Author's Notes: This first chapter is a prologue. Everything in it is essential in one form or another to fully understand the story. I suggest you read with care. This story was not meant to be completely logical, mainly because I, the writer, am not a logical person at all. Please, if you have any intent to read the story, do not skip this. I have broken the prologue up into two separate chapters, which should make things more bearable.
"You can measure a man by his success as a father, but more so, as a friend." –Unknown
Sometimes the gifts that are worth the most are often placed in the closet, hidden away from view, treated like garbage and kept as such. What happens when children happen to be that gift? What happens when a child, although deformed, is kept away from people for no other reason then spite? The results are never good and rarely acceptable. There was a question of euthanizing, destruction of all that was not 'up to par' with the so-called 'exceptional'. However, there is one thing, and only one that stood against it. "No one has the right to take the life of another." Unfortunately for the deformed, that statement meant nothing but a few precious more months to savor the sweet taste of life in an asylum with underpaid employees who would rather see their patients die than take the time out to actually help them. Yes, life was indeed good. Mrhh. . .
As much as I would personally love to tell you what happened in my life on my own, I figure that such things should be left to the professionals, of which I am not. For your entertainment more than pleasure, my life has been documented and put into a story setting that I am assured that you can understand; knowing human nature, you as well will take part in mocking me and my failures until your heart is content. Mrhh. . .No one ever said life was fair. Mrhh. . .I do not force you to read this, honestly, I don't give a damn what you think. You have free will; use it as I have mine. As I bring this session to an end, my story will begin, and you will have the chance to be exposed to what it is like being Project Eighty-four.
It smelled of chlorine. The same smell that was always there and always traveled from the 'chambers'. It never failed in the mornings. The air always carried that familiar scent, you could faintly smell it all through this wing in the building, only enough to get lightheaded, never a fatal amount. Most everyone had grown accustomed to the smell, the caretakers especially, then again, they rarely did what was required of them and never spent a second more than they had to in this place. No one did.
There was something that He failed to tell the people here, yet everyone seemed to know about it, though dared not whisper a word of what they all suspected:
It was in the children.
Undoubted, there was a reason for it as there was a rationale for everything that happened. There was no chance, no variable factor, only truth, greed, bandits of the worst kind. It was called Eighty-Four. Eighty-Four, it was something old in a new wrapper, the old man disguised in a boyish ensemble, a fiend that we all knew too well, but when it came down to unmasking the magician, things seemed a bit beyond the human reach. That is what started it, the reaction, the series of events that would ultimately lead to nothing short of pain and suffering, not for the rich and well to do, but for everyone else, the poor and impoverished. There is to be no middle class, there is no middle to be exact middle, only the far ends of the spectrum, north and south; for that is what they want.
They. The word has so many meanings, yet so few when it comes down to it. They, meaning a group, them, a system of people, a company, an agency. The key word here is group. In it's pure definition, it means an assemblage of persons or objects gathered together; an aggregation. When those words are twisted, formed into something else, something malicious, wonders can happen, Legions can form.
What does man do with a Legion?
He destroys.
So many things to explain in so little time, it's a wonder that anything gets accomplished, but given the right motive, societies can be built upon sand, faith built upon thin air, lives established for no other raison d'être than keeping the other two functioning. True, it is not a glorious existence based upon equality or happiness; merely a machine being that ensures victory against itself. A self-cleansing system where there are no weak, the called 'ill efficient' are disposed of before they can weaken the chain of life and doom the strong to failure. This system is AGENCY. Ablation Genetic Engineering- New Circuit-false Yahveh.
The system is faulty, not completed. It is a system based on illusion, of class, not pure logic, which in essence defeats the purpose of the program, but don't tell them. They already know.
Things have a funny way of fitting together when you least expect them to. Plans that were initially doomed to fail find a way to succeed above all expectations. Plans that were bound to thrive are miserable disappointments, crashing and burning at the worst possible moment. At a certain time, a certain error in the system, production stands still. In this time, the variable run rampant, the maybes and what-ifs are entered into the equation; it is the time when cold logic and theory have their fun on the playground of magic, tearing down piece by piece what was built so laboriously on the backs of men whose only crimes were stupidity and an overactive imagination.
The error is destroying a young boy's dreamland, his innocence.
