the boy who lives a lie


He watches the factory from across the street, utterly conflicted. The slip of paper in his pocket burns the denim with a riddle he isn't so sure he has authorization to mess with. He knows where his loyalties lie, who his soul answers to. Will his master approve of this?

He sets his teeth in a scowl.

No, she will not approve. She'll have him in remedial for months—maybe even years—if she catches wind of this...this treachery. Hell, he can get time in the Pit if she thinks the shoe fits.

He shudders.

"Shit," he grunts under his breath. Despite all the alarms sounding off in his head, telling him no, a quiet voice in the back of his mind tells him he needs to do this. Needs to get rid of the blurs and the static fogging his head, making it hard to remember the before the man keeps talking about.

He has to do this.

After his deliberation, he smoothly slips off the edge of the roof—his temporary hot seat for the past hour—and yelps when he doesn't stick the landing. He makes quick work of his hands when he tries to stop the tumble, skidding them against the gravel. He swears under his breath.

"Just my luck," he seethes. His hands spurt trickles of red as specks of gravel sink into his palms. To make matters worse, his jeans tear open at the knees. They're his favorite pair. "Can't catch a break to save my life."

He stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out the note, hoping the message will sink into his resolve (or what he has left of it).

Find the girl with the star tattoo. She remembers.

At the bottom, a series of numbers lead him here. Coordinates to the factory he now stands a breath away from. She remembers, he thinks. He then thinks of the man in the cell, claiming to be feeding him the stone cold truth (or a bucket of lies). Claiming to know him. That man remembers, whereas he's left in the dark alone at his master's beck and call. No questions. No answers. Just the way his master likes it.

His hand stills in front of the entranceway, shaking.

It bothers him that he has so willingly fallen into this...what? Trap? Revelation? He doesn't know what to call it, but he does know it's worthy of his hesitation. Eventually he musters up the courage to press forward and when the door grates open against the metal floor, his throat itches with a dryness he's never known before. He steps inside and searches the wall for a switch. When he finds it, he balks at what's brought to light.

Nothing. It's empty aside from some old equipment and crates lying around. Not a single living soul in sight. Just a cesspool of rusted iron and vermin.

He kicks one of the crates with his boot. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!" So close, yet so far. He lets his guard down for one second and his name is run through the gutter, tainted by his naivety. He's a fool for believing in the prisoner's lies, for actually thinking there's something he needs to remember. There's nothing to remember. He knows who he is, and shame on him for ever thinking otherwise.

He spares the shattered mirror in the corner a glance. Muddy brown hair and eyes to match. Dull, just another face in the crowd, and a thousand leagues short of the extraordinary. But it's him, right?

"Her illusions are getting to your head, kid. Look harder."

A flash of green catches his eye and he blinks at how bright it is. It's gone in a heartbeat, lingering only for a moment to jump past the static and the blurs, and he quickly finds himself alone with his reflection again. A boring, tasteless portrait of who he knows he is. If he squints, he swears it's blurred at the edges, but then he thinks it's just all in his head and leaves it at that.

"Such an idiot," he grumbles, facing away from the mirror. He wants to punch the man in the jaw, to put a bullet between his eyes. Though before he can toy with that gory fantasy in his head, something catches his eye. Scratches in the metal flooring to his left, except not scratches, words. A message carved into metal. He reads the words carefully and a breath hitches in his throat.

Wait for me, Daddy. I'm coming.

-Your Little Star


"She's your daughter," he says flatly, staring at the man rotting in chains behind bars. He has an appearance like no other: battle scars, wild blue hair, and a star tattoo on his shoulder. The scars tell of a history of violence, a warrior with a lot of fight in his blood. The wild hair is an anomaly to him—is the blue natural? The star tattoo is the dead giveaway, the hint that slipped his mind before.

A crazed grin splits the man's lips. "Ding, ding, ding. Give the boy a prize."

"No games," he spits, gripping the bars. "I want answers."

"And you'll get them when you're ready."

"I am ready."

The prisoner gives him a quick once over and scoffs. "You're full of shit."

He grits his teeth. "Why have me look for your daughter, huh? What's so special about her?"

