A/N: This is my first time writing a story for the Angels of Death verse, let alone my first new fanfiction. I apologize for the rather off tone at times in the chapter.
Hope this is worth your time.
Disclaimer: If you haven't played the original game, read the manga, or watch the anime ahead of time, I recommend you do so to avoid spoilers.
Chapter 1: The Scars Remain Raw
Late autumn struck the suburbs amidst the slow traffic. Encompassed within the bath of their own putrid fumes, the cars snaked up hill; a traffic light sat in the middle of it, further slowing down the already stagnant motion on the highway as the people made their way back home from their dreary and mundane routine. In the midst of this stood a town diner within a plaza.
It was relatively crowded most of the day with the staff and customers doing nothing beyond the norm; some people leaving as quick as they arrived. A lone table stood out at which two men sat amongst all the chaos both in and out of the other ones.
The television played in the background, it was the news channel.
The man controlling the black chess pieces moved his knight out of the way, focusing on moving around enemy vanguard.
The news played on the television as the man rubbed his eye, revealing a red iris.
"In other news, authorities continue to investigate possible involvement of an unidentified cult in a building fire that happened a couple weeks back. Reports indicate that around 2:26 am, Tuesday, October the 15th, witnesses reported that the building mysteriously went ablaze accompanied with the discovery of an injured girl and suspicious-looking man emerging from it; to which the police and the fire brigade promptly responded."
"That's checkmate.", said the other man, catching the first man's opening on his last move. His emerald green eyes glimmered upon realizing his triumph. He scratched his brown hair habitually as he swiftly grabbed the black king off the board and gently placed it on the side, "I win again, bro."
His opponent simply stared at the board emptily; his attention drifted towards the television even though he wasn't watching the monitor. The other man's words fell on deaf ears.
"The girl was identified as 'Rachel Gardner', a 13-year-old who had previously vanished during questioning about the Gardner homicide case; she was taken to the hospital and later placed into protective custody. Interestingly, the man accompanying her was identified to be 20-year-old serial killer 'Isaac Foster', who was subsequently arrested and taken into police custody under charges for kidnapping the girl, as well as the slew of murders the police believe he was involved in over the years. To our surprise, he didn't deny the allegations of the murders, claiming them to be partly true, but he denied having kidnapped the girl."
"So they finally caught that crazy serial killer.", the man thought, loosening his tie up a little bit, "What a relief. The bastard."
"Recent investigations into the remnants of the building have found the charred corpse of a man whom authorities are unable to identify. On top of that, evidence suggests that the building's fire was the result of an explosion on the lowest floor, causing it to collapse. Despite hampering progress, police have come to believe that Abraham Gray, a former reverend who had been missing since allegations involving his involvement with the aforementioned unidentified cult as well as the building's owner, may not only responsible for its collapse but the suspicious activities that took place inside as well. It is advisable by the police to be on the lookout for this man or anyone that can potentially be associated with him."
"Yeah, that body can't be Gray's.", he thought to himself, "He's a coward. An ironic one at that. Just keep running you defrocked priest, I'll soon judge you myself."
The man suddenly heard his name being called, snapping him back to reality.
"Cronan!"
Hearing that, he shook his head, lightly biting his lip as he stared back at the television for a split-second more before turning towards the direction his voice was being called in. He responded somewhat nervously "Oh, sorry about that Jericho. I must've zoned out again. Another then?" He rolled up the sleeves of his dark green button-down shirt.
"Sure, why not?", Jericho responded, radiating a smile as he collected his fallen pieces from the previous game. He was quick to assemble the board back to how it was at the beginning of every chess game, waiting for Cronan to do the same.
The man let out a yawn, letting his head rest on the table as he slowly and lethargically assembled his black pieces onto the board mirroring his brother's pieces.
Ignoring his brother's indifferent behavior, Jericho helped him reassemble the last of it. He handed him the black king, "You know you could have easily won that one, Cronan."
Cronan tilted his head upwards, placing his balance on his elbow, "I know." He removed his hair from his eyes, revealing a pair of mismatched pupils; one like his brother's, one not so much, "I could've won all these games if I really committed to it."
"Look at you not hesitating to show that shiner of yours all of a sudden.", Jericho teased, reaching out to pat his brother on the shoulder, "It looks nice; you should keep it out more as there is thing wrong with it, you know."
Admittedly blushing, Jericho's brother soon regained his composure, "I'm painfully aware." He grabbed his black king, twirling it around his fingers as he did that, averting eye contact from his brother, "I keep forgetting; it's a force of habit since the orphanage and the dark times, sorry Jerry."