Oddities and errors. Oddities and errors, the fun of playing God. That is what man's lust is for, the power of omnipotence, the power over life, the power over death, but most of all, the power to change a single moment, a single problem in their life. This problem could be as simple as stopping a decision that lead to adult hardship, or a complexity as deep as reviving a lost parent- whatever the case may be, it is the desire.
All of the people know what they need, if they lack the knowledge of what they want. We all need food, shelter, a defense- but, what if people no longer were required to eat, if they shared similarities to plants, self-produced food, nourishment, beings flourishing on water, essential vitamins when appropriate; to them it was the object of their perfection, their perfect idea to match with a perfectly delusional system.
It started with one. All of this hell started with one man, one mortal man who had a dream. Unlike the dreams of others that have so often been written down in history, his dream was of mirrors, not of freedom, apocalypse, science, nor supreme rule. This man, whose name ought not be mentioned at this date, was a kid at heart, a prudent hard-hearted business man on the exterior, a combination made in heaven for some people, hell for others; everything depended on your status in life.
Multiplication tables are the main focus of the flunkies. Regardless of what you are accustomed to, flunkies no longer hold their original value, instead, they have been promoted to a state higher than most people can ever imagine. The ranks are backwards and twisted, coming from every conceivable direction. Generals would be the equivalent of rookies, privates would be leaders, and such nonsense that would baffle anyone outside AGENCY, even such confuses the likes of LEGION, who as a group were usually confused before AGENCY even showed up. Things never seemed to change much.
In order of importance, the 'Janitors' are near the top of the list, for their job requires an amount of skill that most people lack, there even is an IQ range that is necessary to have in order to even apply for the job. Backwards? To normal people, of course it is, then again, no one called a 'Janitor' was ever thought to be a biological chemist, or anything of or appealing to that nature. After the 'Janitors' come the 'Beggars', then the 'flunkies', 'Legionnaires', 'Smiths', 'Projects', and last of all, and most degrading, 'blueprints'. The titles do not stop there however, each division has a name, each name has a meaning, and each meaning has a specific reference to the person to which it was endowed. For instance, the group of 'fighters and defenders' for lack of proper terminology are called by a group, which is Legion. As the ranks decrease in status, the Legionnaires enter the picture as group leaders, then the Legionites as individual leaders, Lemons as fledglings, and in the lowest class would come the Trainees.
Each group has its own name, as does each social class within the group. There are no equals among them. No one has the same gift, nor do they have the same level of ability, it is not expected. Their appearance is, on the contrary, expected to be that of a Gentleman or Lady. Clean-cut, proper, well dressed when the occasion calls, and always, no matter what, one is expected to act on behalf of their looks, which is always at their best, with no exception. In the way of LEGION and AGENCY, each sector is separated accordingly and broken down from there. Each class: the fighters and defenders, the healers and medics, scavengers and bilge rats, and workers and drones, are separated into completely individualized parts of the same complex, with only a common room which is shared in some instances when absolutely necessary. With the conflicting personalities and overall unease among the groups, they are separated further and new classes added. The healers and medics are further divided into illusionist, doctors, nurses, mages, and magicians, while the fighters and defenders are broken down into names according to their specialty, whether it is a western or eastern fighting and defense style for the root basis; security and guard positions also exist in this class. Scavengers and bilge rats as well as the workers are not as well separated to the extent of the other classes, the reason being their normally calm and pleasant nature in which it is not general for pompous or high-maintenance behavior to be shown, there are always exceptions though.
In general practice, it is customary to place the fighting classes and healing classes of LEGION in areas void of one another, for the sole reason the they are conflicting in nature and competitive in approach when it comes to being in close relation. Being on the mellow side of the lot, workers and scavengers tend to get along, that is until the scavengers fail to wait for the proper time to forage and carry out their duties despite the consequences. Scavengers tend to be kept in solitude with members of their own group to keep an eye on. Now that the issues have been addressed, the groups of primary classes are assembled as follows: Fighters and drones, healers and workers, Scavengers and rats. This order has proven to be the most beneficial arrangement, for the healers in general are manipulative and would sooner influence the drones than the workers, who are more resistant to temptation and far less programmable. The scavengers and rats alike are crass enough that they are apt to get along rather well. Truth be known, the reason why workers and fighter were pitted together is a very austere one, exceedingly basic. The fighting class and working class are one and the same, it is merely training that separated them, for their physical appearance is much the same, due to the equivalent amount of work generated by both.
