A/N: Hey, and welcome to Shadow Games, a new fanfic by yours truly. This is rated M for adult content, violence, sex, and all those lovely things that would have actually gone down had this not been made a rated-E game. Yes, there is yaoi. No, it is not mindless boinking. With any luck, this story will make you laugh, cry, and think of the games in another light. It may also become quite long. This introductory chapter sets the tone of the whole story, but the story doesn't actually start until the next chapter. With that said, enjoy!

Before we start, here's something you should know. In my mind, Dark is a changeling-sort - he is a formless creature that mimics what he sees. That should help clear up a little confusion.

Warnings for this chapter: Nondescript Violence

Dark, as it were, was a more or less peaceful creature. For many years he kept quietly to himself, rising only when the beasts called to him. He had been that way for as long as he could remember, living on the land, as much as he could. But now, bound to this room...

There was only so much that his illusions could create in a dead place. There was no sunlight, and he could feel himself withering, the lush landscape he had built in his mind, in this room, slowly consumed by mist and stagnant water, the trees devoured until only the sickly husk remained. These were orders, and failure was met with pain, something Dark was never very good at containing. He didn't like pain, didn't like the responsibility, and more than anything, he didn't like this place when home was so close .'

If his keeper hadn't been so close, he would have ran, both he and the Lizafols that had been contained with him. Especially the Lizafols, the water in the temple soaking into their delicate scales and encouraging rot. They lived in the hot, dry places of the north, just as he lived in the grassy fields that surrounded the lake. For them, there was nothing but cold and misery, for Dark, there was nothing but starvation and emptiness.

He could see it in himself. He was becoming thinner every day, thinner in a manner quite unlike a human. No, he had begun to be able to see through his own body only last week, and now, he could scarcely see himself at all. There was no light here, nothing to cast a shadow, nothing for him to cling to. And no matter what the King of Evil had in his horribly twisted mind, it was going to kill him. Freedom was not an option, not unless the Hero of Time fell, one whose name was far too well known in those parts. He feared for the Lizafols, for sure, but he rested in the comfort that soon, they would be deep in the endless sleep.

He wasn't sure about himself. He was an elite, cast in the mold of whatever he pleased, a skill far greater than any beast that had wandered the lands. He could defeat any with a swipe, shatter bodies and bones like glass. It was nothing he had pride in, nothing he ever wanted to use. But for a taste of light again, for his home, he would kill. The King of Evil knew it as well, and used him for it.

"Creen..."

"Aspar?" Dark stood up quickly, rushing to the aid of the Lizafol that had all but fallen into his prison. He was a mess, the poorly-fitted, unnatural armor digging into his already-tormented skin and scales. They had gone soft already, the moisture far too much for a creature such as himself, and it wouldn't be long before they started sloughing off, leaving him exposed to the elements. He made a quiet, pitiful sound, blood at his lips. "Shh, Aspar, don't you worry. I'll have you taken care of...I know how to heal."

It was only a half-truth, but Aspar never learned the difference, beheaded by Dark's sword in a swift, mechanical movement. There was no healing that would save them from this fate, only extend it. Honestly, at this point, Dark wouldn't have turned down the business end of his blade himself. But killing himself was no use - once he got out, oh, he had plans. First he would gather his strength again, and ally the tribes...impossible, but a dream. He could understand it - this man, this so-called king, had no control over many of his men. The Keepers he created, the Moblins obeyed him, but the rest was strategic, simple planning that warred every beast against a common enemy. And to that enemy, every one of them fell. This was not war. This was execution.

A sound caught his attention, and he whirled to meet it, suddenly feeling hair whip his face, a mask of cloth restricting his breathing. There was a young man there, frozen in place by the door, eyes wide. Dark didn't move, the Lizafol's head still in one hand. The other man's footsteps echoed on the ground, never looking away, one after the other...the door shut.

Dark dragged the Lizafol's body into the corner of the room and left it.

Something was coming.