"Don't sweat it, Crow.", Jericho said, scratching his cheek lightly as continued, "As I was saying, it's not fun when I'm winning all the time, especially since you've just admitted you're not trying, man. You don't apply yourself like you used to anymore."
"I mean, I can imagine it must not have been fun to you either all these years when I started mopping you at this game. And that's considering you used to beat me before I got the hang of it.", Cronan replied, placing the piece in his hand onto the table as he stared at it, "So I'm confused as to why."
"Yeah, you're right. I rarely, hell barely, won any games off you since that time. That's why I don't find it fun when I'm winning against you more than once, especially if its given to me; I like losing to you because it makes me apply myself and then you make it harder to win next time as a result, so it helps us adapt on the fly", Jericho laughed, reminiscing the memories, "You are using rather linear tactics these days, deliberately leave your flanks wide open and do often suicidal moves."
"What are you getting at?", Cronan said, glaring at his brother's nonchalance with any expression on his face.
Intimidated by the look in his eye, Jericho said, putting it differently, "Wouldn't you rather have fun like you used to and apply yourself? You're making easy mistakes these days, you know."
Hearing those words offset his balance; they echoed through his heart, causing him to shiver in disbelief.
'Easy mistakes.'
Cronan, finding himself hurting, closed his eyes as tears formed around his face. He sniffled, placing his head on the table with his arms in a triangular wrapping. Before long, Jericho began to hear faint weeping coming from his brother.
"Cronan, I-", Jericho said in defense, the weight of his what he said to him quickly eating away at him. He rushed over to the other side of the table, hugging his brother from the side. Hearing him repeat the words, "I'm sorry", made him start to have anxiety of his own.
Jericho couldn't help but ruminate over what to say next. Ever since the tragedy, he had been doing all he can to support him, never telling him off or providing him motivation to move past it. At this point he felt that waiting this long to tell him anything was erroneous of him; he avoided the confrontation for so long, but he couldn't see the same thing repeat again over some minor words.
He braced himself, taking a deep breath, sighing; he needed to avoid any hesitation on what to be said, "Cronan, I was hoping this wouldn't happen, but I have to talk to you about something."
The man just nodded in affirmation, still not lifting his head up.
Jericho placed his hand on his back, "I understand what you're going through, Cronan. I know it's not up to me to tell you how to handle your grief, but, brother please, it's been four years. Natasha has been worried sick about you; you never go home before midnight after work, you avoid seeing her, and you spend most of your time here. It hurts me to see you like this."
A weak croak escaped from him, "S-s-she was…she was j-just nine years old. She wasn't even ten yet." Cronan continued to sob, letting the fluid from his eyes expel onto the table.
"Crow, please.", Jericho said vainly, barely able to hold his own tears.
His brother rolled up into a ball, apathetic and uncaring of what was around him, or where he was. He buried his head into his legs, wrapping his arms around them as he rocked back and forward. In this position, his bawling had become more apparent to him.
Jericho struggled to articulate his thoughts, thinking frantically, "I loved her as well, Cronan; she was my niece." He immediately became guilt-ridden of making the situation worse instead of better; his heart ached, "Auranu couldn't stop crying over the loss of her baby cousin. Not a day goes by where she hasn't asked about you, because it hurts her knowing her favorite uncle is hurt so badly."
Hearing the name of his niece caused the man to lift his head up, but he didn't look at his brother. Instead he just rested his head on the back of the seat, looking toward the ceiling, "Nearly a decade, ten years, with my child and she's gone; all that remains are all the things she played with, the photos of her, the lingering memories of her smile."
Jericho couldn't help but painfully listen as he nodded.
A sniffle escaped from Cronan as he wiped the tear-streak off his chin, "They took her away, Jerry. Took her away from us, from me, in every conceivable way just to break me, and they've succeeded. After she was kidnapped, it took hours, weeks, fucking months of nonstop searching to find her; but when I finally did, it was only the beginning. The sight is still engraved into my eyes, into my heart….I can't live with myself seeing what had happened to her…my heart, my love, Lumi…"
He grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the table, blew in it before crumpling it. He tossed it aside off the floor. He turned towards his brother, dried tears streaks across his face, the ones from his red iris (the left one) still freshly streaking down while his green one (the right one) were just about to.
"Cronan, I understand what it's like to lose someone, and what they meant to you.", Jericho wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulder and drew him closer, "Ailumi wouldn't want you see you like this. Wherever she may be right now, it's probably better than this world."