For practice, let the rules of physics not apply for one moment in time. What would happen to civilization if the intelligent beings, both human and alien alike could become 'super beings', if a flame no longer illuminated the room, or anything else for that matter?
What would happen if illusion replaced reality?
Imagine the catastrophe that would occur if there were no rules. When your actions had no effect, when there was a gap in time where nobody could move forward and nobody could move back, but everybody could move through. Things that were killed for in order to be protected, dangerous things, forbidden things that the public eye had it been possible, would have been protected from. These things are not monsters, not daemons of the night, not even grand and authoritative lords, kingpins, or fat cats.
Once was it said that the most precious things came in small packages. Whoever said that deserves his rightful credit, for that is one of the founding statements that inspired a dream in which a nightmare existed. Amazing it is how something as simple as a word or phrase can be the catalyst for an empire. One word will change things. Separate the men from the boys, boys from the animals, animals from the Projects. Many traveled far and wide to lean of the word that would set them all free. Irony tends to be cruel, for every man and woman knows what it is they are so desperately searching for, in verity, they obtained it, the word, before they even knew how to speak. It is one of the first words uttered to you while you are still living inside your mother's womb, and will be one of the last, if you are lucky, you will ever hear.
People claim they can live successful and happy lives without this word, lives full of ambitious dreaming that becomes all they ever wanted in life. They lie.
Words, over the years have been called many things, empty, consequential, prophetic, and even histrionic. With all the definitions the world has to offer, all the grammatical rules, stages, and errors, there is not one that can justly delineate the single, seemingly idiotic to those who are blunt of heart, word that means so much and has so much value, that it has soared above the average psyche and directly into the hands of the disabled, for they will be the ones who tell all that there ever is to know.
Like so many other things, this tale is about words. Words and dreams, sometimes dreams of words, no one really knows for sure, not even the maker of the story himself. The question stands, and that question is:
What if?
Of all the things one has to read and all the questions one has to ask, none stands out, none describe, portray a persons' thoughts better than: What if. Without a doubt, if that single phrase, question did not exist, then all the modern marvels that civilization as a whole has come to love, would not be in existence. There would be no airplane, no light bulb, no automobile, odds are that a majority of the items that people take for granted would no longer be here and life as it is known, would never be.
Words.
Dreams.
Power.
Life.
Twisted tales lie in a single book, a single chapter of which only a page makes all the difference in the world. If one can stand to read a storybook, not one of faerie tales or one of magic and elves, but one of a crude reality shrouded in illusion of mankind, then perhaps one has found what is most important. The diamond among the cast stones and the key in a room of locked doors, perhaps that is what this story will be, perhaps not. The issue truly never was to be discussed, only understood, even that fact is doubtable.
Welcome to LEGION, for we are many. Although. . .There are certain steps that must be taken before anyone can see what this is about. To solve a problem, often it is required that you re-examine the root of it and work your way up from there. That same basic idea is what is crucial here. In order to reach a level of appreciation for the job that has been done, you must first figure out what started the process.
Going back to the beginning, a yarn should be told. Like all good accounts, it involves a young boy, a hero, and a villain. Typecast? Insipid? Danse macabre? Everything is erratic; no one knows for sure- then again. . .The only path that leads to this knowledge would be reading, learning.
If you have not read this, then it is time you begun!
Prologue-
Chlorine air, sewage waters, poisoned plants, toxic soil. It was all so beautiful, but yet at the same time it was a shame, a mockery of life and everything affiliated with it. Devil's City was a steel wasteland, bathed in filth and sold as gold to all those who had eyes to see, but made a fool of themselves and chose not to use them. Everyone inside knew when this conurbation was built, but no one would recall to an outsider, for there was no need to share the information with those who least deserved it- especially those who were known to inhabit Satan City, their rival, and their twin.
To give an accurate time of when the city was built would be near impossible. Like in the plot of a great movie, there is one thing that everybody knows happened, but are unable to inform as to when. Some may say that the city was built over night; some recall the old litany "Rome wasn't built in a day." The entire ordeal was never settled, people soon came to accept that the place existed and that was good enough for them. Day in and day out, the people wandered the streets, mindlessly, like programmed machines taking out tasks. The men, stereotypically went to work each day at varying times, as did the women, the children went to schools, the dogs fetched the morning paper and ripped it to shreds. Things were as they were expected to be. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary seemed to subsist here, except for a few minor details.
