A light. An apparition of what he had originally believed was the unsatisfying end. It was drenched in an endless blanket, a barrage of ice, flakes, snow, and spiralling callous winds. Enough to force someone from their path and cast them into the unknown, their will was taken aback by the will of the world. He was an aspirant, persisting to keep on his course, stringing up his will facing the world, a determination brought upon by a single goal. He had to keep going, going, the weight the sky had brought upon him was unprecedented. A weight challenged by only a goal, the task, a ceaseless reminder to continue. He focused and went forth, his feet breaking through endless white, the material of his bland grey and tar black trainers obscured by the draping of the ground after each step.
The world bathing him in a perpetual cold. His legs predicting inconsistent and unforgiving draft, the gale pressuring his trousers against the shape of his legs. Clutching his hood over his eyes with his frigid fingers, as they could not withstand the heedless torrents. His vision obscured, it was tremendously arduous to comprehend and perceive the path he went on. His only solace were mesmerising arrays of streetlamps, the lights emitted a harrowing, desolate glow, torturous to the eyes forcing him to peer upon where they had illuminated their source harmful, malicious. The other hand was buried within one of the waist pockets of his jacket. Itself a gift, a reminder of what he was working toward.
The gift was an oceanic blue, as if someone had painted it with the colour of the perilous ocean, its age had shown with the scratches, tattered patches, and loose strings of material hanging off its appendages. The arms of the gift lowered below his wrists, yet barely fell below the waist, the hood encompassed and fell over his head a comforting blanket shielding him from the pitiless world.
Though the world appeared to resist, he had not been deterred. He should keep going, going, his vessel had to withstand not only the mass of the world, but the burden of this mind. What had been left of him if he abandoned her? To relinquish his resolution was not an option. His form had casted over the renovated white flooring of the street, claiming victory over the world's assault with each step he took, he had seemed like a phantom to any impossible curiosity, a malicious force if one had assumed his purpose. The stars peering through the shambling clouds above, the white eye that gazed through the murky sky, ruthless, its incessant yet dismissive glare came upon him with no quarter.
The eye drifted, its light squinting with each passing minute, seamlessly fading into the dense air coating the surrounding landscape, diving below the silhouettes of distant structures and passing obscured entities. He would stop in his tracks, a sudden pivot to the left, an immediate gust came over him as he faced the crossing ahead of him, dancing red hues illuminating through the ghastly stained ground, contradicting the world’s bitter onslaught. His inky eyes would narrow as he faced the deadly corridor, and it was all for nothing in the end, he had made his choice. A light. A sinking fatal feeling, what he had wished, was the unsatisfying end.
--
A light? No, asleep, dreaming. The eyes crookedly opened, an agonising realisation followed. The back stretched and stabilised as the body indentured itself to continue, a routine, a goal, meaningless. The legs meekly pushed outward, the arms catching the eye in the sky; shielding, protecting the groggy eyes, the only sky it had known. A life that only saw order, each facet and freedom drifted from them, a fleeting and careless vessel.
What would it have given to be there, dancing in the entropy of the memory, the dream. Portside, starboard, the eyes directed. Glassy, the walls of its box, smooth against the skin. The floor gave no comfort, nor affliction, and had it been willed, nor could the ceiling. Could it keep going, going? No circumstance denied it, let alone challenged; though each step weighed, the body contested its preservation.
Akin to the memory, a constant pressure. Two hands feebly clasped against the rim of a sink, attempting to scratch against its amorphous design, with the twist of a knob water appeared. The air is stagnant, unimposing, unnerving. Much of the room the liquid or air didn’t give or take; those watching could consider that worse than feeling, had they considered its mind. Water graced the skin, with what little it gave a blissful, superficial feeling.
Conclusively being in this cage is no different than drowning, sinking endlessly into a black abyss, one would even call it relaxing, satisfactory, if it hadn’t the courtesy to end. Though here the horrifically bright, white chasm is unfortunately breathable, one would call it torturous, if only it had the courtesy to end. The mirror reflected what form it had, and gave only clarity, truth; it wished to be asleep, dreaming. An all-familiar maddening static resonated with the room.
“Good morning 012, sampling will be taken shortly.” A female voice stated. 012s’ lips parted letting out a bated breath, a day the same as all others, what a time to be alive. His voice shrivelled and emotionless. This voice had taught him everything, all he needed to know, yet he felt its knowledge was worthless if this was all that he’d ever see.