Triggered by that borderline absurdist remark, Cronan landed a punch on him, pushing him away. His unrestrained rage seethed through his eyes, "She was my daughter, dammit. A daughter I didn't lose from birth complications or otherwise; no, this was someone I devoted part of my life to, that I swore to protect."
Shrugging off the blow from his younger brother, Jericho just frowned at him.
Placing his hands on his forehead as he leaned against his elbows on the table, "She had my eyes, my imperfect eyes - a symbol of the fact that my past was behind me; that she wouldn't go through what I went through. Losing her…losing her made me alone again."
"But you're not-", his older brother tried reasoning only to be cut off again.
Cronan turned towards his brother with a murderous intent in his eyes, his red eye blazing with fury as grabbed his brother's collar, "Her death undid EVERYTHING I've worked my way to build up; losing her meant so much more than you will ever will hope to understand. Every struggle for a better future, every promise that I made was all broken in an instant: I couldn't uphold them. I failed to uphold them. I couldn't keep them, not for Natie nor the friend I lost years ago." His grip on his brother's collar tightened, "An imperfection like me doesn't deserve happiness."
"But you do, and you still can. You're not alone, Cronan. Stop being so hard on yourself.", Jericho said, trying to be the calm one in this situation, "I'm here for you now, my only remaining family I have left. I'll always be here from now on."
He let go of his brother's collar, turning the other way angrily as he placed his hands over his black pants. His fists shook with anger as spoke, "Where were you when I needed you twenty-three years ago? I was so lonely."
Jericho chose not to answer, instead just pitifully looked into his brother's pain-ridden state.
"You just had to get yourself adopted, didn't you?", Cronan continued, callously ridiculing his older brother, "You abandoned me. You gave up on me."
While Jericho accepted the cruel reality of his brother's words, he calmly retorted back with the intention of reasoning with him, "Cronan, you know better than to think that is what actually happened. It was my compulsion; I had no choice. Everything happened so quickly, and nobody would listen to my pleas. I wanted to take you with me."
"Why? Why can't I ever trust what you say?", he said with cracks in his voice, "You treated me like dead weight back then and I just can't…"
"Cronan, I was consumed by hatred, but I've changed now.", Jericho spoke with a softer, more even voice. He realized how fallen his brother's rationale was and realized being cold to him now wasn't helping him. He turned his brother around to face him, "I want to ask you this: as much as how things could've been, what good does it do talking about it? Is it making you feel any better?"
The man with dual-colored irises felt the fog in his head leaving as he faced towards the table again. He took the glass of water placed next to him, regulating his breathing as he pulled himself together. While his emotional state stabilized, Cronan couldn't accept moving on, but he knew his brother wasn't wrong either.
Knowing the conversation wasn't going to get anywhere, he wiped the tears off his face before telling him, "Just go, Jerry. I implore you, just leave me be.", not even contemplating an apology.
Jericho sighed, feeling unsatisfied with the outcome of the conversation, "Cronan, you know I cannot-."
Suddenly the sound of his cellphone ringing startled him. Jericho pulled it out, reading the name of the contact before answering it, "Hello."
Cronan couldn't make out what the voice was saying, but he did hear the voice of a teenaged girl on the other end of the line. He simply stared in annoyance, knowing full well who it was.
"Yes, dear?", Jericho replied, donning a smile as he conversed with them, "Certainly, I'll be on my way."
He simply made out from experience what they were requesting based on the direction of the conversation.
"Yes, he's still here, and yes.", Jericho promptly answered, looking over his shoulder in the direction his brother sat, "I'll see you soon, dear. Be at the gate, alright?"
It was all but confirmed to him who it was. He blinked in eyes to wear off his sleepiness.
"I have to pick up Eirene from school.", his brother said, attempting to diffuse the awkward tension from their conversation. "You don't mind if I bring her down here later, right?"
Cronan returned a dismissive look in his eyes, he flicked a white chess piece at his brother, "Do whatever is in your best interest.", he said, sitting down as he placed his head on the table.
Unflinching, Jericho caught it, showing a look of pity towards his brother. He examined the piece of plastic whiter than the shirt he currently wore before placing it into his shirt pocket.
With that he left the diner, quickly making it to his car. Emptying the contents of his jeans onto the passenger seat, he sat down. He removed his wallet from his coat, closing the door behind him upon doing so.
