"ᴀ ᴄᴀᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ɴɪɴᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇꜱ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀʏꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴀʏꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʏꜱ."

For Thomas, death never comes. He is constantly evolving in a cocoon of pain as he drifts by in fighting and running. A ghost and not a living being. That is until a touch of fate and a handful of his own vengeance and misery bring him on a pathway that may transform the creature he has become back to something more human. Or someone else entirely. All the while he has never forgotten who loved him once and killed him first...


'Something wasn't dead. But alive, it wasn't either.'


The pistol is cold steel and steady, smooth against the palm of his hand. Scratches run along the pistol grip. They tell stories of fights, spilled drops of blood and soaring bullets ripping through flesh.

The first was the hardest, oh yes, but pulling the trigger seems so easy. The face of the man is staring at him but Thomas cannot look back. He pulls the trigger again and again and AGAIN.

It sings and screams, a promise of obedience in the hand of its owner.

His crooked scarred fingers brush over it like a lover at night, caring and careful. They check it the third time in a row. They linger along the trigger and remind him of the times he pulled it.

What's your name? People ask.

Thomas, the ghost of a boy answers.

Just Thomas?

Yes. Just that. He lost the rest of himself in the pile of corpses. Somewhere along the way. There are dead eyes and whispers. Something telling him of a hand reaching out for his, of stolen glances and a laugh. It's a story belonging to another Thomas. A boy with hope and light, a boy with kindness. But it's as far as the horizon and as unattainable as catching fog with fingers.

That's all there is to the world. Guns and fog, blood and corpses. And ash.

He learned it the day they left him to bleed out. The day his breath stuttered and his heart stood still for the slightest of moments.

Ash is the snow of his world. It is the first thing the ghost remembers. Soft fluttering, caressing him like the fluttering sounds of wings. Wings like the dark ones, a flock of crows. Ash and crows. A dead plane and rotting flesh. Beaks burrowing mercilessly in faces he has known.

Eyes wide open, blood crusted over a small freckled nose. The shining eye of a bird, a tilting head. A beak burrowing with a SMACK SMACK deep into the open eyes. Thomas watches HE WATCHES he knows he will be the next.

When you have lost your worth, the world eats you.

This knowledge still cannot stop his hand from sliding into the pocket of his coat. There's a piece of paper, resting below the beating in his chest, the place where his heart has once been.

There's a face on that piece of paper. A face the dead boy knew. It's the face of a prince. The face of a friend. The face of a...

Stolen smile, lingering, glancing, careful, but it's there, and it MEANS something-

His strongest memory of him is fire. It burns through his skin . And then nothing more. Until he's healed and still more dead than alive, and they put him in a place where everyone knows they will die eventually. And the ash flutters like snowflakes and the crow's beak burrows in- CAW-

The Ghost stares at the face and behind the fog of memory, something moves, like a sea serpent under the water, lying in waiting. Maw open, to pull him deep down. The Ghost knows what this means. He carries the picture with him for weeks. He pulls it out when no one is watching and he tries. He tries to feel, to swim in the water without getting swallowed. He tries to remember past the crows and the ash. He looks at his arms, bitten by the harsh world. He cannot do it.

It will hurt, he knows. It will take the armor, scratch off the mold the Ghost has carefully modeled for so many years.

The unbreakable boy, the boy they killed but never could diminish.

And the Ghost knows he would break.

But he cannot let that happen. Because the world will eat him if he does.

Hands grabbing, carelessly and cold, smeared with ash. Dirty nails and black boots. The breath of a dead boy. "This one is alive!"

Painful hours in white light and bandages wrapped around him.

How he flees when his feet can move again. Desertion is a crime worth death. But a ghost does not care about the petty sentence to something he cannot have and has kissed already.

How fortunate, the Ghost thinks later, following the reports of losses on the front line as best as possible. His name on a long and meaningless list. KIA. Serving for the good of Norta. Defending.

Means nothing. Never did.

Twice death, twice alive. At first comes fire and after that comes ashes. And no one cares he is still here, and no one knows. A mere poltergeist in the attempt to rummage through the world behind the veil of numbness and betrayal.

With a last long breath, the hand moves away from the pocket. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The Ghost will not be eaten. He will feast himself.

Next to him, someone moves.

They have been hiding in this trench half the night. There's uncomfortable shuffling, uneasy breaths. They are nervous and tired of waiting.

The Ghost can understand. He shares the sentiment. But he will not let it make him reckless. Waiting is pulling their hair. But it will pay off in the end.

The intercepted message was clear.

With leaping force his muscles spring to life, happy to answer.

One could think these men will react swiftly and deadly, in time to stop the ambush. In truth, these soldiers are just as poor and unwilling as everyone. If he had not died he could be in their place now.

Which is why the Ghost does not shoot. Not immediately. Not without provocation. The gun is at the ready. But it is not pointing at people who share the same blood.

