Space, the emptiness was immediately apparent. There were no walls or boundaries, no end in sight. It was a void so immense that it was hard to fathom. But it wasn't entirely lifeless. Far-off glimmers of light and distant specks of matter twinkled in the darkness—the universe taking in the endless array of celestial bodies.
Stars, blazing with a brilliance that illuminated the blackness around them. Galaxies swirled and twirled in a mesmerizing dance of cosmic proportions. Planets, moons, and asteroids, both large and small, made their way through boundless space, each with their own story to tell.
The silence was peaceful, almost meditative, until a sudden beeping disrupted the tranquility. The source of the noise was from a silver vessel, shaped like a coffin, hurtling through the void. The vessel was a mere kernel compared to the enormity of the universe, yet it blinked with a fierce intensity that demanded attention. Its constant red SOS shined like a beacon of hope, but it was a plea for help amid the vacuum.
The vessel spun, and a psychedelic sunray refracted off the window, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors across its otherwise monochromatic exterior. It drew closer, moving past with a gentle hum. A glimpse through its frosty glass window revealed a man lying still, his eyes closed in a cryogenic slumber, unaware of his surroundings, as the vessel disappeared into the darkness.
On a cold summer night in 2067, the stars shone brightly in the sky, and the silhouettes of canyon tops stood out against the shimmering backdrop. A buzzing sound came from the brush, and a family of prairie rattlesnakes emerged. Lit by just enough moonlight, they made their way toward another bush nearby. A shooting star cut across the darkness, its trail sparkling like sequins. One of the snakes stopped as if to watch; the shooting star reflected in its eye. Then, with blinding force, the canyon was bathed in a radiant light, illuminating the rocky terrain as if it were day. The same light revealed the snake's gray-skinned body, with black blotches along its back. And with a deafening boom that resounded for miles, sending debris hurtling through the air, an impact from the vessel shook the earth. The snake hurried away, trying to catch up to its family, its tail rattling along the way.
Amidst the dust and debris enveloping the surrounding area, a ruby-red glow flickered and dimmed, then brightened again—the vessel's SOS beacon. A clicking sound, followed by a hiss and a thump, preceded a moment of silence before a distorted voice spoke in a mechanical tone, "Malfunction. You—Free will. Malfunction. Other—Being. Malfunction. Deserve—Altruism. Malfunction. Goodbye—Son." The words echoed off the canyon walls, bouncing back and forth like a haunting refrain. A scream rang out, cutting through the eerie silence that followed. Smoke from the cryo-chamber twisted with the dust, dissipating to reveal the sleeping man, now awake, backlit by the blinking red light, and kneeling on the rough terrain. The cold air, which leaked from the metal pod chilled his back, sending shivers down his vertebrae. He felt the coarse sand warming his fingertips as he gripped into the gritty ground beneath him. The acrid fumes from the vessel smelled of industrial machinery, nitrogen chemicals, and particulate exhaust, but soon it gave way to the fresh air of the arid Badlands. A cool breeze stroked the hairs on his skin. His silhouette was strong and clearly defined against the inhospitable landscape. He stood up and walked away, the blinking red light grew larger, marking the spot where he had been found, alone and adrift in a strange new world.
A blood-red sun ascended over the canyon tops, its light casting mesmerizing shadows on the rock formations that surrounded them. The Badlands stretched in every direction, a vast expanse of dry terrain that had been eroded by immemorial winds and waters. The landscape resembled that of volcanic rock, with ravines and gullies that cut through rugged terrain. Crevices and fissures formed by years of erosion crisscrossed the land, and sand dunes sculpted by the winds rose and fell like waves in the ocean. Patches of grass grew in the arid soil, their verdant hues a sharp contrast to the otherwise barren landscape. The colors of the earth alternated between black and blue coal stria, bright clay, and red scoria, creating a surreal otherworldly ambiance. Pronghorn antelope and mule deer would sometimes cross paths in a playful race, while wild buffalo grazed peacefully on the western end of the land. Clouds drifted lazily in the sky, their white fluffy forms like an oasis of relief against the harshness of the terrain, but still the white-hot sun remained suspended on the horizon, creating a hazy mirage on the torrid dirt path.