“Why?” 012 whispered. His eyes never left their own gaze at the mirror, the dauntless brown endlessly encompassing inside of itself, another splash, his fair skin appreciating the moisture provided by the liquid. The water curved, encircled, redirected off his slender, empty face before falling below his rigid jawline. His vessel is near skinny though fed. The clothes he wore were smooth, yet somehow managed to be irritating, as they felt unnatural against the skin. Much like the walls of this cage, his shorts and shirt were colourless, bland, and seamless in blending into the mundane surfaces of his prison.
He had inquired to those who were watching, he previously deciphered that he was in his early 20s. It made enough sense; his brown hair showed no grey, his skin showed no signs of wear. He steadily shambled across the jail, inserting his arm into the device which harvested him. It seemed it took more than blood, though he couldn’t understand what else, it gave him no fulfilment. It was this ‘life’ which graced him, what would he give to prefer dreaming it; a poisonous sentiment.
Confusion, an unexpected reverberation seemed to be gracing the box, it didn’t matter where it came from, or what caused it. It came with a familiar pattern, though he couldn’t interpret such a strange feeling, there was a relaxing unprocessed underpinning to the noise.
“Where?” 012 pondered, as he attempted to pinpoint the source of the rhythm, it seemed to be communication, purposeful, contextual. He simply lacked such context, although the white eye in the prison's sky, for the first time he ever believed it had blinked.
A cascade of darkness fell upon the room, a night which blessed the mind, and quieted the senses. If only it had continued, though what would’ve it granted him? Instead, it mocked such a plea; blink, blink. Would it keep going, going? Discord, a beating drum of metal, sudden, desperate. His eyes widened a suicidal curiosity, as the characteristic indent in the casket; the door, it twitched and parted.
Two opposing forces attempting to impart freedom, the other attempting to confiscate its possibility. Both possibilities encompassed in a disheartening red hue, dancing in the choice. His body thinning, denying itself the nourishment of breath for a period of time, it drained him of vigour, though he wouldn’t surrender this, he took this chance; why requisition life, after all it refused to grant him an end. He compelled himself into a leap, a decision that would redefine his existence. For the first time he granted himself a desire. To discover the dream. A light?
The white eye opens, remorseless, eternal. 012s eyes focused, he already knew where he was, he believed it happened before. This conclusion was not foretold, nor did he come to it by his lonesome. He faced the eye, for so long attempting to accept it, but he plainly had to reject its proposal, its light an unending sorrow, a torment unquenchable.
He had previously recalled this room, its significance dawned on him, possibly before he’d even arrived. Once in this place he had known usage, a prompt which he capitalised on at the time. This room had been the dawn of the many questions he had asked, and all the answers he didn’t truly receive, he’d only known the truth through another corridor.
He had already known when they lied to him always, an inescapable feeling one which was only compounded by the betrayal which followed its confirmation. This he knew would, and was, the place he affirmed his hatred, yet also what he had forgiven. They didn’t even regard him as sentimental, let alone worth keeping after his use. Though these individuals, those who had once plagued his mind with such revelations were no longer present. He had known they always chose lies, yet he had followed their truth anyway.
--
Instead, another stood where they once did; 012 would finally look upon the figure which greeted him, a small dull sight, he wore an oversized white hooded sweatshirt which concealed his arms completely and dipped down halfway down his thighs. His head obscured by the hood surrounding his entire head, leaving his face shrouded besides for small beads for eyes, as if a black canvas was spotted with white ink. His body perpetually covered in a veil of shadow, which unnervingly vanished once particular parts of his body fell into peripheral vision, in such vision he could see the truth of an unusual ghostly translucent skin.
Not a word came from him, though 012 already knew what he should’ve said, and so he answered, “What clarity would I earn? This place is an empty box!” He belted at the figure. He then noticed how small the figure truly was, akin to that of a middling child; perhaps 10 to 13 years of age.
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“What have I been given to remember? How can you say I’ve forgotten? How do you know who I am?” 012 rebutted again to a reply which never came. The figure hand would outstretch, though he had known what would be unravelled though the palm remained still, enclosed. He had the choice, and it would be shown to him, he knew what was to come from this. He would either use the white eye, or remember where it came from. The choice to recollect the truth and then be able to dream, or to dream to be able to recollect the truth.
Now that he’d seen the figure it had already made good upon its bargain, 012 had come to realise it had given him clarity. Though he knew it would come, he had known the moment he entered this place. The figure and he both knew that clarity would lead to a dream being challenged, but that was yet to come; he wasn’t asleep yet, was he dreaming? He will remember, and then 012 will remember. He would hear a bell toll, a warning of what’s to come. The world would reawaken to meet him, the figure promised him such. The white eye shuts.
