The origin of Power-Wielding Individuals, also known as Transhumans, is a question that has excited the imagination and attracted the efforts of generations of scholars.

The general consensus connects the rise of Transhumans with the so-called Flood of 1938, when the Urarium, commonly known as the Black Water, first made its mass appearance on Earth. As it is widely known, the first Transhumans started to appear immediately after, an event that gave and keeps giving strong credit to the idea that the Black Water is somehow connected to the process following which a normal human being is turned into a Transhuman.

Of course, it all remains in the realm of the purely theoretical. Exposition of subjects to the Black Water in controlled environments have only led to aberrant results, no matter the methods and levels of security that were applied. Thankfully, the Urarium Regulation Act - with all its banning of human exposition and experiments - has made sure that this string of misery is a thing of the past, but the interest in this field of research has never, and probably will never, lost traction in the academic world. It's enough to mention the Urarium World Congress, still held as the most renowned scientific event of each decade.

As for now, despite all the effort spent on the matter, we can only regretfully accept our ignorance. Whatever process the Black Water sparks in individuals, if its depending on the individual, on the situation or some entirely different factor, is beyond the scope of even our most enlightened minds to fathom.

But the research continues.

- From the "On the Origin of the Transhuman and Transhuman Culture."

Dark didn't mind being alone. In fact, the greater part of him actually liked it. It gave him clarity, it gave him peace, all things which the presence of others disturbed and spoiled.

But not like that.

As he wandered the sewers, he struggled with the sensation of being watched, the prickle running across his skin, the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Loneliness.

He didn't mind being alone. But even he didn't like loneliness.

That's why when the whisper wafted against his ear like the last breath of a dying man, carrying the hint of song, he barely held himself from rushing its way. Not because of a strong will. Rather, it was the change the whisper brought. The air had turned still, solemn. An invitation to hush your voice and walk softly. To be… respectful.

Even as it got excited, the tophat encouraged him to be just as such.

The whispers rose from a particular shadow. At the center of a wide chamber, an array of tubes and valves threw a ragged shadow under the cold gaze of old-fashioned lights. Darker than dark, the shadow writhed gently at the center of it, a hole into the brickwork giving off into the heart of the night.

Dark peered into it. The shadow was as perfect and as reflective as a mirror. The face that looked back was his, and at the same time, it wasn't. The eyes were darkened, none of the pale light his gaze had to be seen. It was himself, he knew, but the Himself in the Many that composed the One-Many Thing.

It looked back, silent, unmoving, like a rock or a frozen pond.

As he peered into those darkened eyes, Dark was reminded of the mantle of the night, the endless darkness above between the stars and beneath, where the sun didn't shine. He heard the sound of emptiness, a thrum barely out of his perceptions, felt the ponderous movements of the things that nestled and writhed beyond the reach of stars.

The tophat urged him to be respectful. But there was something inside of him that had turned bitter and cold and resentful.

"Why did you leave me?"

He hadn't realized how much the Thing leaving him alone against Acquamarine hurt. He felt betrayed, stabbed in the back by someone he loved dearly. Where did those feelings come from? Why did he feel toward that Thing like it was part of him and he was part of it? He couldn't remember. His memory was a burned-out hole. But the feelings, the certainty… they didn't leave, they were more solid than the walls of that sewer.

The lips of the Him-in-the-Many didn't move. We are always with you.

Dark's biting retort was cut off by something brushing against his mind. It was like a finger of shadow, a tendril moving in the realm of the spirit rather than the flesh, pushed into his mind. Gently, it left a knowledge there for him to look.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

As he did, he was amazed.

"You… you weren't healing me," he murmured.

He lifted an arm to his eyes. With the danger passed, the darkness had retreated, returning his skin to its usual pallor. But it wasn't the same anymore. Darkness enervated the limb like the veins of a leaf, making it more robust, more powerful, and more solid.

The Thing wasn't healing him. It was completing him. The tendrils plunging into him weren't the work of someone pulling back together what was already there. It was one's fingers pulling aside what was cracked to replace it with stronger components. That's why it stopped at some point. There wasn't anything else to replace. The work was done. Now, it would have to heal and mend on its own.

Relief washed over him. The Thing never truly left him.

Dark had so many questions. On himself. On the Thing. On the past he couldn't remember. On that world and his supposed place in it.

But that was no place for that. The Thing laid that awareness inside of him. Asking would be like shouting questions into the night sky. It wasn't there that answers would be found. No, they were behind, in the land of light, amongst the streets of concrete and electric lights and beating, restless hearts.