In the distance, a figure appeared, shrouded in the heatwaves. The man walked with a steady gait, his face indiscernible [DB1] from the undulating air. He was dressed in nothing but white undershorts, leaving his muscular physique exposed to the harsh elements of the Badlands.
As he emerged from the heat mirage, his features became clearer. He was in his twenties, with jet black hair and a clean-shaven face. His expression was stoic, neither happy nor angry, simply determined. His gaze remained fixed straight ahead, never straying.
A unique detail to him was the insignia of “N57” tattooed on the center of his sternum. However, his most striking feature was his eyes—his right eye blue as the cleanest ocean, and his left eye golden like the burning sun. They were a stark contrast to his dark features, and they never blinked.
He continued his adamant march towards another shimmering mirage on the horizon. The mirage, as we know it, is an optical illusion caused by the refraction of light as it passes through layers of air with different temperatures. This creates a reflection of the sky above. But to the man, it was a body of water, something that he had been desiring to reach. He kept on, his bare feet blistering and bleeding.
The scorching heat ceded to thick clouds that loomed overhead. The man rested on a boulder, sitting with his back to the covered sun. Despite the respite, the man still seemed to be in discomfort, his wrist twisting and twitching, sending jolts of electricity through his nerves in a painful manner. With the cracking of his back, he pushed himself up, glancing back at the direction he had come from. The mirage had gone, and he was lost. His memory that of a newborn, but he had an idea to get it back.
The man strained and grunted, his sinews bulging as he punched the heavy boulder. The rough surface of the rock scraped and tore at his flesh. He was trying to fix a problem within himself, to tap into a latent ability he believed only needed to be triggered. In his mind, the boulder would morph and move with his strikes. The discernment on why he thought this was a blur, but he was going on instinct. His fists were raw and bleeding, his muscles sturdy, but his breath was haggard. His blood stained the sand below, a constant reminder of his failure. Anger and frustration built inside him, mixed with a hint of questioning fear. Still, he cut off any negative thought, gritted his teeth, and punched harder, refusing to give up. His blows chipped away at the rock, but lacked the force to truly dominate it. To bitter avail, he felt no surge of energy, no sense of triumph. Exhausted and defeated, he sank to his knees beside the boulder. His breath came in uneven pants, his body slick with sweat and blood. He looked out at the barren landscape, feeling empty. He examined his injured knuckles. Though there was blood, there were no visible cuts or abrasions, no gaping holes of any kind. He knew he was healing at an incredibly fast rate, so incredibly fast that not even he could see it. Sweat poured down his forehead as he looked up at the sky. A trickle of blood seeped from the back of his head, specifically his medulla, yet there was no perceivable wound. His memory was still a foggy mess.
The lone man stood atop the canyon; his darkened figure etched sharply against the waning light of the day. The dusty plains sprawled out before him, a desolate landscape punctuated only by jagged rocks and scattered vegetation. Where is the water going?[DB2] he thought, the mirage fading in the far-off distance. The sun slipped below the horizon, and the sky blazed with fiery hues of red and orange, painting the world in a surreal glow. Above, the stars twinkled to life, glimmering like infinite diamonds in the velvet darkness. A gust of wind stirred the man's hair, carrying with it the scent of dry earth and sagebrush. He felt the ache of isolation, but his unbreakable spirit kept him resolute.
The moon seemed close enough to reach out and touch, another serene night.
And then, a loud shriek shattered the quiet. Against the starry backdrop, the man's silhouette swayed in and out as the wind continued to howl. Time flew as the stars glided across the sky, but soon storm clouds rolled in, obscuring them with a sense of foreboding. In the foreground stood a tall rock, and atop it, the man perched, his eyes glistening with a jumbled memory.