"Well, she's kinda my kid," he drawls. "Fucked a beautiful woman and she popped out nine months later. You know the drill." He stops. "The witch ever teach you 'bout the birds and the bees? Because I sure as hell ain't giving you the talk."

The bars start to rattle in his grip and he ignores the red swelling in his cheeks. "BlackStar."

The man chuckles. "Finally, some formality. You know the name of the great me." His grin is disgustingly smug. "How's it feel to say it?"

"Tastes like piss in my mouth."

"See? That's why you're not ready."

He groans and bangs his head against the bars, his grip now slack. "Please." He's begging now. How pathetic. "Give me something, or you're the one full of shit. How can I trust you?"

BlackStar nods his head slowly, eyeing him like a boy. A boy that knows nothing of the world around him. But he's not a boy, he's a man.

"You went out there looking for her," he said, still looking at him like a pacifier is dangling from his lips. "Which tells me you're not a complete lost cause."

"Gee, thanks." The fantasy of punching BlackStar's block off seems more and more enticing with each word that falls out of his big mouth. "Doesn't mean I owe you anything. Especially not my trust."

"But here you are. Down in the dungeons with me. In the restricted area, right?" BlackStar points to the sign on the wall behind him and he gulps. "And giving a damn about what I have to say."

"I don't give a damn about what you have to say, you...you!"

"Think about it, kid," BlackStar cuts him off before he has the chance to label him with a curse. "Why are you humoring me or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Think."

His palms are sweaty and his throat is dry again, choking on desert sand. He doesn't have an answer. He needs an answer. Why doesn't he have an answer?

"Shit, if you think any harder your brain will blow chunks."

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Something has to give. He has to put two and two together. He needs to know the why so he can wipe the smirk off that shithead's face.

"No shit. I can see the smoke pouring out of your ears. This ain't rocket science, kid."

He can't think straight. Not here, anyway. The urge to march into the cell with a .22 in his hand is strong and unrelenting, clouding his head, so he settles on a subject change. "She was there."

At that, BlackStar loses the snark. "You saw her?" The vulnerability leaking in his voice doesn't match the scars marring his skin.

"No, but I know she was there. Left you a note."

BlackStar lurches against the chains. "What did she say?"

Power. He has power over him now. For once in his life, he has the answers. The ball is in his court. He grins. "I don't exactly kiss and tell. You need to give to receive."

BlackStar jerks forward and the chains dig into his skin. Not even a wince. The blood drips from his fingertips, creating a small puddle at his feet, but he acts like it has no effect. No pain, no gain.

"Don't pull that bullshit on me," BlackStar snarls. "Give me the message."

"Only if you give me answers. I'm ready," he stresses. "Tell me what you think you know about me. Tell me." A bead of sweat drips over his temple as he squares his jaw and clenches his fists. Answers. That's all he wants.

"It's too early. Give it some time, kid."

"Stop calling me that!" He snaps, and his body trembles. "I'm not a boy. I'm a man, and I deserve some answers!"

BlackStar shakes his head. "You're only 14, Shane."

"I—wait, how did you know that?" The way BlackStar says his name sounds so natural and so familiar, likes he's heard it hundreds of times. It rings in his ears, pulsating. The static in his head is overwhelming as he takes a step back from the cell. "I never told you that."

"Like I said, I know you."

Shane takes his head in his hands. "No, you're wrong. I don't know you, you don't know me. We're strangers."

"Shane, c'mon. You gotta remember."

"There's nothing to remember," he says, eyes sparking with the resolve he's been lacking as of late. Answers will not bring him closure if there's no truth behind them. BlackStar's credibility is touch and go, and he's starting to think against it. He needs to start putting more faith in himself. "I know who I am."

"Do you?"

Shane turns on his heels and marches down the dark corridor, leaving the prisoner in his wake. There's nothing more to say. Better to leave things alone than to let the man get a rise out of him, to make him question everything again.

"Stubborn as hell like your mother," BlackStar mumbles. "And loyal like your old man, but to the wrong people. What a fucking mess you turned out to be."

The prisoner is just out of earshot, so his words slur into nonsense in Shane's ears. He shakes his head and slowly ascends the cobblestone steps. He's due to check in with his master soon, so he's decidedly done meddling here with the prisoner. No more useless games and self-doubt. BlackStar is full of shit, he needs to accept that.

