Kozmotis wakes up, and immediately wishes he hadn't.
Every inch of him feels raw, as though he's been sandblasted and rolled through salt, and the pain that knifes behind his eyes is to a headache what a tank is to a Glock. Still, he tries to sit up, which is the second-stupidest idea he's had since waking up, the first being waking up in the first place. His left shoulder explodes in pain, and he falls back with a curse.
A faint bluish glow flickers to life somewhere to his left, illuminating the space he's found himself in. It's a small room, not much more than a closet, and lit only by whatever's causing the blue glow. The glow which, he notices, is growing stronger by the second.
A moment later, someone leans over him, and he has to do his best not to stare. Judging by the face, it's a boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen, pale as the moon and slender as a sunbeam, with oddly-curled pure white hair. This would be a strange enough sight on its own, but the boy's unusual appearance isn't what causes Kozmotis to boggle. No, that's because the bluish glow is coming from the boy.
His worried expression splits into a broad, genuine smile when he sees that Kozmotis is awake, and he glows a little more brightly. It's enough for Kozmotis to be able to make out the shape of a door in the dark, pick out the outlines of a railing along the walls.
"Hello," Kozmotis offers, because he doesn't know yet if this strange, spectral boy is hostile or not, and it doesn't hurt to be polite. The boy doesn't respond, at least, not in words, but he does cant his head to one side and give Kozmotis a friendly grin. Kozmotis tries to smile back, hoping it doesn't look too much like a grimace of pain. "Where are we?"
The boy shrugs, gestures with one spindly arm towards the walls. Blue reflects back, eerie and ghostly in the metal of three of the walls. The fourth is mostly taken up by the door, two imposing sliding panels that meet in the middle. It is this that gives him his first clue as to where he is.
It looks like the entrance to the arena, the steel-walled, soundproof testing room where they'd tried time and again to break him to their will, with varying levels of success. They'd kept him in a tiny chamber much like this one until they wanted to begin the trials. The walls seem to close in on him at the thought, and he wishes he could just forget how they could electrify the floor if he didn't respond quickly enough.
"What happened?" he asks, trying to push the thought aside. He doesn't really need a recap; fragments of memories are beginning to trickle back. Screams, muzzle flashes in the darkness, the acrid smell of gunfire and plaster and blood. Searing light and pain. Is it a recent memory half-lost, or an old one half- unburied? He doesn't quite know for sure. "How did I end up here? And…why do I feel like I've been sandblasted and stabbed?"
The boy's bright smile turns sheepish, and he ducks his head out of Kozmotis' line of sight. When he pops back up (literally pops, like a jack-in-the-box), he's holding a single, perfect, deadly-sharp shard of crystal. It seems to catch the boy's soft glow and channel it from base to wicked point, gleaming like a small sun is trapped within it. Kozmotis flinches back before he even gets a good look at the thing, his shoulder screaming in protest.
"Wait," he hisses between his teeth, the pieces beginning to slot into place. "You stabbed me?" He's only dimly aware of the prickle on the edge of his senses that means the shadows have woken up and taken notice, responding to his distress.
The boy's eyebrows furrow at the way the shadows curl, and he raises the prismatic dagger, forcing them to recoil. Kozmotis tries, unsuccessfully, to push himself to his feet. Why this strange creature hasn't yet finished him off, he doesn't know, but he is now very sure that its intentions are not friendly.
He has a sinking feeling that he's been captured by one of the project's successes.
He's only faced a few of the Guardians, the barely-human supersoldiers that the project was designed to produce, but they've always been ruthless, unswayable, and utterly unmerciful. If this boy is one of them, Kozmotis won't escape this encounter. Then again, if the boy were a Guardian, Kozmotis would already be dead. Soldiers like that don't miss.
Unless – he shudders at the thought – the higher-ups have changed their minds. Unless they're so impressed with his aborted escape that they want him alive.