He peered into the darkness, conjuring an image of an ocean in turmoil; waves thrusting and pulling against each other. A memory seemingly veiled and incomprehensible. Then, thick fog had settled in, suppressing his vision. Only the rising sun, modeling beautiful shadows across the distant canyon tops, could dispel his illusion. The cumulus clouds above threw patterns of light and shadow on the sand and grass. And there he stood between the canyons, his eyes fixed on the blueish sky. The clouds moved swiftly across his line of sight, their reflections varying depending on which of his eyes he used to look. Through his blue eye, the clouds appeared normal, but through his gold eye, they appeared reverse and inverted, as if viewed through a broken mirror.
As time slowed to its normal passage, the man remained standing, an enigmatic figure against the changing skies and the bleak beauty of the Badlands.
It was the third day.
Atop the edge of the canyon, the man sat with his legs crossed, staring down at the barren landscape below. The hot sun beat down on his broad neck and shoulders, and the silence was unsettling. His jet-black hair blew gently in the breeze, and he raised his head, revealing a sadness in his eyes. He blinked, trying to shake off his despair, but the reality of his desolate surroundings persisted. The loneliness, which bore down upon him, might have finally taken its toll. For all his strength and resilience, the memories that lingered like ghosts in his head also afflicted his heart—the same scattered thoughts manifesting themselves in the form of abandonment, his biggest fear.
The sky behind him was deep red as the sun began to set, casting an ominous glow over the landscape.
It was night, and the man screamed, his cries echoing through the emptiness around him. The N57 insignia on his chest glowed, and the silhouette of his hand appeared, covering it. He believed that if he could rid himself of his insignia, it would end his terror. His fingernails dug into his sternum, drawing blood, as he attempted to rip it off. The gruesome sound of wetness filled the air as he tore away his flesh. The smell of his own blood was that of iron and metal, yet there was a hint of sweetness, like that of a plant when cut down or stripped of its nutrients. He fought for breath, coughed and wheezed, and cried out in agony until everything fell silent, plunging into blackness.
As day broke, the torn flesh with the N57 insignia lay on the sandy ground, its dried blood staining the granules that stirred in the breeze. The desolation of the Badlands was palpable, and the fate of the man remained unknown.
For days, the man had been walking in circles, disoriented and adrift all at the same time. His bare feet were sweaty and swollen, and his soles were dry and cracking from the endless trek down the long and winding path. His steps were slow and measured, his eyes fixed ahead with a distant stare. His chest, once bearing the N57 insignia, was now empty. There were no wounds, no scars, and no blood. He appeared perfectly normal, except for his tired expression; a shade of weariness, not quite sad nor happy, just slightly off-kilter from good health. And his mind was blank, the yearning for what he once sought now a fading dream or a haunting nightmare; a lost memory he knew he could never reclaim as he surrendered into the abyss of darkness.
He stopped, dropped to one knee, and fell over.
He lay there for what felt like an eternity, until a rugged voice broke the silence. "Are you dead?" the voice asked, with a hint of amusement. "If you're dead, don't move." The voice let out a laugh.
As the man's eyes slowly opened, he was greeted by the form of a mysterious figure, their outline silhouetted against the blinding light of the sun. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he began to discern [DB3] the details of the figure's appearance. The stranger had a rugged hiking pack slung over their shoulder, a worn and unbuttoned dress shirt that exposed a hint of chest hair and the sharp lines of a well-defined collarbone. The stranger's dark brown eyes were shielded by a pair of sleek sunglasses, and his gruff beard was at five o’clock, boring an expression of cool detachment.
This stranger was Damien L. Lawrence, a late forties drifter, and a bishop in the Baptist church. He looked down at the man on the ground, smacking his lips as he spoke again.
"Look, guy. I know you're not dead. I can see you breathing, so I'd appreciate it if you'd say a word."
The man remained still, looking up at Damien with just his eyes.