"See you some time tomorrow?" BlackStar shouts, and his voice echoes up the staircase. "I want that message, you know!"

Shane stops halfway up the steps and grinds his teeth. He knows the answer to BlackStar's question, but it'll irk him too much to speak it aloud. The fool in chains doesn't need to be any more smug than he already is.

"I'll take that as a definite maybe?" Shane can almost imagine the smirk etching into the joker's face right now. Almost.

He reaches the top of the staircase and slams the door behind him, pretending like he doesn't hear the obnoxious cackling from below.


"You're late, Shane."

He cringes at how his name drips from her lips like poison. She sounds angry, furious even. Has she been keeping close tabs on him? Does she know about his secret trips to the dungeon? He bites his lip. If so, he can rightfully declare himself a dead man walking.

"I'm sorry, my lady," he drops to one knee and bows his head to pay his respects. "It won't happen again."

"That it won't." The raven—Carlyle, the little prick—caws at him from atop her left shoulder. The bird enjoys teasing him relentlessly, especially when it knows he's upset their master. "For being tardy, I've extended your sparring session."

At this, he perks up. "Extended?"

"Yes. Another hour. Oh," she tacks on with a pop. "And I've changed your opponent."

"May I ask who my opponent is now?" He asks, eyeing her warily. The feathers standing at attention around her collar are frazzled, her robe melting into a pool of black at her feet. Not inviting whatsoever. His master isn't privy to forgiveness—even if his only known crime is a matter of being late. He must expect the worse.

"That'll be me," a voice slurs, and Shane feels a lump starting to clog his throat. He turns to face the man with the dual swords—the devil himself in this castle, hair dyed red and prickling up like pitchforks. Shane feels his soul rattle with uncertainty, unwilling to call it fear.

"I hope you've been preparing for this," his master whispers in his ear. She drops a sword in his hands and the end of it clangs against the floor before he can find his grip. It's heavy. "It'll weigh heavily upon your soul if you've neglected to do so." The glint in her eyes tells him what he already knows.

This is punishment.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun!" His opponent—Darius, the father of all pricks—sing-songs.

Shane looks to his master as he raises his sword. Punishment, yes, but does she know? The way she swings a pocket watch from her finger-like talons sends him a clear message.

With a loud battle cry, Darius starts his charge. His arms and swords face behind him, cutting through the very air.

This is punishment for being late.

Darius shoots past him and lands a blow to his thigh. He sets his teeth and bears it the best he can without crying out.

Shane hates to think what his master will do if she finds him in the dungeon consulting with BlackStar.

Another charge, another cut, and he falls to his knees and plants his sword into the floor.

He'll be killed, brought back, and killed again.

"Had enough, already?" Darius taunts. "I've barely even worked up a sweat."

Shane uses his sword to get back on his feet. "You're never enough," he spits, and the next couple hours render him useless as Darius knocks him around like a rag doll.


Everything hurts. His body, his mind, his soul. It all aches. He lays in his cot and thinks of how stupid he is to have egged Darius on.

"A sound soul dwells within a sound mind, and a sound body."

His head shoots up, and he groans at the pain laced into the action. He risks a glance at the bandage on his hip and sees the splotch of red. Bleeding again. Just his luck. But...that voice. It sounds so familiar, so inviting, so full of love. He knows it, but he can't match the face with the voice. Everything's so blurry.

The door swings open and he flinches. "Shane. Roll up your sleeves."

His master's voice lacks the loving touch the other has exponentially. She marches into his room—barren aside from the cot and a mirror—and grabs his arm before he has the chance to do as she says. She has no patience for him right now. Carlyle caws in his ear and he bites back a sneer.

"Just more tonic," she says, tearing his sleeve. "Nothing you're not already accustomed to."

"Yes, my lady." He listens because he has to, because she is his master. It's a relationship much like the weapon and meister partnership from years past, but nothing is set equally. He and his master are not equals. He is the mud caking the bottoms of her shoes.

"Keep still, boy."

He doesn't know why he shakes still, afraid of a simple needle. This injection is routine before he goes to bed. It's nothing new to him, but he shakes and his master hates it. She's sure to reprimand him soon. As if to spite him even more, Carlyle hops on the cot and starts picking at his bandages.