"What do you want with me?" Kozmotis demands, and the boy shrugs his slim shoulders, a frustrated frown passing over his features like a cloud across the sun. He still doesn't speak, and for the first time Kozmotis wonders if he even can. Muteness wouldn't be the strangest result to come from the researchers' tender ministrations.
He sighs, and slumps back onto the floor. If the strange boy intends to kill him, then he'll fight. If the people in charge have decided he needs to be tormented further, then he'll find out soon enough. Until then, though, he might as well conserve his energy, give his aching body the rest it craves.
"What's your name?" he asks, into the silence. The boy flickers, bright and then dim, barely brighter than a moonless night. It might be a language of sorts, but Kozmotis can't understand it.
He blows out a breath, and tugs on the dark behind his head. It coils down and laps lazily around his ears, moving almost as lethargically as he feels. It's reassuring to know that he has a weapon, though, something to defend himself if (when) he needs it. It's reassuring to know that in all of this madness, something is on his side.
It's then that the room lurches, lets out a long, metallic groan, and begins to move.
Kozmotis shouts in surprise and tries to leap to his feet, which refuse to cooperate. He lands flat on his ass before he realizes that the room he's found himself in isn't a room at all. It's an elevator. An elevator which, currently, is rising up towards some unknown. The spectral boy isn't worried at all, but that really isn't reassuring.
It's a short ride, but it feels like a lifetime. The cheery ding! that heralds their arrival sounds more like a death knell. He moves to press himself flat against the elevator wall, to at least try to make himself less vulnerable, but his legs are still far too shaky and weak, and he flops back onto the floor. At least this time he's upright.
When the doors slide open, he flings an arm up to protect his eyes from the sudden glare, silently cursing himself for not realizing that the light would be so harsh after the boy's soft glow. His old commander would give him hell if he could see Kozmotis now, blind, injured, and practically helpless quite literally at the feet of an unknown opponent. He hopes that whatever is about to happen will at least be quick.
"General Pitchiner. It's an honour to actually meet you."
Kozmotis looks straight up, which turns out to be a thoroughly stupid idea. He winces away from the light, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to ignore the afterimages fireworking against his eyelids.
He doesn't need to see the face, though, to recognize the voice of the man who may have saved his life.
He's dimly aware of movement, and the man in the white suit sounds shocked and repentant when he says, "I'm sorry, I didn't think the light would be quite so painful. I'm afraid I did know that the dagger would hurt, but it was unfortunately necessary. There was really no other way of stopping you, short of putting a bullet through your head, and that would just have been a shame…won't you come out of the elevator?"
Kozmotis bites back the sharp retort he's longing to deliver. The man in the white suit seems completely pragmatic and more than a little unhinged, a dangerous combination. The last thing Kozmotis wants to do right now is provoke him.
Kozmotis wobbles a little when he stands, but is pleased to discover that his legs actually support him this time, rather than buckling immediately under him. He still feels strained and raw, but the feeling is fading, and when he opens his eyes the afterimages have finally disappeared.
The man in the white suit is shorter than Kozmotis had thought he was, and slightly rounder, and his smile is huge and charming. "I'm afraid no longer a general," Kozmotis says. "And you have me at a disadvantage."
The little man claps his hands together once, smiling broadly. "Ah, of course! Where are my manners? Manfred Ignatius Moon, at your service."
Kozmotis raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. It would hardly be polite, and besides, he's in no position to judge.
"And of course, you've met Nightlight," the man – Mr. Moon? – continues, waving towards the spectral boy, who bobs his head in something resembling a bow. Kozmotis inclines his head, as well, and the boy stifles a silent laugh behind his hand. "Nightlight is my – shall we say, bodyguard? I asked him to bring you here, and it seems that it was a very good thing that I did."
"Thank you for putting out the lights for me," Kozmotis says quickly. The memories are threatening to turn from a trickle to a flood, and he could swear he can smell the cold-iron tang of terror and blood intermingled. "I have to ask why, though."
Mr. Moon's round face turns serious, his smile hidden in the creases of his eyes. "I need your help."