The Beginning Before The End...
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My life isn't exactly what you would call the "American Dream."
Mazan sits in the darkness of his room. The only light in the room is produced by bright flashes of light on a large computer screen. His fingers rapidly click the keys of his keyboard, and his hand darts around at the side of the keyboard, mouse in hand, headphones on, and his eyes focused solely on the screen in front of him. Momentarily, his eyes dart to the wall in front of his computer, behind the desk. He glances up quickly at the digital clock hanging from the worn wooden wall. The clock reads 11:50 pm. He makes a mental note before returning his eyes to the screen.
"I seriously need to go to the store tonight."
Mazan exits his game a couple of minutes later. He leans back and stretches in his chair before dropping his arms and staring at the ceiling. The light of the game's menu screen reflects off the deep blue, small, diamond-shaped gem that's tied around his neck, giving off an almost ethereal glow. A large breath escapes Mazan's mouth as his unkempt and unruly black hair tussles over his forehead. He gets out of the chair and moves across his room to grab his coat and shoes, slipping them on before leaving the confines of his small apartment.
Stepping outside into the frigid winter air, the cold bites senselessly at his fingertips—still sensitive from hacking at computer keys all day. Quickly, he walks back inside his apartment and rummages around for gloves. Eventually, finding his old battered winter gloves and slipping them on, paired with some thoroughly worn earmuffs, before returning outside. Locking the door behind him and briskly descending the stairs from the second floor. Around the corner beyond the stairs, a middle-aged man with graying hair smokes against the wall, taking notice of Mazan coming down the stairs.
The smoker coughs several times before his hoarse voice sounds over the bitter air, "Cold outside, ain't it?"
Mazan continues down the stairs, locking eyes with the man for a brief moment, "Yeah."
The man takes a sizable whiff of his cigarette, "Coldest night this year so far." Mazan doesn't respond again, continuing past the man toward his destination. He puts his hands in his pockets to stave his mittened fingers from the skin-piercing near-arctic temperatures. Mazan trudges along the narrow sidewalks toward a small convenience store less than a mile from the apartment complex. Most people would be asleep by now, but some stragglers remain—mostly the shady kind. However, as long as you keep your distance, you can stay relatively safe.
Twelve minutes later, Mazan arrives at the store safe and sound, walking through the automatic doors and grabbing the first grocery basket he sees. He stutters momentarily, glancing up at a flickering fluorescent bulb before moving into the store with a sigh. Mazan's movements have a tired mechanicalness, going through the motions as he strides lazily through every other aisle, picking the things he needs, not even glancing at price tags, let alone brand names, as the wares pile up in his basket.
The dull, irritable buzz of the fluorescent lights above fades from the forefront of his brain as his mind whirls with ideas of grandeur. Imagination teeming with thoughts of a world not drugged down by societal norms. A world where he could become stronger, just like in his video games or comics. A bright, vibrant realm where he no longer has to pay $779 a month plus taxes just for rent.
A world where he could find a purpose in himself.
Suddenly, he's skewed out of his ruminations by the voice of the counter clerk, "-ey kid! You gonna' buy that shit or not, huh?" Mazan comes back into focus, pupils dilating as his vision rests on the clerk's face. She looks primarily uninterested, but he supposes that's fair.
It is 1:14 at night, anyway.
Mazan stays quiet for another moment, just enough for a mild irritation to make its way onto the clerk's face but not enough for her to say anything, "Where's Harold? I thought he always worked the night shifts?" He speaks bleakly, sluggishly setting his items next to the register, "Who the 'ell is Harold?" The clerk quickly scans his items before putting them in plastic convenience store bags.
"I... You should know hi-" The clerk cuts off Mazan, "Look kid, I got hired here last week, I ain' know jack-shit! Card or cash, bub?"
He stares at her blankly for a moment before another sigh escapes his lips. His hand moves for his wallet when another man wearing a trench coat enters the store. A faint curiosity blooms on the clerk's and Mazan's faces before their attentions return to the transaction. "Card, thanks," Mazan replies flatly. He glances at the screen showing the grocery's price: $61.27. "H-hey! This should only cost fifty-three sixty-one; not sixty-one twenty-seven!"