Devil's City was not a place of color, or of cheer. It has, and always will be an industrial city, built for machines, technology, as it is known. Machines that merely let humans and the likes of them inhabit their world. Majorities of the populace deny that fact because of pride. They think that for the one reason that man built machine that it is impossible to be ruled by one. Such foolishness is what formed a study foundation for the civilization that existed here, in hell. In the oblique viewpoint, it is possible to say that the place was grayscale, colorblind, the color of iron and steel. Even the foliage seemed dim, faded, like the very essence had been sapped out of it.
Store displays showed fashionable clothes, in tune with the atmosphere, the color of the season was always black, white, or gray. No one seemed to question it, aloud. Streets, sidewalks, back alleys, whatever your mind can invoke, every road lead, inevitably, to nowhere; every path, a circle, so no one could progress, everyone had to stay where they were, like good drudges. The system had not failed for a number of years. Perhaps soon the great 'empire' that was would shortly meet its end to a quite atypical fellow. The said statement, like so many others are, at this time, uncertain. Life is a game after all, a game in which the rules are subject to change at any given moment. Unfair? Purely.
Nobody ever said life was fair.
As the atmosphere moved to choke the life out of anyone and thing that existed, the rain came. Rain, in this place, was not the slight drizzle, or even hard, piercing drops that people have become so accustomed to. This rain was like diluted acid, burning, thundering like the roar of a million angry sinners unleashing their rage upon the world, nothing sort of unconditional malice, detestation in the earth itself. In the blink of an eye, the municipality was drowned under a flood of rainwater. Miniature rivers formed on the brick roads, washing away loose fliers, aluminum cans, garbage of any and all sorts. From the sky, it was an amazing sight, although morose. The roads appeared fluid, near graceful, a concrete dancer moving to the rhythm of life, which gave a sense of morbid beauty to the cadaverous.
There still is a place on the far side of town, where only foolhardy teenagers, who took the liberty of calling themselves daredevils, cared to roam. A set of abandoned, run-down warehouses existed on the west side, along with a preponderance of the elder brick buildings that were sooner forgotten than renovated. The grand total of establishments were no larger in number than twenty, the piles of rubble far outnumbered the still standing. Among those figures, only six were of any consequence. Three of them were storehouses, one was, by the city's standards, an ancient apartment complex, the other two were without definition. They looked naught more than the common store; dingy, raided display racks could be seen from broken windows. Fragments of glass littered the floor along with bits and pieces of metal- insignificance to the eye untrained. If one were to look further, behind the molded carpets, below the settled groundwork, the worth of platinum could be found, a buried treasure under the grit, so to speak. Further still, behind closed doors, hidden deeper within, laid nothing short of death. Years of being defunct had fashioned a new breed of refuse, something man had not the audacity to claim.
Corpses, they walked the streets when it was not raining. During the years that certain institutions, factories had been in operation, death seemed to become more and more acceptable. Not once should it be expected for an actual dead body to become animated and walk among the living, instead people torn and tattered from life in labor patrol the streets as average citizens, though it is apparent from their lifeless eyes that something got to them. Be the something that is spoken of ghastly in nature and disturbing to the moral center of the individual, or possibly nothing more than repetitive task that are known to drain a person of youth, the fact still remains. Something was wrong, from the looks of things, something had been awry far too long. Water could fix everything.
Things started winding down as the day came to a slow, but steady end. In a manner similar to that of a timed race, people scurried along the streets into their dwellings, to work, anywhere as long as it was inside. Those last few scattered about like roaches exposed to light, eventually finding a place for them as well. The entire ordeal lasted no more than an hour, after it seemed, the city shut down. House lights dimmed, office lights were few and far in between, the street lights shown radiant, light a lighthouse in the midst of a raging storm. Even through all this, the rain still persisted and showed no signs of weakening, only continuing, conquering the land and sky as the great gods of folklore are said to have.