He rummaged through the contents of his wallet, fiddling through it before he finally pulled out a photo. At the back of it was a date written in sharpie.
'July 20th, 2012'
"Her birthday.", he thought to himself, "Just a day before his."
He flipped it around, looking at the photo itself. Though it was somewhat aged, it was still in good condition. Jericho smiled at the photo in retaliation to the smiles in it; the sincerity of the happiness permeated through the photo itself, causing him heartache. It contained a family of three; they consisted of his brother, his wife and a blonde-haired girl who sat in the middle of them with a sweet, serene smile of her own that just shook his entire core.
Jericho caressed the girl's face, silently weeping to himself as he continued, "She embodied the best of both of them. Her countenance but his eyes. Her strength but his kindness. Natie, I was never really good at cheering him up, even after all these years despite my best efforts. You've been a better big bro to him than I ever was but he's so broken now that he avoids you out of shame. My dear kid brother, I love you; I just wish I had the strength, no the means, to help you."
He quickly pulled himself together, not wanting to make his own daughter wait. He gently placed the photo onto the passenger seat before heading out. He stared back at the diner through his rearview mirror as he headed onto the highway.
Cronan simply stared back as he watched his brother drive away. He put the game board away into his briefcase, staring into the distance as his lack of sleep finally forced him to close his eyes.
Tension filled the air as the staff stormed across the hospital floor. The people across the floor made way for the emergency at hand. The attending physician hollered at the nurses and interns as they led the gurney toward the left hospital wing.
"Take him to the emergency room stat!"
In the gurney rested a young boy with mismatching eyes devoid of life; he eyed the roof absently, oblivious, or at the very least unable to move if he was consciously aware. He could see the fog as a result of his breathing off his mask that covered both it and his nose; the mask was connected to an oxygen supply tank at the bottom of the gurney. The world was hazy, little more than a blur to him; he couldn't tell where he was, who he was, nor the practitioners who escorted him.
One of the interns dared asked as they made it to the emergency room.
"What's the situation?"
"He collapsed from the fumes of the fire earlier. Get an AED in the event the patient enters clinical death."
'Clinical death'
Those cruel words rung his ears, as they were the only ones that reached them, "Am I about to die?"
The boy closed his eyes, surrendering himself to that inevitability. He knew not how long it took, but sometime after entering the room, the heart rate monitor situated next to him emitted a singular beep.
The attending physician yelled in desperation.
"Hurry up!"
The staff tore open the boy's shirt, placing the AED's adhesive pads on the appropriate places on his torso. One of the interns turned it on before the signal was given to begin administering shocks.
"Clear!"
The word reached the boy's ears; however, the current state of his body left him unable to do anything in consequence. The current caused his small body to jump, jolting upwards as he felt himself slipping away.
"It's didn't work."
"Idiot, keep going."
"Clear!"
Another shock was administered, causing the body to jolt upwards again. The reading on the monitor didn't change.
"Clear!"
His body jumped again. The result was still the same as was the reading on the monitor.
"Clear!"
The result remained unchanged.
"It's no use."
After few minutes or so of failed attempts, the staff stood side-by-side solemnly, disappointed in their inability to save a life from the incident. Before long the boy would enter biological death, where reviving him would soon become impossible.
One of the interns walked over to the heart rate monitor with the intention of unplugging it. However, they were quickly taken aback when the reading on the monitor emitted a patterned beeping.
The action was followed from coughing coming from the boy before his breathing stabilized. His eyes opened, staring curiously at the ceiling. The staff were relieved; exhilarated over the fact they wouldn't have such overwhelming guilt on their conscious.
"He made it."
"That was such a close call."
"Thank God for pulling a miracle out of His ass. That fire was gruesome."
As the world grew less transparent to the boy, his bodily functions returned to normal. He deeply inhaled and exhaled through his mask. He closed his eyes to rest, feeling unable to move after being pulled back from the beyond.
Sometime later, when the boy opened his eyes, he found himself in a hospital room.
Blinking his eyes a few times, the boy slowly drew himself back from unconsciousness as his mismatched eyes took to his new surroundings. With confusion, he looked around, trying to make sense of the situation.
He sat in his bed, alone, sitting in a dimly lit red room. He examined himself, looking towards the various tubes and apparatuses that were attached to the bed. As he breathed, he noticed a breathing tube inside his nose; the tube extended all the way to behind his bed where the oxygen supplier was.
"Where am I?", he thought, noticing the lack of apparent staff present in his room, "Is it past visiting hours?"