Mazan looks between the screen and the clerk, with the clerk seeming more disinterested in the situation by the minute, "Don't know what to say to ya' kid. I don't control the costs... the market? Eh, uh. What do you call it again?"
Mazan is about to answer her but halts himself, realizing this isn't a battle worth fighting nor a situation worth humoring. It's just a couple of dollars anyway. He has a game to return home to, and he can save a few dollars. He hands her his credit card and watches her swipe it. She punches in a few numbers before tossing the card back at him. "Thanks for shopping at TruMart. Come again or don't, I really don't care." The clerk says apathetically, pulling out a nail file as she begins to file her unusually long nails.
Mazan grabs his groceries and exits the store. His gaze moves upwards, trying to find a star in the overcast night, taking mild notice of his visible breath. He begins walking home casually, his steps methodical and almost robotic. A few minutes of traveling later, he comes across a small food stand.
"I don't remember this place being here. Did I walk the wrong way by accident?" he contemplates. Looking to his right and left, he finds no indicators that he'd gone the wrong way, but there is something strangely eerie about this night. It feels like he is missing something. It's almost somber in an esoteric way, an entirely foreign feeling that he just couldn't put his finger on, with no rhyme or reason.
As he stares at the small food shop, Mazan brings the situation to his mind. Every instinct screams at him that something is amiss or just plain wrong. All his senses are going haywire, pulling him every which way as he focuses intently on the food stand. His mind becomes hazy as if a veil has been put over his eyes. His thoughts grind to a halt, and his body freezes dead as a silent ringing begins to buzz through his ears, a sound that sends chills through his entire body. The ringing becomes louder, slowly becoming incomprehensible whispers of a language he's never heard. The whispers become deafeningly loud as they reach an apex before they merge, and a single authoritative voice runs through his entire being,
C̸͓͊ ̷̩̅O̷͎͒ ̴͇͂M̴͈̾ ̵̬̐E̵͎͝
Time seems to flash from one moment to the next as he feels himself take a single step before he's suddenly fifteen yards away from the food stand. In an extremely brief moment of clarity, he looks around. The bright street lamps surrounding the stand and the digital lights from the stand itself illuminate everything in their radius but nothing further. The glow of the lights doesn't reach the street, and there are no shadows except on the stand itself.
As quick as it comes, the clarity is gone, and the authoritative voice wracks against his body once more,
Ḧ̶͖́̊ ̸̪̩͈̌̆̍Ǫ̶̀̀͝ ̶͍̻͊̿R̷͕̙̈̽̃ ̸̱͐͋S̵̛̥̉ ̶͙̿̃Ụ̴͘ ̸̝̌̿̏M̷̢̧̆,
Mazan's vision flashes once, his mind becoming muddled before returning to clarity. This time, he kneels mere feet from the stand, looking up at it with wide eyes. The strange, shadowless light hypnotizes him as he stares without blinking. He fails to notice the hooded and cloaked figures that emerge from the shadows outside the radius of the fake light.
The robed figures surround him and the stand, chanting words muffled to Mazan as he kneels at the stand. His pupils dilate, and all his hair stands on end as that voice strikes his body once more, stronger than before with the force of a lightning strike; his eyes roll into the back of his head,
S̴̛̬̮̣̟̟̙̏U̷͉̭̹̒̈͜V̴̠̅Ȋ̷̧̝̱̥̜͝T̵̘̠̱͕̭̫͑́͝P̵̣͕̣̄̃O̸̖͆͂ ̴͍̮͂͛̊̀Ţ̷̨̖͇̦̃̾̆̄͊I̴̧̛͙͉͂͐͝U̷̼͋̑͑́̊͆F̵͉̹̃̎͘ͅ ̴̡͔̠͗́͠Ȑ̷̟̠̥O̷͓̠͇̯͆̾̔͑ͅT̴͇̥͎͠U̸̳͇̙̒ ̴̡̥̖͂͆̃S̴̡̧̒̽ͅŌ̸͇͍V̴̼̼̻̌́͑
A loud bang and a jolt, followed by the cling of an empty shell, knocks Mazan out of his hypnotized trance. His eyes refocus and dart around quickly as his brain processes all the new information. His eyes widen in fear as he sees the cloaked figures surrounding him, but as he goes to scream, a burning pain shoots through his body. He looks down to see a hole in his shirt and a growing stain of deep red. He looks back up, the rest of his senses returning as his vision swells. The quiet chanting of the unknown figures becomes dull, and the stand's light dims as he falls to the side.
