feel in any meaningful capacity? Whether that be love or hate.
Although there's a possibility he could be wrong, John doesn't doubt the truthfulness in his assessment.
Because if he's wrong and this man, this thing can feel, he can love and hate, he can be disinterested or interested, satisfied or unsatisfied, to the same extent that he --that normal people can-- then how dare he? How dare he do this to him? To anyone at all?
Since his kidnapping and being thrown in here, John has tried, he really has, but he cannot --or will not-- wrap his head around this. Because if there's nothing wrong with him, if the Man is just like him, then what's to say he won't turn out the very same way?
If he makes it out of here, that is.
And there's really no telling.
Every day, he feels it might be his last.
And part of him hopes that it will.
Moldy bread and muddy water for food.
Unacceptable living conditions that cause constant sickness.
Experimentation.
The things the Man has done to not only his body, but his psyche.
Who wouldn't wish for a permanent end after a while?
John doubts that the Man will bring it himself.
No, he's far more interested in using him as a guinea pig.
'You suit my goals,' the man once said in response to John asking why it had to be him, why out of the trillions who walk this universal plane every single day, it had to be him who bears this impossibly heavy cross-- and why he'd been kept alive this long.
He can only hope his mind changes.
Because he's already tried to end it sooner himself.
And more times than once.
But it never worked out for varying reasons.
Though, two in specific continued to come up: he either couldn't finish the job, his body either refusing to continue or his mind shutting down in order to preserve the body's function, or the Man would interfere and fashion a straitjacket around him for a period of time.
Not for John's benefit, but his own.
Which should be obvious.
Because he doesn't care. Not about anything or anyone but his experiments.
What this is all for, he's not sure.
The man has refused to comment on his goals and pursuits.
But John knows it can't be good.
Not with the things he's put him through.
And yet, there's not a thing he can do about it.
Every day comes a faint creak before the door swings wide open.
Light shines in-- the only light he gets otherwise.
And then, he steps in.
He always moves slowly, never one to rush things.
John isn't sure why. Perhaps he just likes to set the tone.
The rest is always a blur.
He'll remember bits and pieces of what the Man does to him, but he never gets the full picture-- and honestly, he prefers it this way, as to not be bogged down even more than he already is by the nitty-gritty details that hardly matter anyway.
And then the Man leaves for the day.
It's always quiet after.
The rats will have already scurried off, looking for food to nab.
So it's just him and his thoughts.
Which is never a good thing.
The man has yet to come today.
Maybe he's busy. Or maybe not.
Some might say, 'That's a good thing' but John doesn't think so.
Or maybe that's the cynicism in him talking.
The one that tells him this won't get better.
Not until either God comes from the skies and personally rescues him, or, the more reasonable and logical answer, he mans up, arms himself with his long forgotten confidence and puts an end to this back and forth.
Because no one is coming to save him.
No one even knows he's here.
And he doubts there's a search party going on just to save a poor bastard barely able to make ends-meet.
The police, the Aegis, they only care about the middle-to-upper class. Someone like him? They wouldn't dare waste their precious resources. Though, some speck of him still holds out hope.
But in case that search and rescue team never comes, he has to be the one to put an end to this.
The man has to die.
"And I'm going to be the one to do it," John says insistently.
"But it's not like I want to," he argues back to no one in particular. "I mean-- who wants to take someone's life? Even after everything he's done to me."
But it's the only way he goes home.
The only way his family gets to see him again. And not in a body bag or during a funeral service.
His hands tighten by his sides, plagued with both anger and uncertainty.
He's not sure how any of this works-- killing a man.
Or demon, as he preferred to call him.
But he'll figure something out.
He has to...right?
Doubt creeps in the back of his mind, spinning tales of deceit in his ear.
Though there's no time for that.
The man will come.
And when he does, he has to be ready.
Today might not be the day. But someday, this is going to end with them.
He's sure about that.
As much as one who's never hurt so much as a fly can be.
A faint creak cuts through the silence.
Light slowly creeps in.
His eyes go wide as the world's largest caverns.
He's here.
The man-- No, the devil himself is coming.
His footsteps are soft and quiet, making it difficult to assess where exactly he is through the darkness.
John's heart sinks to his feet.
His earlier bravado -- as well any semblance of manhood and confidence he once had-- evaporated into thin air; leaving behind only a pathetic cowardice unfit for a man his age.
In a dramatic fashion he slides down the wall behind him, cowering under the imaginary pressure of a man who has yet has to show himself.
John's lip quivers as he whimpers pathetically, acting no better than a child whose favorite toy had been snatched from his grasp.
The shift in his behavior is immediate and unnerving-- unexplainable even to himself.
