Darkness.
Images. Colors. Blurry shapes of days past. Dark spots. Bright light.
Everything he saw.
Voices. Soft, caring. Cruel and mocking. All blend into one incomprehensible cacophony.
Elegance. Lightness. Freedom.
No pain.
It doesn't hurt.
At last.
Peace.
Quiver. Tremble. Something snaps into place.
His hands are bound. A sensation of falling. He screams. Something chokes him. Something envelops his chest, warm and heavy on his being. He tries to pull, push it off, scratch it away. His fingers become fat, clumsy, rough, warm.
Again.
He opens his mouth and instead of the nothingness of before a gust of air hits him.
More, more. His body wants more. His throat is overwhelmed, he can't get it to open, he can't… breathe.
A hand grips his throat, thumb pressing into his windpipe, forcing it open again. Air, more delicious, fresh air.
His ears are ringing. His muscles refuse to move, leaving his body limp. He snaps his eyelids open, only to be greeted by a blurry blend of colors. His ears work again, hitting him with a barrage of sounds.
Words, talking. A dialogue. He doesn't understand them. He hears a new combination of sounds, new vowels, new words. A foreign language.
"Subject is awake, respiratory issue removed, continuing to monitor." The voice isn't far away, two, maybe three steps away.
He wants to puke. His senses aren't ready, not yet. He doesn't want to go back. He wants to move on.
He wants to die.
He would give in to the nausea, but his mind speaks against it. He knows what they will do if he misbehaves.
He closes his eyes, and tries to move his hands.
Pain.
He howls as the feeling overwhelms him. Sharp pain appears in both of his arms, the feeling akin to having needles shoved into his flesh. He clenches his hands over what's underneath him in reflex, bringing forth even more agony. His eyes roll back into his skull as his body shakes and trembles.
"Morphine. Morphine! We need morphine!" Another voice, echoing, unfamiliar, completely incomprehensible.
Among the barrage of the torturous stabbing he notices a real injection. Somebody injects him with something, he wants to panic, to defend himself, but the suffering proves too great to overcome. His hands are gripping the soft material, the only action he has the clarity to take.
The screaming continues. He feels like his throat has been massacred by a cheese grater. He feels the familiar, coppery taste in his mouth. Suddenly, many cold, hard hands grip his limbs and torso. They hold him down, speaking in their strange language. Among the exchange his ears singled out a familiar note. Inazuman.
"Shh, shh, calm down. I know it hurts, but it's fine now. You're not in danger. We will help you." Someone places a hand on his forehead. It's cold, hard, but smooth all the same. Not like a glove, or a hand.
Like bone.
He listens on. The pain starts to fade rapidly. What? What did they do to him? His torture ends, enabling his breathing to retake it's slow, rhythmic pace - slowly, yes, but surely. His hands loosen up, allowing the whitened flesh to finally rest. He lets his jaw drop, finally lifting the pressure from his new, complete set of teeth.
Black spots dance before his closed eyes.
"If you can hear me, close your left hand." The voice is calm, steady. Soothing. He does as it asks.
"Subject is sapient." The voice turns unfamiliar, and then familiar again. "How are you feeling?"
He opens his mouth to speak, but a feeling of dryness overcomes him. He coughs. A rough whisper is all he can manage.
"Wat.. er…"
"Bottle." A straw is pressed on his lips. "Here."
He greedily takes the straw and starts drinking. Cool, fresh, nourishing water pours into his throat, raw and bloody from his screams. The taste of copper is washed away. He stops only when there is nothing left in the straw.
"I take it you're feeling better now?"
"Yes." He says, now more clarity in his exhausted voice. "Where… am I? Who are you?"
"Tell Lord Sunqu the procedure was a success. Leave me with him." Footsteps ring out in the room, and he hears the door click shut. "You are on an island far from the shores of Snezhnaya. We will bring you back to health, don't worry. They won't reach you here."
He ponders on the words briefly, before carefully picking the question. "How can I trust you?"
The thing laughs, voice dry, artificial and echoing. "Think about it. You have no other option, do you?" A pause. "I'm sure you have a name, human."
"Denki. S-Sakurai Denki." The black spots slowly fade out, his head throbbing at a bearable level now. Denki slowly cracks open his eyes, wet from tears of agony.
His eyes instantly land on the thing beside him. On a luxurious armchair next to him sits a dark figure, the volume of its jet black robe contrasting with the slimness of the skeletal legs, protruding from the cascading fabric, one casually resting over the other. The bones, polishes to a perfect, pristine white, reflected the bright yellow light from the chandelier overhead. The hood of the robe was pulled back, revealing the skull. It was complete and undamaged, no teeth missing and the jaw in place. Among the pitch black of the sockets were two small, bright pupils. The undead twirls a pencil in its right hand, the other resting over a clipboard. Both of them are covered in black, tight leather gloves.