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"W- what?"
Everything happens in slow motion for Mazan as he falls to the ground. His eyelids close shut against his will as the cultist starts to move again. He would've gasped in surprise at one of the cultists walking straight through the food stand before it began to dissolve in wisps of ethereal light, but the darkness took him before he could hope to do anything more.
A ghastly voice wades through the darkness of someone's mind, prodding at their consciousness.
S̷ ̴u̵ ̸r̶ ̸g̸ ̷o̵/
There was a twitch but no further movement.
V̴ ̴i̷ ̷g̴ ̸i̷ ̷l̵
Another twitch, stronger this time, but nothing else.
O̸̰͑ ̷͈̃r̶͔͝ ̸͓̕ṭ̵̃ ̶͈̀ű̶͉ ̶̩͛s̷̰̉
More forceful. Some enthusiastic movement and his consciousness stirs, but it's not enough.
G̸̹̯̐̓̓ ̴̓̎ͅÈ̸͙̗̭͎͋̂ ̷̗̞͍̉͗̕T̷̩͙̈́͠ ̶͖̘͚̤͐̄̈́ ̴̟̫̀͝Ŭ̵̖͔̺͙̕ ̴̢͂̋̄̓P̸̫̲͛͌̕ ̴̼̼̾!̷̻͌!̵̢̥̯̺̊̓̃̊!̴̯͋̋͋̿
Mazan's eyes dart open, face flashing through different feelings: grogginess, confusion, shock, denial, pain,
Fear.
These feelings and emotions momentarily overwhelm his senses before he can think again. He calms down, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain of breathing in general. He opens his eyes and lifts his head, fear making itself known again as he sees his ankles and wrists chained to a very uncomfortable stone table—a table surrounded by cultists.
The cultists all bear masks of what Mazan can only assume is either an outlandish devil or some evil, tight-fisted deity. But either way, Mazan doesn't want to know which one because, frankly, they're both terrible. They also hold some thin, admittedly well-carved wooden bowls, all identical in shape, make, and design. At some point during these thoughts, a few of the cultists directly in the direction of his legs part to make way for another cultist, this one wearing gray robes instead of the black ones the others are. The new arrival also lacks a mask and holds a thick, worn-out book. His pitch-black hair matches his glasses-framed face well. He'd even go as far as to say he's the spitting image of a picture-perfect man.
"The date is February, Friday the 13th, 11:49 pm. So today's sacrifice would be... Hmmm, where is his- ah! Got it. Let's see here: Mazan, no last or middle name. Strange. Born in Dearborn, Michigan. Earth age is 17 years, 5 months, 21 days, 23 hours, 49 minutes, and counting. Wow, born at 12 in the morning, lucky you," He continues to list off things about Mazan as if reading directly from a diary he never wrote, "Never played any sports, dropped out of high school at age 16, works at the Starbuck's on 198th street, no friends, no girlfriend, no pets, and especially no future," The condescending cultist gives Mazan a look a supremacist would give someone. Still, there's also a hint of pity in the gaze, "No parents either. Quite the blandly tragic life. I almost feel bad... almost." Mazan flinches slightly but otherwise shows no reaction.