Imaginary or not, the pressure the man exudes by simply existing is overwhelming-- forcing John into a vegetative state as tears streamed down his face, his teeth chattering, and his skin paling as each of his profound features began to contort into something unrecognizable.
John squirms, fighting against the nonexistent chains his mind believes are tethering him to the floor, drool pooling in the corner of his mouth as he continuously overexerts himself regardless of how quickly that depleted his energy, leaving him further susceptible.
Run, he wants to run-- to get out of here as fast as possible.
Even if it'd be pointless.
He knows that he won't get more than a few feet --if that much-- before the 'Enforcers' would swoop in and throw a wrench in whatever plan he might have.
But that doesn't mean he shouldn't at least try.
Because sitting in wait for what may or may not happen is the highest form of torture one can do to themself.
One, two, three-- the Man walks in a rhythmic pattern, his steps getting progressively louder and more intense.
This has to be on purpose.
To amplify the already thick tension in the air.
Any longer of this, and he might explode out of sheer nervousness.
Which, considering the circumstances...doesn't sound so bad.
Not when your only two --realistic-- options are to either be tortured to death, if the Man were to allow his story to end that is, which part of him doubts though he doesn't close that door fully, or put an end to his misery himself.
When put like that, exploding into itty bitty pieces sounds more like a merciful end rather than a fearful outcome.
He wipes the drool from his mouth, managing to --just barely-- compose himself.
"It'll all be okay," John tells himself.
There's no guarantee anything will work out, but he holds out hope anyway.
Because that's what it means to have faith. And in situations like this, you need plenty of it just to keep waking up every day without losing your sanity.
Moments later, the man completes his journey-- standing before John in all of his glory.
John slowly lifts his head.
He doesn't get far up before noticing that something about him is different.
Off.
His mind wanders for a moment, going down the list of least likely to most likely reasons for his supposedly random suspicions.
None of them are remotely true, but its nice to try and anticipate.
The difference between now and the last time he'd seen him is stark: his flesh is coated in a layer of shadows that crawl around his body as if they're somehow alive, making it difficult to read his body language and features.
Okay, so...this definitely isn't what he was expecting.
But things are fine. It'll be fine. Probably.
His words ring hollow-- of course he doesn't believe that.
The man speaks in a hushed stone barely above a whisper, his hands laid idly by his side. "John. You've been a useful asset." His voice is cold and unmoving, almost robotic. He might not be able to show it visually and or through the language of his body, but the Man is perfect at verbalizing his indifference.
Speaking about someone who's still alive in the past tense is never a good sign though.
Like ever.
There's a good chance that hope was indeed in vain.
"Maybe he's just going to offer me a promotion." That wasn't funny.
"Okay-- be serious. This is serious." It's not time for jokes right now.
Or maybe it is.
Maybe its the perfect time.
"But now your time here has come to an end." Because he's going to die.
John tunes out the rest of what he assumes to be a villainous speech or monologue, instead spending what might be his final moments thinking back to the earlier stages of his life with his friends, family, and loved ones. It's unfortunate how things turned out.
"There's so much I never got to see or experience."
But at the same time, he really can't complain.
The man's hands snake around John's neck, slowly applying pressure as he lifts his feet off the ground.
Because not everyone got the same opportunities that he did. Not everyone was lucky enough to be born into a well-off family, or to be gifted the chance of having the most amazing friends, the perfect fiancé he hoped would become his wife within the next few months, but that sadly will not come to pass.
He jams his thumbs inward, forcing John to retch up globs of saliva as he coughs violently.
His feet swing back and forth, trying to gather a semblance of momentum to create a powerful enough kick to free himself, though his legs catch nothing but air.
John holds on as long as he possibly can.
He doesn't want to die-- who does?
"I have to see her again," he tells himself.
But the chances of that happening are slim to none. Probably impossible at this point.
He gasps for air-- taking every strand of oxygen his lungs can grab.
The man has John eating in the palm of his hand, but for him it's not enough-- he needs faster results than strangulation can give.
And maybe-- just maybe-- there's a part of him that enjoys this.
That's wanted to do this for oh so long, yet held back-- knowing it'd be obsolete at the time.
But he'd found a better, younger candidate than John ever could be.
Which means his services are no longer required.
John tries to squeeze every second he has left dry despite the increasing danger of his situation, as the Man applies as much pressure as his arms can give him in such a position-- fully intending to either crush his throat, or force his head off his shoulders.
He tries to hold onto his memories. There's no telling what might happen after he dies.
He knows struggling is futile.
It's not going to change the outcome of his situation.
And that's fine.
It doesn't have to.