The boy looked towards the left of his bed, noticing the button that was used to call the nurse in the event a person needed something. He presses it, hoping to garner a response from it, thinking somebody would come to his aid.
After two or three more tries, he gave up, deeming it hopeless to attempt it any further. He looked on the other side of the button, spotting some broken loose wiring that barely touched the floor.
"Something is not right.", he concluded, pulling the wires up, confirming the fact that it was indeed broken. Not only that but there seemed to be no discernible outlet for the wire to even enter the walls anyway.
He shifted his attention towards the window, admiring how the moon emitted a bright curious red through the window. Its rays bathed the room as well as the apparent night sky.
"A lunar eclipse?", the boy thought to himself, "Can't be real. A real lunar eclipse requires protective wear to look at."
He looked toward the center of the room, spotting a table where his clothes were.
"But they tore my shirt.", he thought, looking towards the articles of clothing. Seeing an opportunity, he quickly assessed his health, "My breathing appears normal, I'm no longer dizzy and my temperature seems normal as well."
Concluding that he was fine now, he carefully removed the pipes injected into his right arm. He was a little dubious on doing the same with his breathing tube, bracing himself before he did remove the apparatus from his face soon afterwards.
After removing all the apparatus, he hopped off the bed, walking towards the table where his clothes were neatly folded. The cold sensation from the floor which his feet touched coupled with his current wariness made his legs shiver underneath his hospital garb.
Noticing a bathroom nearby, he proceeded to get changed. He locked the door behind him as he examined himself in the mirror.
"What kind of hospital did I go to?", he thought, placing his clothes on the closed toilet, "I look like I belong in a psych ward."
He removed his garb, quickly buttoning his white shirt soon afterwards, "I have to get to the bottom of this. There is no way I can still be in the hospital after what I saw."
Subsequently he put on his grey shorts and his black socks soon afterwards, "I have to find them, I have to get out of here."
He then tied the laces of his brown shoes, "It was a mistake doing what I did but I can't just rot away here, not after I've been given a second chance."
Putting on his black cardigan last, he turned towards the mirror, styling his messy brown hair. He washed his face with cold water, reflexively closing his red eye as if to keep it hidden.
"Nobody is here, so I doubt I need to hide this.", he thought, "They told me I shouldn't have to but…"
When he finally left the restroom, he took one last look the large, red full moon as it filled the room with its red light. He was quick to exit the room, quickly taken aback by the environment.
As he entered the rather ghostly hallway with dreary white walls, he bit his lip in nervousness. He continued to walk down the hallway, his shoes creasing against the grimy tile floor. Eventually, he came across a few cameras.
Feeling that there may have been a chance to be found, he called out to the camera desperately, "Somebody help. Someone, anyone, please help me! If there is anyone, please answer me!"
But there was no response. His words simply echoed across the hallway with the lack of response cracking doubt in his hope. Rubbing his upper arms to cultivate warmth, he continued to walk through the hallway, hesitant to face what potential danger lurked here in this facility.
It didn't take him long to come across a fork; it was revealed that to a large steel door with barbed wire has on the other hallway. Seeing as he had no other option but to go down the first hallway, he came back on course.
The other route led to little more than a dead end, but not before a door could be spotted just next to it. With the intention of going inside, he placed his hand on the metal knob, the coldness contrasted his warm hand. Before he could turn the knob, something else caught his attention.
Directly adjacent to the door, something was etched into the wall. Though it could be read in discernible English, it used rather antiquated terminology. Furthermore, the writing itself was rather scratchy; it was as if it was carved using something sharp.
He read what was on the wall.
Who art thou?
To know, thou must find out for thyself.
Is it thine true self? Or thine desired self?
A derivative? A basis?
A sacrifice? An angel?
The dark? The light?
Know thyself, and the gate shalt open.
"What a crock.", the boy thought, his eye throbbing upon reading that in such poor lighting.
He pondered about those words, notwithstanding the fact that they had no meaning to him. Such thoughts were quickly leeched away as he entered the new room. He took a quick glance around the room; it was similar to the one he was resting in, only this one was properly lit with no fancy, coruscating light. It was just as lifeless as that room though.
The only contents the room contained was a lone desktop computer sitting atop a desk just as boring and white as the room. Next to it sat another machine, some sort of printer. Walking closer to it, there was an object in front of the monitor that piqued his interest. Upon reaching the desk, his eyes opened in horror as to what it was.
A lone chess piece sat on the table. It was a standard white king chess piece that was slightly damaged, eroded as if had been tempered by heat, causing it to some of its paint melt off. It was still in playable condition despite that.