"Hair color is black, eye color is gray, height is five-foot-five and a half, weight is one hundred and eleven pounds; 21% fat and thoroughly hydrated. Pretty well-rounded body. Favorite color is purple, food is a Chick-fil-A spicy chicken sandwich, no pickles, lathered in Mac n Cheese with a large sweet tea. Bit specific but that doesn't sound too bad. I Might have to try that sometime all things considered, but I digress! Favorite show is Voltron—the old one, movie is Armageddon, directed by Michael Bay. No favorite book. Video game is No Man's Sky." He slams the book shut after glancing at the following few pages, rolling his eyes and groaning in annoyance, "For someone so bland, uninteresting, and boring, you sure do have a lot on your profile."
One of the other cultists tilts his head and decides to speak, "I- I thought all the entries were like that, senior?" the unnamed zealot says nervously. The senior turns to him and stares, face emotionless, before a weird smile approaches his face. "You'd be correct! But I grow tired of having to read off everything every time we do this ritual. It's just as boring-" He turns back to Mazan, his grin going from irritated to manic, "-as poor, poor Mazan here."
The man moves behind Mazan where his head is and quickly slams them down on either side of Mazan's head, grabbing his cheeks and moving his head side to side as he analyzes his face. "Good skin tone, consciousness in the eyes, erratic breathing, elevated heartbeat. Good subject overall. He's perfect. You picked well, Cordon. He's much better than the one you brought last week! What was his name? Harold, or something?" Mazan's eyes widen at Harold's mention as one of the cultists nods to his left, "Thank you, Senior." As the senior cultist continues to check out Mazan more closely, he suddenly snatches his necklace. "And what is this?" None of the other zealots speak up momentarily before one of them steps forward. "It's his only item of true sentimental value, Senior."
"Is it an artifact or a relic?" He sternly replies, looking at the necklace intently, "No, sir! We recorded no energy readings from the item. None at all!" The subordinate states nervously, "Ah, I see. Very well then!" The senior nonchalantly throws the necklace onto Mazan's chest as he walks away behind him to a place he can't see. "Well then," The senior checks his watch and smiles, "It's about that time! Let's get this over with so we can go home." He pulls a blue-ish pill out from inside his cloak, bending down and grabbing a glass of a weirdly colored bubbling liquid before forcefully opening Mazan's jaw. Mazan doesn't resist, as resisting would only bring more pain, and the liquid is poured down his mouth along with the pill.
Mazan quickly swallows the liquid and the pill, trying and gratefully succeeding in not tasting either. "What was that?" Mazan asks calmly. The senior cultist turns around towards him with a sinister smile, "Well, the pill was an ultra-concentrated opioid pill meant to increase your reception to pain. The liquid is a combination of mercury, lead, arsenic, thallium, pure ethanol, strychnine poison, trace amounts of liquid poneratoxin, and a few other things I can't be bothered to list off." Mazan has no idea what the liquid does, not a clue as to what almost all those things are. He assumes it's bad for him, so he only looks at the man, mildly confused.
The cultist chuckles slightly, "Let's put it this way kiddo," The man walks back behind Mazan and grabs a peculiar-looking dagger. A very sharp-looking dagger, analyzing its edges and points, "If this ritual doesn't kill you—which it will, that liquid will. It's a combination of poisons and neurotoxins meant to cause you extreme pain and fry your nervous system. It will eventually leave you paralyzed, dehydrated, and leaking from every orifice on your body."
He snaps his fingers, and the cultists all raise their bowls and begin to chant in an unknown language, "In a few seconds, you will start to feel numb, maybe a bit lightheaded and euphoric," Immediately after he said this, Mazan's pupils dilated heavily, his body relaxing unwillingly, and a warm fuzzy feeling settling in his stomach, "And in about 60 seconds, your body will begin to tense up as your nerves shoot false signals of pain to your brain. Then, all your muscles will begin to cramp, seize up, and burn as if you were thrown straight into a fire. And finally, your blood will begin to boil as you begin to leak from your eyes, mouth, nose, sweat glands, and other holes."