John's eyes slide forward, bulging so far out that, with each blink, they rub against the base of his skull; providing a uniquely disturbing sight and painful experience as, with one wrong move, he fears they might tear from their sockets.
"I always thought we'd die together, Olivia."
"It's unfortunate that we never got to grow old together." He doesn't even notice that he's bawling his eyes out at first. "I guess I'll have to settle for daydreaming-- as long as I can."
His head turns an alarming shade of purple-- the mounting pressure continues to build up with each passing second the Man keeps his hands around his neck, having already surpassed what even the most physically gifted specimen could handle.
This sucks.
It really does.
But there's nothing he can do about it.
He takes a deep breath-- perhaps his last.
And...he stops.
He ceases all movement, allowing the future to take its course.
"Goodbye, Olivia. I'll love you forever-- I can only hope that you do the same." But it's time to face the music.
His right is first to go.
He screams, writhing around like a starved zombie as an indescribable pain rockets through his body-- John's eyeball gushes out of his skull, hanging loosely by the thin, spaghetti-noodle optic nerve that dangles hopelessly in front of his other, horrified eye as a trail of blood follows, squelching on its way out; enveloping him in its cold, unforgiving touch.
Blood seeps into his clothes, slowly dribbling down his leg.
John lets out a strained whimper, attempting to salvage his eye in the heat of the moment-- though accidentally pulls on the exposed nerve, yanking his eye out. Permanently this time.
In an instant he empties the moldy contents of his stomach on the floor, violently retching and hacking as his head jerks forward, his movements erratic and unpredictable, even to himself.
The man doesn't flinch, not even for a second.
His iron-grip remains, its strength continuing to amplify.
John's left eye slithers out of socket in the midst of his spasms; an unfortunate side-effect of his growing instability. A normal response, but out of control nonetheless.
He sobs uncontrollably, unable to contain himself any longer.
His soul yearns.
For release, to shrivel up and die, so that he might finally escape this world of horrors.
Nothing good can come from staying on this plane of existence much longer. Not from his current standpoint.
Death is the only option.
And it stands-by, ready to claim him at any second now.
The man presses harder-- exerting a bit more pressure than he originally intended to use.
John's head explodes open like a popped balloon firing off a geyser of blood, bodily chunks, and clumps of hair in every direction.
His body drops to the ground, laying in a pool of its own pieces and fluids.
His now ex-captor turns and walks away, leaving his body for the rats to feast upon.
***
Lights brighter than the sun, flowing vehicular traffic, crowds of individuals that range from elves to goblins in designer clothes --which looks surprisingly good on them considering how they're known for being unattractive-- walk on both sides of the street, and skyscrapers that reach to the skies.
A small eight-year old boy named Sylus does his best to navigate through the chaos, trailing behind his mother and father who keep a steady pace ahead of him-- absorbing every detail his sparkling eyes can handle. Which isn't much.
He bobs and weaves around the incoming foot traffic, ensuring that he stays close to his parents who seem insistent upon walking faster than his little legs can keep up with.
According to his parents, most of the kingdoms' capitals have cities of similar capacities if not greater-- although, considering its the first time he's been outside of his tiny village in the mountaintops, he wouldn't know.
Most 'knowledge' he has on the world around him has been handed down by his parents and the crappy textbooks they stole from a traveler. Which isn't technically morally correct, but they didn't seem to mind-- so neither does he. They're interesting to read in his free time.
Though, going off what he's seeing now they weren't accurate in the slightest. At least, about Oshar-- the kingdom he and his family have spent the better half of an hour admiring.
Which isn't surprising when his books only covered four out of the ten major kingdoms and their capitals; according to his parents that is, but neither are a reliable source on just about anything.
Especially not math.
In this vast world, he seriously doubts only ten kingdoms are in power.
It just wouldn't make any sense. To him.
Besides that-- from the time he's been here, wandering with his family in search of a particular hospital, Sylus' deep, sea-green eyes have been opened to a wide-variety of things, and people, he never knew or would think existed.
It goes to show you that outside of your immediate surroundings, there's a whole world out there primed to be explored.
A world worth daydreaming about. And he takes the given opportunity.
Unfortunately, they aren't here to sightsee. Though, he wishes they were.
Rather, they're here to see his dying grandpa in his final moments. Big whoop.
That sounds harsh-- really harsh, but to be fair, he's never actually met the old man.
Which was intentional by his parents as his grandfather, apparently, refused to accept their marriage and blah blah-- the rest of the details aren't necessarily important. At least not to him.
He'd already heard more than enough about the old man on their Roc-Express flight here --aerial transportation on the back of a really big, really beautiful bird-- to form a multitude of negative opinions even if on someone he's yet to meet in person.