"H-Hey, stop that," he warns. He then yelps when his master prods a nail into one of the cuts on his hip. She treasures the bird—it's her precious little 'Lyle. The bird is ranked higher than him on the totem pole, and he's just insulted it right in front of her. Bad move on his part.

"Mind your place," she whispers, and he grows deathly still. He knows better than to reply and bites his tongue. When she starts searching for a vein, letting him off the hook if only for a moment, he notices something different. The vial. The tonic inside isn't clear like usual. In fact, it looks dark and thick enough to be tar. He holds his breath as the needle pricks his skin, and the contents slowly drain into his bloodstream. He feels nauseous.

"There. All done." She slips the needle out of his arm and tosses it in the trash without a second thought. "Now that wasn't so bad. Right?"

He can't speak coherently anymore. The sludge in his veins is making his head spin. Walls are swirling, faces are morphing, the bird's caws sound like somebody screaming. He wants the world to stop spinning. He wants it all to stop.

"Sleep tight. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow." She walks to the door and Carlyle flies off the bed and lands on her shoulder—the whole scene flashes before him like a panoramic. It hurts his eyes.

"L-Lady Raven," he manages, and his voice sounds so deep and gravely. It's not him speaking, it's someone else. An imposter.

"Yes?"

Everything starts to burn.

"M-My blood's boiling," he rasps, clutching his arm. Something is lighting a fire in his blood and erupting against his skin. His skin is crawling with fire.

His master's smile is coy, warping around her face in his twisted vision. "Good," she says, and that's the end of it. The door clicks shut behind her and he's left alone.

"A sound soul dwells within a sound mind, and a sound body."

His soul, mind, and body are not sound. His soul pulsates in his chest and winces at the incoming flames. His mind is not itself, twisted in ways he can't fathom because he can't think. His body is beaten from his fight with Darius, and the blood beneath his skin hisses like a roaring flame. Nothing about him is sound, but the voice doesn't stop. The same words, over and over again. It's a mantra stuck on repeat in his head. Again and again. Sound soul, sound mind, sound body. The voice doesn't sound so sweet anymore—it now reeks of foulness, like the words of a demon. A little demon. Red, horns, tailored suite. It dances to a horrible beat. Sound soul, sound mind, sound body. It grins and snaps its fingers at him.

"S-Stop!"

Click. No voice, no demon, no burning. It's all gone without a trace. He's left alone in his cot and his mind swears a brief oath of silence. He doesn't hear anything, nothing but his own deep breathing. His hair sticks to his forehead, slick with sweat. His shirt is soaked.

"I can give you power."

He rolls off the bed in a panic and scrambles to grab something, anything. He's disappointed when his search comes up empty. No weapons. Nothing to defend himself with. Not that it will make a difference with how skewed his perception is. Everything is spinning again.

"Who's there?" He asks, his voice weak and still foreign to his ears.

"Unimaginable power. Greater than you've ever known."

"Who are you?" It sounds like the demon again. The sound of its voice is too dark and distinct to forget.

"Play…"

"W-What?" The tone is softer than usual, but still demon-like.

"PLAY!"

A sharp piano chord rips into his ears and he wants to scream, wants the world to roll off the record player he sees in his head. He needs everything to stop.

A flash of green catches his eye—like back at the factory—reflecting off his mirror. He follows it, curious to know why everything is so quiet now. The piano has faded away and the demon's voice is mute. He doesn't remember ever hearing them stop.

"Shane...you gotta remember."

He looks at his reflection, puzzled. Green eyes and short ash-blonde hair. Where's the murky brown? The tasteless portrait without a drop of extraordinary? Where is he? This isn't him.

"I know who I am."

"Do you?"

He presses his palm against the mirror, tracing the stranger staring back at him. This isn't real because it isn't him. He knows who he is, he really does. Why doesn't anybody believe him?

"A sound soul dwells within a sound mind, and a sound body."

He's not sound, but he knows what kind of person he is.

The image, strangely clearer than what he's used to, shifts back to the reality he's familiar with. Muddy brown hair and eyes, the reflection blurring at the edges. Just like what he's always known.

"Ah, that's better."

He promptly tips over on his side as his world rolls off the record player and passes out.


As always, thank you for reading and reviews would be mighty helpful.