Shards Of Light

Zildan clenched his fist as he marched onwards, glaring suspiciously out at the world through the bare splinters of glass that remained in his left goggle. The right was mostly intact, if notably dimmed and covered in hairline fractures, but the already damaged left had shattered completely when that damnable Shrieklik screamed in his face.

He was just glad the shards hadn’t wound up in his eye.

His legs felt like they had been pumped full of molten lead even through Lord Silxazor’s boon, every step taking an effort of will just to make his increasingly heavy limbs move. He hated this place, hated it more than that damnable tomb his master had thrown him in for his field agent test and he still couldn’t get the smell of that fucking place out of his nose.

Nor could he get those acursed shrieks out of his dreams…

He shook his head, dismissing the unpleasant memories he had conjured up. He knew what he was doing, unconsciously trying to distract himself from the shit circumstance he found himself in; unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t allow his mind to wander away from the here and now lest he be taken unawares.

He sighed, glaring out into the dark. "Just gotta find the damn Aetherium, destroy it, and get the fuck out of here; I can leave the proper purge to some one else when I'm done," he muttered, knowing damn well it would never be that simple. His backup was still a ways out, but with the Aetherium destroyed it would be a relatively simple matter to seal up these tunnels and ensure nothing got out until they arrived to cleanse it. Usually he preferred to purge places like this himself, but his master had very thoroughly drilled prudence into his mind.

Much as it rankled him to leave a teeming mass of sickness intact, it would help no one if he died trying to purge it himself when help was already on the way. He'd just need to take extra care to ensure nothing escaped, lest his effort appear to be lacking.

His heavy boots carried him further and further into the dark, the echoing of his steps carrying further than he could guess. He hated that, knowing anything with ears could hear him coming long before he could ever be aware of them; unfortunately, he was too tired and too ragged to put what little stealth training he had to great effect.

HIs master always said stealth was for cowards, but he had always had a feeling he might need it one day; he was decidedly unhappy to be proven right.

His eyes swept the tunnel before and behind him, ever vigilant even as his exhaustion warred with the sinking cold that had replaced his pain. His every sense (that he still retained, his hearing had yet to return) was strained to its limit having to constantly analyse everything around him. His master had very thoroughly drilled caution and prudence into him, so much so that even with his head swimming, his breath choking, and his bones creaking he just couldn't help but keep his eyes peeled even as the darkness ran like waxen oil.

He had never felt more grateful to the burly bastard; he never thought he’d be thanking the bullish prat back when his muscles burned and he had mud staining parts of himself he didn’t know existed, but without that harsh training he never would have had a chance.

He sighed heavily, watching the dust disturbed by his breath dance down the tunnel through the cracks in his goggles. After a moment he began to laugh, even as spikes of sucking cold lanced from his broken ribs with every breath. He knew both that randomly bursting out in laughter while alone in the dark was a poor sign for his mental state and that every chuckle was as good as a siren announcing his presence to any that cared to listen, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

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He clenched his shaking hand until his hysterical laughter faded into a whirlpool of misery, summoning up a righteous fury to sweep away his foul mood even as his charred fingerbones dug into his burnt palm. He didn’t notice the additional source of cold through the innumerable wounds all over his body, nor could he hear the blood drawn dripping onto the stone below.

Flames filled his mind, burning away all doubt and fear as he swore again and again his oaths to his order. He would die a thousand more miserable deaths than this before he left his duty unfinished.

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I woke up in a bed only slightly less comfy than the last one I slept in, though remarkably less clean. The moment I tried to open my eyes, shards of light stabbed burning skewers straight into my brain.

I grimaced, covering my eyes with my paws before recoiling with a gasp of surprised pain; the moment my left hand made contact the pain got notably worse. I pulled back and looked at my palm, immediately dismissing any glimmer of a chance of the last few days being a dream as I beheld a burn scar shimmering beneath the oil on my palm.

The stars behind it glittered pink in the distance…

I tore my gaze away from the laughing stars when clapping assaulted my ears, Paranoia pulling my true eyes to meet those of Markus as he entered the room. His goggles were flipped up onto his forehead, revealing the slitted steel grey eyes beneath. He was grinning ear to ear as he strode into the room, “My my, I wasn’t expecting you to actually succeed! Only been three -now four people in the gang’s history that have actually managed to pull the ritual off successfully.” He shrugged his shoulders, his smile taking on a sardonic edge, “Not due to lack of trying mind you, most either try to rush and wind up killing the victim too quickly or they take their time and succumb to nerve damage.”

He sat down on the edge of my bed, patting my knee with one large hand, “It takes a special mix of speed, determination, and skill to actually complete the Masque Of Misery alone. That’s the kinda thing that definitely gets you attention in this gang.”

I could hear glass shattering in the distance as he spoke, a towering rage settling over me like a warm blanket as I stared at him in near disbelief, “You… you’re telling me I didn’t actually need to do… whatever the hell that was?” I kept the fury from my voice under a veil of bemusement and incredulity.

He smirked, “No no, you needed to try. The whole point of that ritual, at least for us, is to test the resolve and loyalty of any new recruits; all you needed to do was try, make at least one cut. Most people, as I said, fail the ritual but so long as they try they’ve earned their place here.” He pointed at me, waving his finger to point repeatedly, “You though, you actually managed to make it all the way through and gain a boon from the Lord Of Agony; an impressive feat to say the least.”

I watched him through partially lidded eyes as he stood up, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. “Technically, finishing the ritual doesn’t earn you a higher position here; we reward ability and loyalty, not necessarily just power,” here, his grin widened until I could just barely make out an additional layer of needle-like teeth behind his humain set. He raised a hand, fingers splayed and tensed for a moment before he clenched his fist, “and that is what makes the Masque such a good test; it can determine loyalty from one’s willingness to pick up the blade, skill from how one cuts the victim, and ability from how far they get, with the added bonus of a boon to any that manage to succeed.” He was rambling, and I certainly doubted his faith in his little test seeing as I wasn’t feeling particularly loyal just then.

He waved a hand as he began walking out of the room, “Actually managing to finish the ritual earned you the attention of just about everyone out there, including our head of intelligence and myself.” He pointed off at nothing, waving his extended finger theatrically, “However, you’ll have every opportunity to get trained and deployed after you recover and get used to your new boon. Rest easy now, for tomorrow you’ll meet Rokharth and you’ll miss how good you feel right now.” He waved as he threw open the door, not giving me a moment to respond as he left.

I blinked slowly as the door slid shut behind my new boss, silently affirming my decision to cut his throat one day before turning my gaze back on the pale mark on my palm. The brand was visible even through the thick black oil on my skin, the pinkish white mark looking as if it were under a scant few inches of muddy water rather than pure black sludge. I sighed, poking the mark and noting how my every pain grew noticeably worse from the contact before pulling away. I ran a hand through the fur on my head, closing my eyes and breathing deeply through my nose.

Smug bastard he may be, tricksy motherfucker was right; I can feel my head pound, pain radiating from my burned hand, and the flies in my lungs are bothering my breathing. I settle back into my bed with a groan, if my training is anywhere near as harsh as that bastard implied, I’ll need my rest.

I can always experiment when my head stops pounding… much as the thought of putting off gaining power rankles me. I settle into my bed, closing my eyes and attempting to sleep even as my focus shifts to my Paranoia canvassing the area over and over again.