Which would be bad-- maybe even a little bratty-- except for the fact that he caused plenty of difficulties between his parents, especially towards his mother.
One would be bad enough, but two is downright deplorable-- he just learned that word a week ago.
That might sound really corny, but you get the point. Who cares about an old geezer who tried to come between his parents, and then drove them away into a lame, boring old village filled with equally old people? Nobody.
Or well, apparently his mother and father do.
"Really don't understand why," he grumbles bitterly.
Their destination arrives sooner than Sylus would hope.
He finally catches up to them as they come to a complete stop, neither wanting to make the first move of going inside. As if already knowing this was a bad idea.
"Why'd you guys run off without me? I coulda' been kidnapped, you know." Probably not, Oshar is supposedly the second safest kingdom in the world according to his book, but anything is possible.
For better or for worse.
Definitely worse.
His mother turns to him, forcing a half-assed smile to her lips. "I'm sorry Selly, me and your father had a lot to discuss."
Sylus huffs, folding his arms. "Yeah, yeah..."
His frustration hides behind a mask of playful banter.
She sees right through him– how can she not? She's his mother.
Keeping him happy is her number one priority.
In that way, she's already a better parent than her father. Though, that's a low bar.
"Wanna get ice-cream after this?" She fights to keep herself together to the best of her abilities, despite the turmoil simmering beneath the cracking facade.
Maybe coming to the old fart wasn't such a bad idea after all. "Apology accepted." For city kids, he doubts getting ice-cream with your parents would mean much to them, but things are different when you live in a secluded and (mostly) self-sufficient village.
Sweet treats like candy or ice-cream are like urban legends pushed by the older generation as, without the necessary supplies, equipment and know-how, they have no way of manufacturing them on their own.
And traveling outside of the village is usually forbidden by the elders, outside of emergencies or in cases of exiling/being kicked out of the village.
Which is rare, though has happened a few times.
Usually to those who refuse to abide by the village rules and authority, or stragglers that won't pull their weight.
Unfortunate for some, but beneficial for others.
The three of them stand in front of the hospitals' main doors in an awkward silence, watching as others come and go for what feels like --at least to his underdeveloped brain-- an eternity.
Sylus decides to take matters into his own hands, gripping the doorhandle and swinging it wide open. "Are we gonna go in, or just keep standing around?"
His father chuckles, shaking his head before walking in, followed by the other two.
Making their way through the hospital is another can of worms as Sylus' parents refuse to ask for help from any of the staff, insisting that they can navigate on their own-- which isn't true in the slightest, but they refuse to admit that too.
But that's only charming for about twenty minutes.
Afterward, he takes it upon himself to walk up to and ask help from one of the nurses on their lunch break.
She was nice enough, giving him a detailed but short explanation of where his grandfather would be, and how to find him.
It takes a while for them to get there with his dad initially refusing to take the nurses' advice, though realizes he has no choice after taking his family down yet another dead end for the tenth time.
As they get closer, conversation begins to stagnate to irrelevancy.
He understands why it might be awkward to see him after so many years, but they haven't even laid eyes on the old fart yet. So what's with all of the 'talk' and 'not talk'?
It only makes the walk there excruciating, really.
How they don't know that is beyond him.
Or maybe they do know.
Maybe it's all on purpose to create the suckiest trip ever, so then when he finally gets his hands on the long-awaited treasure --aka ice-cream-- he'll be extra-grateful and appreciative.
Stupid, but plausible.
Really anything is when it comes to his parents.
They do a lot of weird stuff.
Constantly.
"Room B500...Room B501...Room B502...we made it."
"Room B500...Room B501..." She counts each number displayed on a holographic panel situated to the right side of the door, running her finger along the bottom of each one until finally finding the room they're looking for. "Room B502...we're here."
His mothers voice drops a few octaves, then her features follow.
Despite being visually disheartened and even more-so internally, she presses onward.
"We don't have to see him if you don't want to," says his father, although its a bit too late for that.
They spent both time and money getting here --over fifteen hours and 'rent payment' as his mother said-- to turn back now would be a waste.
"It's fine." It's not. She's not.
But the show must go on.
Besides-- if she doesn't give him at least one more chance, there's a good chance that she might regret her decision after his passing.
Even if she already regrets it. But for her that's not much of a deterrent.
"Okay..."
"He only has so much time left. Best to make it count."
"If you say so."
She takes a deep breath --though it does nothing to calm her nerves-- and opens the door before her mind changes.
He looks different than either parental figure remembers.
Older.
And his body...well, sitting in a hospital bed dying of cancer will do that to you.