No matter where you looked, finding a single person on the streets after dark was a rarity during the week, telling all who could sense that things were unnatural. On the other hand, there would always be one person, in exact terms, creature out prowling around, keeping hidden from view. Fear, pride, self-righteousness, whatever inspired it, or rather he, to keep away from the rest of society was not questioned, mainly because no one cared to have a beast roaming around in public where he could be seen. Taking the bull hearted way out, mothers and fathers alike told their children nothing other than the standard "Do not talk to strangers" policy and nothing more was made of him. The way he liked it.
While families enjoyed a dinnertime, he would make practice of doing his business, taking care of things that needed it, paying bills, getting food, what all are required to do. Telling from his methods, he was not monstrous in approach, nor was he exempt from taxes or matters such as, simply a creature of the earth who was not readily accepted, a creature with a barcode, mass produced trash with a name. He was, and always will be, a LEGION castaway.
Time and hopes changed, the future became the past with every ephemeral second, and still, conditions did not change, on the surface level at any rate. The hearts of those living in Devil's City are and will always be pallid, icy, hence the welcoming title of "Birthplace of Malice, Home of Lost Souls." In place of something settling, like 'Land of Adventure' or 'Insurer of the Industrialized Future' that crude title was given. It did not do wonders for tourism.
Names aside, the city did well for itself; it always had more of a small village feel to it anyway. People looked out for each other, though it was not always evident, meetings were called regularly to discuss issues, outlanders, and the topics of the new term. Like most villages are in attitude, Devil's City also did not welcome foreigners. Anything outside their make believe realm of 'perfection' was shunned, being open-minded was frowned upon, needless to say, it was a racist community. Black, white, red, nearly all normal pigments of skin for Homo sapiens were accepted, green, blue, orange, anything other than were crassly rejected and shunned; anthropomorphic beings were near fictional in the area. People were known to be so close-knit that many persons had been accused of being inbred. These were not beautiful people.
In which humanity is topsy-turvy.
He saw nothing through the tan blindfold that shielded what was left of his eyes, even if it had been removed, nothing would have come into sight, only a white world, shrouded in the same white fog, like an endless winter. Be it to conserve his energy for more practical purposes, or that he was simply enjoying the cold breath of a late fall eve whilst it rained, no one had the right to say for sure, and it was beyond a doubt that he would never speak a word to anyone. Perched high upon the roof of that old warehouse, he delighted himself in crouching in the rain. Getting his clothes wet was not of any consequence to him, the black full-length coat he had tailored for himself was mostly waterproof, not a cheap piece of material.
Imitating a gargoyle, he leaned over the edge of the building ever so slightly, wet, gray hair cropped short to stay out of his way dripped water down the front of his face, but it was near impossible to tell with the rain pounding down like it was. Hints of green skin poked through his otherwise pasty complexion, the sun was obviously not his friend, for he could virtually put any albino being to unreserved shame. His breath came slowly, slowly, as though nothing in this dimension or the next had any aspiring hopes to burden him. By the forming smirk on his otherwise dull face, he could look happy, or he could be recalling some old tale from his memory, not that it would matter. The way things had been going, he would disappear completely before the sun rose, only to come out when everything was cold, dark. In light of popular belief, this man was far from vampric in nature or belief, only reclusive, wanting nothing more than to leave people alone and be left alone himself.
Claws. Horrible deformed remnants of what should have been hands. The things looked as though they had been victims of elephantiasis as far as size went, nothing more however. The palm of a single hand could have been reasonably eight inches across, extreme even for a person affected by gigantism, such as he was. For all their size, his hands had little feeling in them, barely enough to tell hot from cold, definitely not enough to read Braille, or any other tasks that he would find beneficial. Yet, he never complained, he had hands, that is all he could have asked for, all he wanted.
With a slight sneer, he looked up for the first time this night. As though on queue, the rain suddenly stopped its assault upon the ground and the dark sky cleared, an ashen one replacing it. Shaking his head, water flying off from his hair, he stood up to his full height, straightening his back out, popping joints back into alignment, flexing his fingers, doing the routine he worked out for himself all those years ago to prevent him from stiffening up like rigor mortis had struck him. As he turned around and walked, he counted his steps and stretched his arms above his head, tilting them to the right, left, then right again before stopping at fifteen paces and turning to his right. Head bowed, he stood there, arms crossed over his chest- meditating on the decision before him, smirk still on his lips, which may or may not have been a good sign for him. Infatuated with the youthful belief of immortality, he jumped off the roof, falling unorthodoxly into a collection of soggy cardboard boxes like a rag doll, then hopping to his feet, pretending nothing happened and praying that no one saw him. Judging by the look on his face, he was somewhat pleased with himself for not landing face-first on the cement, or anything equally as hard or nasty.