The only colorful element of the outfit is a green stole. The emerald silk is lined with golden thread, forming a beautiful pattern around the edges. On the left end of the cloth is a series of strange and complex symbols, ones he had never encountered before. On the right one are two pictograms. The very end of the fabric is taken up by a combination of three circles, layered together with geometric patterns filling up the spaces in between them. Inside the smallest one is a turned square connected to the circle with thin, straight lines. Inside the square there's a small diamond, making the whole symbol resemble an eye. Above it is a woven depiction of a fly. It remains impressive, even despite the design's simplicity.
The undead laughs, pulling Denki's mind back to reality. "Mesmerizing, is it? I'll have you know that it was woven by the same craftsman that created Baal's kimono."
Denki furrows his brows. "Is he… undead too?"
His interlocutor scoffs. "The Necro Archon doesn't condone wasting talent."
"The Necro Archon? Is he one of the seven…" Denki looks at the skeleton in front of him, searching for the right term. "... sir?"
"Hm. Many call me The Watcher, for I am the guardian and caretaker of Nindānu. You might use that title as well." He lowers his clipboard. "He is indeed. The eight of them. But it is not important now."
The Watcher raises up, placing his instruments on the armchair. He walks towards Denki, and gently pushes his chest down so that he lays back on the bed. "You are weak. Judging from the pain, the soul has not adjusted yet."
"What does that mean?" He looks down at his body, finding its skin tone to be far paler than before. "Am I d-dead?"
Watcher rests his hand on the human's forehead briefly, before retracting it and turning around. Denki's eyes catch a silver tray, and his heart immediately picks up. "No, of course not. If you would be, would you feel pain? Or thirst?"
The liche turns around. In his hand is a glass ampule containing a few droplets of a dense, purple fluid.
The prickling of tears behind his eyes return, and so does the pain. Everything flashes before his eyes, the all too familiar sinking feeling in his chest making its return. He tries to move, to run, to escape, but his attempts die at the immense stabbing in his muscles. His chest is rising rapidly. "N-no… please… d-don't!"
Watcher's fingers travel to the cap, ready to break the seal. "Don't worry, Denki. This is not poison. It will help you sleep, as well as ease the pain. Your soul needs to rest, it has to recover. To get adjusted to your new body."
"What did you do to m-me?" He asks, voice shaky and unsure.
"How about a deal? You'll take this, and then I will answer your question. You'll wake up in about ten, twelve hours, and then I will give you something to eat." Though his voice, despite its unusual nature, is soft, the resting grin of his bleached skull tears all the comfort from his words. Denki weighs his options.
"Alright, but can you tell me now? I don't think I will stay awake long enough to h-hear it."
"Ah, you're quite sound of mind. Very well." His jaw moves as a human's would, but the sound seems to originate from underneath his robes. "We have transplanted your soul. Your previous body couldn't sustain it anymore. Or, in simpler terms, you died and lived again."
Denki looks away.
He hoped otherwise.
"Why?" Tears make their way down his bright skin.
"I have told you that the Necro Archon doesn't approve of wasting talent, have I not? I trust in his choice, and so should you." Watcher turns the wooden tip, and the glass cracks open quietly. "And, so far, you are the only mortal that has survived this procedure. In two thousand years' time. Do you understand your value now?"
Denki nods slightly. Watcher removes the tip, and places the vial near his nose. A sharp, minty smell overwhelms his nostrils. He wants to gag, but he knows better.
He promised he will behave, and there's no telling what Watcher could do to him if he misbehaved.
He doesn't know his punishments. Not yet.
"Sleep, human. You have much to achieve."
—
The Watcher steps over the threshold, his bare feet touching the rough tiles of the balcony. His bones transfer the texture well, but its temperature remains for him to guess. He bows his head upon laying eyes on the figure in front of him.
"Lord Sunqū. The subject is alive and fares relatively well. His soul has not settled in, but that is just a matter of time now."
Sunqū doesn't bother to turn around. Watcher observes his master's robes flowing in the harsh coastal wind, held down by the Inazuman armor. The golden decoration on his kabuto holds firm, glimmering brightly in the moonlight.
"Very good."
A rat emerges from underneath Watcher's robes. His eyes trace its movements as it approaches Sunqū. It stops behind him, the small body vibrating with the intense beating of the creature's small heart. It raises up on its back legs and bites down on the tattered black robe, pulling it with all its might. Sunqū taps the railing with his finger, and the rat turns its attention towards the sound. Despite its famished appearance, it proves agile enough to jump up on the railing. It waddles over to its master, who stretches out his hand towards the animal. It climbs up him, the filthy tail wrapping itself around the yellowed bones for support.
Sunqū turns around. The brown rat moves up his armor and squeezes into the chest cavity through the collar bone. It moves around in the robe, pushing out piles of cream-white maggots right onto the floor. Watcher, not daring to look into the eye sockets hidden behind the bird mask, keeps his gaze restrained to his teeth. A sharp and slim tongue slides out from between the crooked, bloody teeth, and covers them in black, oozing sludge.
"I never fail."