Sylus' mother turns to him, crouching to his level. "Would you mind waiting outside for a little bit, while mommy and daddy have a chat with your grandfather?"
He furrows his brow visibly taken aback, deciding to ask the obvious question-- "I'm not going in to meet him? Then why even bring me here?"
"You will, just...not right now, okay? We have some things to talk to him about first. It won't be long-- I saw some magazines on 'Aegises' on our way, you can go and read those in the meantime."
His eyes light up in an instant-- convincing him was no longer necessary.
The old man can't be all that interesting anyway.
Especially not in comparison to Aegises.
He takes off in the opposite direction, neglecting to ask where exactly she'd seen them.
Not that it matters. He's fine with whatever gets him out of this situation.
The 'Aegis' magazines are just the cherry on top.
His mouth salivates at the mere thought of getting his hands on one of the magazines.
To finally see and hear more about those he can only dream of one day becoming.
To put it simply, 'Aegises' are heroes.
In the traditional and non-traditional sense.
They're divided in two categories: protectors and travelers.
'Protectors' are as close as you'll get to real-life superheroes who protect the innocent, rescue people from burning buildings and cats from trees, to beating up bad guys and eldritch horrors every now and then.
Travelers, however, don't share the same responsibilities nor uphold the Protectors moral code.
Their 'main' jobs are to explore and map out as much of their home universe 'Overworld' as possible. While at the same time discovering new species, cities, and whatever else turns up.
For them, the possibilities are endless.
And while their duties and jobs might be very different in most aspects, they share the most important one: guilds.
Guilds are sponsors, like the companies behind competitive video-game teams.
Each one has their own food chain where depending on your popularity, strength, public image, and etc., you receive or miss out on benefits such as a higher salary, knowledge, and other perks the public isn't privy to.
So basically, Aegises are the coolest guys around.
Everyone, no matter who you are, wants to be one of them.
And Sylus is no exception to that rule. Nor does he try to be.
Who wouldn't want to be an Aegis-- protecting the people, being glorified and praised every time you so much as step outside, or being paid to explore and experience the beautiful, amazing and endless world that's been created for them? Sylus can't imagine wanting to be anything else.
Which is precisely why he's taken it upon himself to get ahead of the curve and, against what others in his village might want or think is best for him, has begun training in preparation for the 'Aegis Exams.'
Or well, as much 'training' as an eight-year old boy can realistically accomplish.
It sounds ridiculous to some, namely the older boys in his village who have 'rightfully' -- in their sick, twisted minds-- called him arrogant, insisting he believed himself to be better than them for trying to make something of himself at such a young age; saying that he should wait until he's older, as they did at his age.
However, Sylus disagrees.
What drives him to wake up every morning and put his body through the wringer, abusing his muscles up to the point of tearing but never going further, isn't ego, nor is it the belief that he's somehow better than those around him who don't, or never did, the same.
No-- such petty and childish ways of thinking such as those are neither sustainable nor beneficial for anyone working towards something concrete and tangible. Something real.
Instead, it's passion.
Drive. The will to go on, to push past one's boundaries-- no matter the cost.
Because he wants this. More than anything else in the world.
So why not start now? Why wait years down he line to become who he wants to be, for bitter and angry individuals that'll never have to be him? To walk a mile in his shoes.
It wouldn't make sense to hold off on tapping into his potential-- which is exactly why Stylus has wasted no time in doing the opposite.
He's not an Aegis yet.
Not technically, but in his heart, he already is.
He's just waiting for reality to catch up.
But for now...
He runs his fingers along the walls, admiring the paintings hung just above his fingertips.
He's going to continue bettering himself.
Regardless of what anyone else thinks or might say to or about him.
Because his parents believe in him, and he believes in himself. What else-- who else matters? He'll tell you who. Nobody.
As his parents had taught him, family and self-worth are two of the most important things in the world.
"Does that extend to your grandfather?"
The mysterious voice is sudden, coming from thin-air but he doesn't ponder it's origins, and instead it's words.
Strange voices aren't that uncommon for him anyway.
How can family be everything if one of the last remaining members of that family has sat in a hospital bed, alone and dying without them ever extending an olive branch?
Or checking to see if he's okay, at least?
The only reason why they came was to see him die, wander around, and then go back home.
Conflict stirs within him.
And rightfully so.
Maybe he's been too harsh. Maybe.
He can still turn around. To try and make things right-- or something.
Sylus inhales deeply, turning around.
He hesitates for a second.
But the man doesn't have time for hesitation. There's no telling when he might pass.
He forces his legs to move, heading straight for his grandfathers room-- magazines be damned.
-Fin