--
The bell rings twice. 012s eyes were imbued in a red daunting filter of the dancing lights for a few moments, the recognition the world gave to his decision. His neck would briskly rotate, to the pathways presented by the interminable corridor. The lights flickered, basking the hallway in an inconsistent glow then sudden blackness, a purgatory which lingered between the promise of clarity and the comfort of fantasy.
Against his feet, the floor dug into his skin, ripping against the base of his heels, a sensation he hadn’t expected to occur. His body was tolerating a pressuring feeling, a circuitry of heat which plagued his body from head to toe. His breathing was overhauling all audible sensation of the surroundings, surprisingly it was visible to the eyes had he taken the time to notice it. A rhythmic drum joined his breathing in melody, though didn’t abide by its example.
The flashing imagery took his intrigue, gripping his mind in its unfamiliar texture, colourations and environmental distinction to the cage he had once inhabited. The walls were decorated in a distinguishing set of patterns which all seemed to drag along in adherence to the seemingly endless corridor. Symbols adorned the other wall, above the door to his encasement was his name, ‘012’. Next to it a symbol which infatuated him in blind hate for a time, a hatred he didn’t understand yet indulged anyway. Ringing, ringing, the floor shook, shook, before continuing down the hall past him.
Hooking him back into the reality of the circumstance 012 stared down the hall, attempting to focus through its incessant flickering. He noticed the hauntingly symmetrical line of doors which followed his, 5 doors passed until he finally looked up toward it, 13, 14, 15, 16, and there he vision ceased. Flicker, flicker, a substitute for disorientated blinking, as he finally accepted what stood before him. An arm outstretched, clawing against the floor, pinned to the ground like an animal.
The man drenched in a thick crimson dye, leaking, writhing had been encased violently into the flooring, with another man raised up on the wall, grasping at inky arm. Begging for mercy his legs flayed, arms twitching in a primal desperation for survival. Then he fell, spared by the terrible animal causing a savagery unforeseen.
The devilish creatures’ head faced 012, absent of feature, though mimicked the shape of a man, the body an oversized, overlapping humanoid mass of reflective shadow. The predator made no sound, nor did it breathe. It had all that a man would, but overdone, massive it towered in the hall comparatively to those it had harmed. The bell rings twice, and the hand presents itself, outstretched, not too dissimilar to the white child.
Throbbing, an attack on his mind, as if attempting to provide him with some form of communication. He would interpret such as malicious, invasive, manipulation. The once stable beat of drumming picked itself up, matching the racing of the mind, and he would run his body twisting as he began his sprint in the other direction, the numbers began to descend; 11, 10, 9-.
Only to be met by a mass of light and grey, their goal foreseen and decipherable by even the blind or deaf. An array of lights shot from their direction, encasing the phantom who stood ahead of them. In front of them stood the ghost of his consciousness, drenched in this worn black attire, his features completely obscured as observed in his undisturbed dream. The phantom of dreams looked upon 012 and he shook head back and forth. It knew the decision was made of denial, a fact recognized too late by 012.
A whistle met by a sharp metallic reverberation, a flash erupted, matched only by the impact it articulated audibly. As if rain droplets plummeted into the artificial trap. Material, thick crimson paint splat to the walls blending into the recesses of the corridor.
The red hue invaded his right eye, and 012 was left grounded, helpless. His choice painted agonisingly in his vision, and what he was given was clarity. The boy of dreams looked toward him and the lights gained, before he had been enveloped and sunk into them completely.
That of his forgiven hatred, the enemy. The devil shuffled past him; hypnotic, frictionless down the hall as 012 could have sworn his form repeated, enveloped itself down to the ashy figures. They themselves illuminated in forward facing light highlighting the other end of the corridor, where the numbers descend.
The devil passed him, becoming a saviour, 012 had been saved by the same shadow he had denied. His hand rubbed against the floor, burning in the determined friction that came with his second wind, he scrambled and dragged himself upward before beginning a rush toward where the devil once stood. The bell does not ring.
Blood rushing, in and out. A bid of life and desperation, 012 charged toward the upward numbers of the hallway, a dark highway to the next step. He skids past a gap in between the two squirming victims of the faceless predator, they had lived his onslaught, though this was a mercy of him.
This proved nothing to 012 however, who kept up his pace, rushing, rushing. A metallic smell finally hit his senses, overpowering the heat that was circulating his body for a moment. His arm had instinctively raised to the right side of his head only to find a shower of dingy, reflective substance which ejected from where his eye should be.