The black-haired boy stopped listening 20 seconds ago, trying to mentally prepare himself for the pain that's set to come to no avail. The seconds count down, the cultists get louder, and the senior cultist moves to the side of the table. His voice resonates as he speaks some incantation, suddenly causing the candles on the floor to light a flame and the blade in his hand to glow a menacing red. Mazan's clarity of mind returns to him as the man raises the dagger above his head. "Well, Mazan, it has been my absolute pleasure to meet you. I hope your experience up til' now wasn't too terrible. My subordinates can be a bit... rough at times."
Veins on Mazan's arms and neck pop out, and he clenches his jaw slightly. His muscles start to tighten, and a stinging pain encompasses his entire body as if being gently poked with needles that are getting increasingly sharper and longer. A grunt escapes Mazan's, clenching his hands and wiggling about in his chains as the pain gets worse and worse, quickly surpassing anything else he's ever felt within seconds. "But that being said, you will not enjoy the last few minutes of your pitiful life. I hope you're ready!~" A manic glee emanates from the man's being as he fixes his grip on the dagger.
Mazan's grunts become more frequent and heavy, becoming whines, yelps, and cries. "May your blood flow true, and may the Great Cherub and his fallen council guide you painfully to the afterlife~" Then, as Mazan's body begins to spasm, cramp up, and burn, the real pain begins: The senior cultist stabs down with the dagger directly into Mazan's stomach. The boy's screams resonate heavily off the carved and polished stone walls. The dagger is twisted, stabbed, and slashed at and inside Mazan's torso. His blood spills heavily down the side of the stone table and flows in the grooves of the floor. The crimson liquid begins to glow as it travels along the indents in the floor, the entire floor being a large magic circle.
A red glow fills the room, and the cultists become frantic. Mazan's eyes roll into the back of his head as he begins to lose consciousness, both due to the pain and loss of blood. His blood fills his lungs, and his breathing becomes increasingly ragged. The crazed cackles and fits of laughter by the senior cultist go entirely unnoticed by all.
As does the dim, gentle pulsing of Mazan's necklace.
As the frankly insane cultist stabs him one more time, the combination of ever-increasing pain, blood loss, and liquid-filled lungs sends Mazan into extreme shock. He convulses and spasms one last time before his heart stops dead, and his body goes limp with a gurgle. The glow of the spilled blood swiftly leaves, the zealots stop chanting, and the psychotic senior stops his stabbing, quickly relaxing and fixing his blood-stained glasses. "Well, that was underwhelming. They usually last longer. Guess we can all go home now." He turns and walks away, "Someone come and clean up this filth."
When the senior cultist finishes speaking, Mazan's necklace comes to life, bathing the entire room in a blueish-purple light. Everyone in the room focuses on the necklace: "I thought you said it wasn't an artifact or relic, Zeke!" the crazed zealot leader shouts angrily. But before the aforementioned Zeke could retort, the necklace pulses and multicolored diaphanous energy begins to surge out of those alive in the room.
"I-It's draining... our... life force..." One of the cultists muttered weakly before dropping dead. The rest of the cultists followed one by one, with the Senior cultist back up against the end of the room and sliding down the wall of the room as a large amount of energy was sucked out of him, "So this is h-how I die, hmm? I thought it would've been a bit... b-bloodier." He takes his last breath, smiling.
The energy is sucked in by the necklace, glowing brighter and brighter before the strange multicolored energy is forced into the lifeless body of Mazan like a starving whirlpool. The entire room shakes as Mazan's body begins to glow, his veins lighting up briefly as the energy coalesces around his soul. A whirling sound is heard as the necklace begins to dim, but not before the energy shoots up through the multiple floors of the cultists' facility with a destructive energy pulse. Picking up speed exponentially as it rapidly leaves the atmosphere, then the Earth's sphere of influence, then the Solar System, and then the universe itself.
All the while, no one would notice the ever-fading glow of Mazan's necklace, vanishing in a myriad of similarly colored sparks, leaving the destroyed room and corpses behind.