The boy picked up the chess piece as he began to shake uncontrollably. He brought the item closer to his chest as if he were hugging it. He sniffled, "Why me? Am I that unwanted?"
A clicking sound came from the desktop, causing him to return to the situation at hand. He looked up as he heard the sound of a switch flickering up as the sound traversed through the air – an action that was quickly by the sound of fuzzy static that could be heard from the monitor.
The boy grew tense as he watched the monitor boot up, catching the sight of the light flickering repeatedly from it. Before long, some kind of program booted up on its screen without being prompted, opening up automatically. The computer beeped at him as if it was expecting him.
Within a few minutes, an info screen popped up. The directions on the screen let themselves be known:
ENTER DATA
PLEASE ENTER THE FOLLOWING:
What is your name?
The boy dug into his skin with his nails; he wanted nothing to do with this place. His preservation for his own life made him hesitate but his common sense knew the correct thing to do was comply. To elicit warmth, he placed his hands in his cardigan pocket, feeling his hands rub against the contents of them. He tried to be strong.
"Cronan", he answered promptly.
As if responding to what the boy said, the monitor blinked a few times. Then after a while, the computer restarted, with the directions appearing on the screen again just a few minutes later.
What is your name?
"I said 'Cronan'.", Cronan repeated, feeling overwhelmed by the machine again.
The computer did the same thing as earlier. It began to boot up again.
"Is this thing broken or something?", Cronan asked himself, crossing his arms as he walked back a little.
Booting up, it returned to the same screen; this time the question changed slightly.
What is your full name?
Cronan couldn't believe what he had just read, "I'm an orphan. I have no surname. Unless, no please don't ask me that. I buried that surname long time ago." He placed his hand on his forehead, jerking violently from the memories associated with it, "Please, I beg you."
The futility of being hesitant now was doing him no good. He didn't want to say it, not wishing to associate himself with it. Embracing that name meant embracing something he'd rather throw away and forget.
But the machine simply coldly sat there. It was not a machine of loving grace watching him, it felt like his own personal version of perdition; an infernal abyss specifically designed for him. This second chance at life suddenly felt like a trip to Hell. He gulped, taking a deep breath before vociferating the name, "Ph-phaedrus."
The sound of the name caused his shaking to stop, as he simply stared down in sadness, "Cronan Phaedrus."
The next question appeared on the screen.
How old are you?
"Eleven", Cronan said without hesitation.
Next question.
Why are you here?
He gave a straightforward answer, clenching his fists as he did so, "I was in the hospital."
The machine asked another question.
Why?
"Huh?", Cronan inquired, looking at the machine.
The message repeated a few times.
Why?
Why?
Why?
"Why what?", Cronan yelled. His nervousness and tension having spiked to the point where he couldn't contain his emotions. This caused the machine to clarify itself.
Why were you in the hospital?
Those words caused the memory of an explosion to replay in his head. He responded accordingly in light of what transpired, "Because I was in a fire. It destroyed the orphanage I was living in. I escaped, but collapsed from the fumes. Somehow, I ended up in the emergency room afterwards. But after that, I remember nothing."
The machine asked one last question.
What will you do now?
He jerked violently as his tension ate away at him, tears escaping his young eyes, "I just want to leave, to go home. I'm too afraid of this place…of being alone…it makes me think way too much. I just want to see her again…see THEM again."
Satisfied with his answer, the computer displayed the following prompt.
ENTRY COMPLETE
DISTRIBUTING PLAY START KEY CARD
A series of beeps followed, and the card machine started to whir. He turned to it, spotting a card key exiting the tiny slot it had. Soon afterwards, the computer shut itself down.
"This is for that gate from earlier.", he noted, as he read the card, "Play start?"
He exited the room, slowly making his way to the gate situated in the other hallway. He inserted the key card in there, causing the gate to open. He then walked past it, quickly noticing an elevator at the end of the hallway.
Cronan rushed towards it, soon finding himself standing in front of the control panel, "It only has an up button. This must mean I'm on the bottom floor."
A large influx of static played overhead, causing the boy to flinch briefly. On the intercom, cracking through all the static, a voice could be heard.
"The boy on the bottom floor has been selected as a sacrifice. Please begin preparations on each floor."
"Sacrifice?", he repeated, already feeling disgusted by whatever that can entail.
"Beyond here lies the play area. The gates will now open."
The elevator opened as Cronan walked into it.