He was bleeding profusely, he didn’t understand, what happened? In his thoughts he failed to realise an obstacle, resulting in the abdication of his footing. He fell forward torturously scraping across the flooring which had been assaulting his feet. Now it occupied his knees resulting in an assortment of cuts appearing across his legs. His eye drifted to the left side of the track he’d been subjected to, the corresponding door presented the number: 025. He began to hear a familiar beating noise. It came closer, closer was he going to die here?
A sudden grip entangled and flung his arm forward, propelling his entire body upward, he had found himself running again. He couldn’t comprehend his entire right side, resulting in the individual being obscured for the duration of the rest of the hallway. They had finally completed their race for survival, as they reached an imposing gate, sporting a black symbol attached to its grey dull colouration. He looked to his left, his entire head twisting to compensate for his lack of convenient vision; there he saw her, the person who had saved him off a whim as far as he could understand. She looked at him and then squinted at him, a judging, deducing stare.
She used her arm to wipe a portion of the liquid off of his face before she began to observe him in his entirety, after which she looked upon him face to face. “You’re lucky I saw you, don’t worry the door will open.” She concluded to him, her voice lacking any concern or emotion for their circumstance.
She, the one who had saved him, had a sleek complexion, her hair was a similar dull brown to his own. It complimented her eye colour which matched her hair, skin fair, smooth contrasted by a ravine of skin, a scar which stretched off to the right side of her head, curving past where 012 could properly see. Her head was obviously a reassuring femininity, which calmed his nerves if only for a moment.
“I’m 018, but I prefer Kira. I’m guessing you’re a smidgen confused?” She would begin before being abruptly interrupted, mechanisms sprung to life, a slow daunting shift in the surrounding area and precluded the sluggish fissure of the massive gate before them.
018 would throw him a thick rag of cloth, which he hurriedly used to cover his great wound, it was strangely warm and slightly damp as if someone had been breathing into it with desperate determination. A blast of fresh light hit him without warning, forcing his eye to spring open from its concentration.
It basked the exit to their prison, only to be met with further daunting corridor networks, which stretched endlessly into the distance. Although they were met by three others; the group consisted of two boys and one girl, of varying possible ages at first glance. All of them were wearing similar garments to himself, of varying sizes of course.
The youngest; conceivably around the ages of 10 to 13 judging just by height. He had a mess of drab black hair, stroked with brown, fairly short. Though his eyes were a damp green which didn’t match his hair in the slightest, he was of darker complexion yet not too dissimilar to the rest of them. The boy was clearly distracted focusing on the upper features of where he was standing.
The other boy was obviously a teenager, not just by his appearance but his mannerisms. He had a strange mixture of light brown and blonde hair, which went down the back of his head stopping abruptly below the ears, which contrasted his bored, dark brown eyes. He had a fair complexion as well.
The last of the three was an older woman, who wouldn’t be much younger nor older than 012 or 018. She had a thick navy blue length of hair, almost mistaken for jet black if the light wasn’t directly differentiating her from shadow, her eyes was also that of an intriguing ocean blue colouration. Her skin was ghostly, pale, almost seeming bloodless.
012s back was suddenly forced forward, and he unpreparedly stepped forward as a result, and then 018 spoke again in her dull tone, she pointed past his right side at first before readjusting to his other side realising her mistake immediately.
She first pointed to the youngest; “That is 078… But he prefers Max… I think?” Her finger moved to the next over, the teenager; “That is 034… Called Jason” Then she would stop pointing, moving past his shoulder, swinging her arm in introduction to the last, the girl of the three; “And this is 027 Or En.” She would join the group before gesturing her hand as if beckoning him to come toward them; “You are?” She smoothly questioned to 012.
His damaged eye held shut caused by the slowly increasing pulsing pain radiating from the right side of his head. “I’m… 012.” He replied, a painful use of his jaw, as it had felt his skull itself was falling asunder.
018 would once again gesture, an obvious expression to follow and all of them did, she would then speak once more her head now turned away; “We should probably get some actual names, don’t ya’ think? Need to keep track, we’re after a whole lotta’ people.” She said in an irritated tone of voice.
The youngest; Max, had to be dragged along by En behind them. Just four of them, and he found it impossible to keep track. Silently he agreed to Kari’s notion. 012 would finally speak up once more, unnerved by the calm corridor.
“I’d prefer being called ‘Aaron’.” he told the group, followed by a silent acknowledgement from Kira, a scoff from Jason, which mobilised an irritated anger from En toward Jason facially, and Max didn’t seem to be paying attention still. Uneasy, they’d keep going. Blood seeping. Close to freedom. Despite this, the eye closes.