Brushing himself off lightly, he pricked a pointed ear up from a drooped position and listened. Pots and pans were clinging together as they were thrown into the sink for washing, babies howled as mothers anxiously tried to soothe them, and without fail the rain never ceased, and no one was outside, not that he could hear anyway. Guessing the coast was clear, he reached out with his left hand to find the wall, while his right was extended in front of him to find any objects in his immediate path. Boots clicked upon the sidewalk as he continued on at a relatively fast pace, slowing down only when he miscalculated the distance from one point to another and had to figure out where he was.
The rain guided him, helped him. Clicking off mailboxes, tapping on cars, roofs, phone booths, the entire world as far as he was concerned was put on display for him on a map of sound. His steps had picked up more of a bounce tonight than there had been in a long while. True, while rain was frequent in this area, segregationists were rampant the farther north you went. Even though he could fend for himself in general, one man against a multitude, the odds were not in his favor.
Sighing, he stopped when his hands brushed against a potted plant. He felt leaves when he was expecting pine needles. After all this time, he had the navigating skills of a dead gnat. Placing his hands at his side, he walked on up north, taking slow, balanced steps to avoid humiliating himself by tripping over his own two feet. A barrage of smells assailed him, the one and only bread factory of the metropolis being the strongest of them; it even overpowered the common smell of chlorine, sewage, and rain that was something beyond a doubt remarkable.
"Seven." The single word escaped his chapped lips. From that word alone, you could tell he had a deep voice, baritone yet soft; a trace of an edge in his tone.
He let his mind drift with the scent of the baked bread. Figuring it was safe to relax, he eased up, steps became less and less thought out, more sinuous, elegant. A smile, though small, flashed across his face for the briefest instant before he returned to a smirk, of which faded to a blank stare and he stopped in his tracks, body still as a set lead pipe, fingers of claws splayed out.
Someone was following him.
Footsteps kept following behind him subsequently when he stopped. Staying petrified to the spot, he stayed tuned into the steps. From what he could tell, this person was big, around his height possibly, but a great deal heavier. Cocking his head to the side, he prepared to make a mad sprint across town, now was not the time for him to stand his ground, not after his medicine ran out, he was as good as useless now as far as defending himself went. The joints in his hands began to stiffen and burn when he tried to move them, a token he received from genetics. At a leisurely pace he started walking again, keeping his stride long, but slow, all the while listening like his life depended on his hearing, and it did, to an extent. Someone kept following him, and was getting close, still, he kept moving slowly.
A hand brushed against his coat, not in a grasping way, just a gentle touch- it was too much. Without any further warning, he took off like a jackrabbit, running as fast as he possibly could down the street, taking sharp turns, alleys, anything that he thought would help him on his way. Now that the rain was gone, finding things became ten times harder for him, the only thing left to lead him was his faded memory of the city and where the streets lead.
Mind scrambling to invoke an answer, he kept on, nearly tripping over his own two feet every other step. Why anyone would be out here past nine in the evening was beyond him, especially around here on a school night, it was close to unheard of. As a general rule most people did not travel later at night, it was the time the 'off-color' people had to do their business, even then, they kept to their corners of the world, not out on the streets where everyone could see.
Shaking the thought off, he went back to trying to figure where he was. The smell of bread was gone, he had passed it a long time ago, in its place was the same bleach smell that always was there. Grimacing he pushed on, taking a last turn. If he had any luck whatsoever, he had found his makeshift shelter. Moving slowly till he found a wall, he kept at attention, seeking running footsteps splashing through the water. There was none. Nothing. Not a sound except the soft rumble of thunder overhead. Exhaling noisily, he straightened his clothes and headed down the street, scanning the wall with his right hand like nothing had happened. He was too paranoid for his own good. Recalling his little romp, he managed to chuckle at himself. Pausing when his hands came across a door, he felt the engravement it carefully before moving on.
The words "No Daimao" were carved deep into the wood.