Red blood, seeping into ash, it hurts, oh god, he cannot breathe, make it stop make it stop stop-

The gun points blank at the silver officer. And the plan is clear. Kill the officer. Get the documents he's carrying. Run.

Documents viable enough to be carried out in this escort are worth a lot. Intel is all that matters.

The Ghost isn't arguing with the orders. It's simple.

He has a hand. He has a gun. He has hatred and strength.

The boy he once was carried orders from the other side, bending. Submitting to his fate.

There is no fate for the dead. No fate for fog. No fate for a Ghost.

If the officer was a magnetron the Ghost would be dead now. The metal would bend under his will and he would die again and nothing would make the shredded pieces of his heart beat.

But he is no metal bender, no mind-controlling steel. They made sure to know what they are facing.

But that doesn't mean it's easier to kill him.

He's faster than any of them. He moves swiftly and silently.

The Ghost of Thomas shoots, but he misses. The echo rings through the wood and mud. The silver officer grits his teeth.

In the next moment, he's upon one of the other men. His soldiers are fighting. But without much prowess and fire. They know who they are. The silver not so much.

Another shot ringing and a blood-curling gurgle.

Red blood mixing in the mid as one of the ambushers falls back into the trench. A damn shame. He was the one receiving instructions for their little cell. Someone else will take the place.

The Ghost isn't giving up easily. The man is swift but not invincible.

It takes all the strength his body has left to win this dance, but his will to survive is working in his favor.

In the end, there are still four of them and two of the soldiers.

And the officer lies in the mud himself, embroidered rich coat stained with silver blood.

They fall and bleed and die like everyone else. The color is different. But that doesn't mean their heart isn't pumping as desperate. The stopping, pondering breath, the twitching eyes, the loss of control until he fades into unconsciousness. It is familiar. Through the fog, the Ghost will always remember. Never forget. Death is a handiwork. It is a tool. And it is a destination. Few are unlucky enough to escape. Carrying on in a world they won't ever truly belong to again.

The veil is thin, and the hunters are always out for prey. And the birds will feast on the rotten carcasses.

Granted, a pile of silver bodies is nothing against the mass graves filled with red-stained hands and dead eyes.

But sometimes, one dead man is all it takes.

The officer doesn't breathe anymore. Just to make sure the Ghost shoots him in the head.

The Ghost rubs his sleeve over his face, smearing bright blood and mud over the faded cloth. Both red and silver. He puts the gun away. Glistening and deadly. Familiar and safe.

Now he ought to stay dead.

It could be a relief. He supposes other people see it a different way.

The others are staring at him. Beaten and tired, but alive. So much more alive than the Ghost, now that the fight is over and animosity and apathy are settling in again.

The way they stare it is clear what they expect with their latest leader dead. They are followers. They need instructions.

He remembers a dead boy looked for guidance as well. Faintly he knows some people are too scared and helpless. Even if they know what to do. They know but they need it. To carry on. To survive.

He is no leader.

A boy named Thomas was a follower. A servant. A friend. A son. A soldier.

The Ghost is no longer even a boy. He feels a million years old when he takes a long breath. His heart is stone and his skin is bitten by bullets. He will never be weak again.

"Search the bodies," The Ghost whispers. "And then move."

He never gave orders before. He doesn't like it. He doesn't want to care for others more than he has to. A Ghost cannot command the living without taking possession. Fog disseminates. But he's untouchable.

He stares at the face on the paper again, and the scars on his hands seem to dance when he grips it very hard.
The Ghost wonders. A part of him longs for the absurd idea to see into those eyes, after all those years. Would there be any recognition? Surprise?

The Ghost doesn't want to remember, cannot, but his dreams give him away.

His dreams are the want, the questions, and the fear. When he wakes up from those dreams he shakes and breaths too loud.
A part of him is sure. If he ever sees this face again, close to him, the decision will be hard.

Did you know it would happen? The Ghost wants to ask. Where they would send me? A convenient place in the front to get rid of me. Perhaps for the best after what happened. Erase the mistakes and don't look back.

The Ghost wants nothing but blood. The Ghost has a knife-sharp like a razor and even if he burns he will take down all who abandoned and wronged him.
Maybe the boy behind the fog can stop him.

Maybe he doesn't.
At the end of the day, whatever remains and is still inside of the Ghost boy named Thomas, will die. It will scorch and kindle, light up, and feed the world. He's not foolish enough to believe anything he will do can change the fate of the world. He doesn't care for the fate of the world.

He cares for nothing anymore.

All that is left is scars and fog, ash, and dust. A boy surviving death two times, greeted by its mellow kisses but never taken.

If he was to find out why, remember why, would that even change a thing?

With one last look, he crumbles the paper. He doesn't need it to know he has lost it all.

It lands in the mud. Water soaks through ink. The face of Maven Calore turns into a pool of black water. As if that could stop the memory of scars and death and the bitter song of misery from wailing through the air. A symphony only for his ears, following him, wherever he goes.