It was just as things were.

A deep gratitude welled up inside of him. Even if he couldn't remember his past, he knew one thing for sure. The Thing had made him, he knew that to a primal level. He was part of it, and it was part of him, indivisible like his own heart. The Thing was the night, endless and eternal. He was a shadow, born from it, detached from it, but always bringing it into his own being.

"Thank you, Mother," he murmured, bowing his head. The Darkness brushed against his soul, cold and affectionate, and for a moment, he felt an echo of the contentment he had felt when the song first touched him.

Yet, he had to ask.

"What would you like me to do?" It made sense. For Her to order. For him to obey, the affectionate son of the all-encompassing night.

The Himself-in-the-Many rippled softly, as if something enormous behind its face was shifting.

Seek. Struggle. Live. Thrive.

The tendril of darkness lit an image inside of his mind. The Star shone brightly, as beautiful as the first time he had laid his eyes on it. It was an admonishment as well. What a stupid he had been. Playing around while there was someone he needed to find, a place he needed to be.

Deeply ashamed, he bowed his head, but Mother only cooed him in gentle understanding. He was raw and new, a hatchling just out of its egg. It was only natural for him to extend himself, to see what he could and couldn't do. What he was and what he belonged to.

Dark felt only more ashamed. Thrive. Mother wanted him to be happy. And happiness could be found only when he reached that distant star. He was sure of it.

He almost jumped at his feet, restless to start his search, but Mother bade him to stay. Eagerness was good, but the world of light and flesh was complicated, was it not? Filled with rules and bounds and light. He would have to abide by them if he wanted truly to thrive, he couldn't just carve its way into it like it was a slaughtered piece of meat. There were hunters that would come, as Acquamarine had come.

Dark wondered in awe if it had been all a lesson to teach him just that. But he didn't presume to see through Mother's thoughts. He just accepted her wisdom.

We are always with you.

She left him with those comforting words, the darker-than-dark shadow flowing back into itself, into that endless distance contained by darkness, until it was no more. The sewer returned to be a sewer. The lights were simple pieces of plastic powered by electricity. The shadows projected by the tubes were just that.

Dark let out a long breath, shaking his head. That had been… intense. For a few moments – how long had it been? - he had shifted away from mundane reality, away from those tightened confines to brush against… what? He didn't know. The unknown. The distant. What lay beyond the circle of light. Mother. He was happy she was there for him. He was happy she wasn't an enemy.

He shivered at the thought, quickly pushing it away.

"Should have asked if I am human…"

It had felt right not to, but now, he wasn't so sure anymore. The tophat encouraged him. Mother wanted him to find his own answers, not for them to be handed out to him.

Dark felt strangely relieved at that, but also a bit glum. Things couldn't be ever easy, could they? Not in the world of flesh.

But never mind that. He had an objective, a clear one. As the old man of the bar said, it was a lot more than most of us could say. If he had to be honest, he kinda felt excited. He didn't doubt Mother had the answers, but it felt right to be the one seeking them instead.

But was that true?

His skin prickled. There was something, hidden at the back of his mind. Something… dreadful. An echo, wafting over the burned-out ruins of his memory like the mourning wind after a fire. A phantom feeling of horror and disaster.

Dark shook his head angrily. Whatever it was, he wasn't scared. He wouldn't ever be. The Star was waiting for him. He wouldn't stop until he found it, until he reached her. It was his right, what made him and pushed him. He wouldn't let go of it. Ever.

The tophat broke him out of his reverie, gesturing for him to look. There was a hole in the wall. A faint light came from it. An exit.

Dark blinked at it. He was sure it wasn't there before. He glanced back, catching a soft writhing in the darkness. He grinned.

Thank you, Mother.

If everything else failed, he had at least someone he didn't want to let down. Alongside a clear objective, that was a real treasure. The old man of the bar would agree, he was sure of it.

The hole was ragged and, as he went through it, a wave of fresh air wafted against his face, pushing back the sewer's dampness. Behind, a soft incline led up to a ragged crack into the concrete, light streaming down from it.

Thankfully, his size had returned to what it had been at the beginning, taller than an average man, but still lanky and thin. Slipping through the tunnel wasn't a problem. Nor it was to break open the crack. Smaller as he had become, he was still as strong as a bull.

Dark pushed his way through the crack and left the sewers, climbing back to the land of the living.