Boring and monotonous defined his work down here. Cards, TVs, or personal belongings were strictly prohibited. For the amount of funding allocated to the fortification of the facility, none of it found its way to the mental health and employee entertainment department—or his paycheck, for that matter. At least the job was remarkably easy. One might expect that guarding this place would be dangerous business, but all he did was stroll down the sterile hallways and deliver food. He was sick of it.
Sometimes, when he was in a bad mood– or especially lazy– he 'forgot' to bring them any food. Knowing the crimes some of these people committed assuaged the occasional guilty pang. They deserved this fate. They had brought it onto themselves.
He had been given their files, and he had read all of them. A few of the folders contained descriptions so heinous that he barely contained his vomit after the first page. The pictures, in particular, still haunted his mind.
"Why do I keep reading these?" he asked himself. Well, he couldn't help himself. He had access to all this information and plenty of free time.
For the umpteenth time today he read the water bottle label, about to take some of the older folders out, when a voice echoed inside his head. It welcomed him to a prime realm of some sort. He was curious to know what that was all about, but he couldn't move from his seat. He had to wait patiently for a call or a sign of some kind.
More than half an hour later, nothing had yet happened. Announcements from the speakers weren't unheard of. The new guy was probably playing a prank on the guards. If the phone didn't ring, it didn't concern him.
He leaned back into his comfortable leather chair. Convincing his supervisor to approve this new office equipment had been a real battle. Apparently, squishy, snug chairs weren't 'essential' equipment. Thankfully, some good ol' corporate speak and a bit of that green paper unveiled a loophole– ahem– technicality in the rules.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
He was startled awake. An incessant beep rang loudly, alerting him of an open cell door, along with a flashing notification asking him if it should inform his supervisors. Nope, absolutely not, that was the last-resort.
He rubbed his eyes. A lone, hairless figure stood on the other side of the glass partition wall. Fucking hell, these lucid dreams were getting incredibly realistic. How would the poor bastard even break out of his cell? He leaned back into his chair, trying to return to sleep—a dream inside a dream, dream squared. That didn't make much sense. If he ignored it long enough, it would disappear—definitely.
The beep persisted. Fuck.
With unthinkable for his rotund body, speed, he stood up and unfastened the gun at his waist. The man's eyes met his, and he froze. He knew those twin lakes of blood.
His arms started shaking, his heart palpitated, and his pupils dilated as his gaze shifted to the man's right hand, where a ball of flames was forming. This wasn't a bad dream. It was a nightmare.
With a wave of the man's hand, the fireball shot through the air, cutting through the barrier like a knife through butter. Searing heat burned his chest as a feeling of emptiness overtook him. His hand darted to the area, only to slip through. His expression was etched with horror as his eyes gradually lost their light.
'Mana : 4/5'
Soren climbed into the station, the fissured glass breaking apart. This was the first time he saw the officer—an unfortunate first meeting. Hopefully, their second would be under better conditions. Bending over, Soren picked up the guard's gun and the wing's key card from the corpse.
On the screen, a notification was flashing. Soren turned it off. Everything was just fine.