Something splashed behind him. Whipping around to face the sound, he backed away warily. His movements were jerky, unsettled, machinelike. Thunder roared overhead, imitating a great lion's roar, the sound caused him to jump. Collecting himself he took a deep breath and turned back around, silently ridiculing himself for every last movement he made. With the next step he took, he met someone face-to-face, nose-to-nose. His expression resembled a deer in the headlights while his mind fried on the spot, leaving him less than able to communicate, much less run.
Subtle hints of eucalyptus and ivory soap drifted through the air, causing him negligible distress, yet somehow comforting him at the same time. The smell was familiar, like home, a memory long since past. Taking a few steps back to distance himself from the person, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the left then right.
"Mrhh. . ." A guttural sound, one without meaning or explanation, a tic to all those who knew not what to call it; for him, it was the only sound he dared to make.
A rough silence existed, a stillness that was only disrupted by the occasion growl from the heavens and undertone of the citizens as they spied from their locked windows, becoming similar to vermin in their conduct. The beady eyes peering upon them could have overwhelmed even the bravest of warriors, yet somehow they stood still, immune. Every window, there was a person stationed there, a guard to the invisible fortress that was to be protected with their very lives if such was called upon.
"Why do you run from me?" The stern tone pierced the silence like a thousand angry arrows from the past returning to claim the lives they missed. In that cold baritone voice, so much like his own, something astringent and irate survived; still, there was indication of more, something unreadable.
Lips parted, he searched for an answer to a question that both of them were asking 'Who are you?' They dropped into another silence as he looked to the ground. Tails of a coat, a cape, something thrashed about as the wind picked up, the scent of eucalyptus becoming stronger as it occurred. A jolt of electricity should have struck his heart at that very instant; snapping his neck up he tried to meet he opposing person's gaze, gritting his teeth all the while. Naming the voice made all the difference in the world, it was the distinction between knowing yourself and knowing nothing for him. Following what foolish wisdom he had, silence remained a virtue obeyed.
The man's onyx eyes visibly narrowed as he took a gait forward, keeping his shoulders squared, head even to avoid having to move to look down at the creature before him. His presence was imposing, commanding of your attention, the presence of a great leader, respected and feared.
Padded footsteps touched ground, deeming it sacred, brilliant. Energy dropped from the air, leaving them in the presence of death, unshielded, unaware of what was and what is to be. As if all were right, the storm stopped slowly, slowly; thunder cowered, lightning ceased, if on command, the mountains themselves would bow. There was a time where everything ceased. Neither the wind blew nor the earth quaked, the heavens themselves paid their due respect at this single moment, the instance in which it begins.
A package concealed in brown paper, bound by twine, water deprived and warm as hearts blood was forcibly yet gently pressed into the blind man's chest and a hand, calloused and worn brushed against his unshielded face, making his expression change instantaneously. Fingers drew upwards to clutch the package before it fell to the ground, soiled. Twisted images of claws ticked the paper's surface, seeing the shaped from within. A smile, sullen, but not without hope passed his lips before he turned to catch the man before his back disappeared into the arising fog, never to be seen again. So many questions there were to ask, and so many answers went silent in the time, comparable to how night gives birth to day, day to night, an unending circle throughout all time.
"Even you should have remembered your own guardian." The voice was a rumbling baritone, but nevertheless pleasurable to the ears, called, cutting the silence, a knife through warm butter, art in words. The light flutter of flowing garments whispered for a moment before fading away, becoming part of city life, part of the accusing eyes, pointing fingers.
He kept his peace, till the music of the mans steps all but died out to the washing dishes, tapping pencils, the humans. The noise had returned, deafening and merciless, as it always had been before perfection's arrival and departure.
Swallowing the words gingerly, holding them in, letting them play in his head like the great melodies of days, ages, long since past, he barely brought himself to open his mouth, to pollute the once-was. Conversely, only one word would stay in his mind, welded into his very frame. "Guardian"
The title of "Son" would never be awarded to him, not even when the stars faded, and angels gathered in the ethereal twilight to watch the world end.
With another breath, he regained his appearance, shoulders squared off, back arrow straight, and head held parallel, he put on a wry smile, mocking confidence that had died only an instance ago.
"I did remember"
Nothing remained to be done, everything remained to be said, the faulty system kept its balance. Even with graces cast to the wind and dreams shattered, he returned to a place that we all know so well, a place called home. As his door shut and lights dimmed, the sun peeked over the horizon, starting a new day with new possibilities, and, most of all, newfound hope.