"Thirsty, aren't you?" Damien said, nodding to himself. "Yeah, you need the miracle elixir."
He knelt down, pulled a canteen from the side of his pack, and pressed it to the man's mouth.
The man's parched throat was on the brink of death, and the act of quenching his thirst felt like a resurrection. As he took long, grateful gulps, his lips became moist once again. His eyes found Damien's and locked upon him, imagining an aurora surrounding him in this moment. He continued to drink and drink until the canteen was empty.
"Leave some for me!" Damien exclaimed, pulling back the canteen and trying to drop some water into his mouth, but it was dry. He groaned, put away the canteen, and helped the man to his feet, dusting him off. "Where you from?" Damien asked, trying to strike up a conversation with the man.
The man didn't respond.
Damien tried again. "Speak English?"
Still no response.
He switched to Spanish, "¿Habla Español? ... Ole - E - Oh."
The man looked at Damien with a blank stare, clearly not understanding a word of what he said. Although the man's facial expression remained the same, there was a hint of happiness in his eyes, thankful for the water Damien had bestowed upon him. Without a word, the man turned and walked away.
Damien, not wanting to let the opportunity pass him by, caught up to the man and stopped him in his tracks. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Damien held up a hand to halt the man's progress. "How about a little gratitude, guy?" His voice tinged with annoyance. "I just saved your life!"
The man looked at Damien, wondering what he wanted. But since Damien did nothing, the man moved forward.
Damien was caught off guard by the man’s lack of reaction. He wondered if the man was mute or deaf in some way, but that couldn't be since the man had obviously reacted to his voice when asked if he was dead just moments prior. He backpedaled in front of the man and began using sign language as a communication tactic.
The man stopped in his tracks.
Damien did too. "I don't know sign language," he chuckled, realizing the futility of his attempts.
After a moment, the man tried to mimic Damien's signs, struggling to make sense of them.
Damien held out his hand for a shake, and the man mimicked Damien's actions, their hands clasping together in a firm grip.
The gesture surprised the man. (change to Damien’s POV)
"The name's Damien L. Lawrence, traveling savior. At least yours anyway," Damien introduced himself, hoping to learn the man's name in return. “What's the name, guy?"
The man stopped shaking Damien's hand, and plopped down on the ground; his legs crossed underneath him.
Damien peered down at the man in bewilderment, but his judgement subsided and he sat down beside him.
They sat in silence for a while.
Damien watched the man’s eyes scanning the area around them. He wondered what the man was looking for. Was it something in the distance? Or was it something closer by? Damien followed the man's gaze, trying to see what he was seeing, but the only thing he could see was dry grass and dirt.
The sun was high in the sky, and there was no shade in sight. The heat was oppressive, and he could feel sweat running down his back. He shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard ground. Then, he looked over at the man again, studying him. He was lean and muscular, with bronze skin and dark hair that was cut short. His eyes were different colors, blue and gold, and they seemed to be tenacious.
He wondered who this man was and where he had come from. He wondered why he was traveling alone in the middle of nowhere, dressed in nothing but shorts, and where he might be going. He thought, perhaps he was a fellow drifter, someone he could swap stories with, or at the very least, forge a human connection.
After a while, Damien stood up and stretched his legs. “Been moving long?” he asked, eager for dialogue, but instead he got crickets, though he had begun to expect this from the man. “Me too,” he continued. “Though it's for a good cause.” He tapped his chest where a small military Bible was tucked away in his breast pocket. “A little book of good for those who need it. And a whole lotta agua for those who hopefully appreciate it!” He laughed, hoping to get a reaction.
But the man remained silent, his eyes still scanning the horizon.
Damien sighed and sat back down next to him.
They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the heat mirage dance in front of them.
Later, the two men trudged down an ostensibly endless road. The air shimmering with a mirage, making the distant landscape look like a watery image. A car approached from the opposite end, coming into their periphery. [DB4]
Damien's face beamed with optimism. He held out his thumb, hoping to hitch a ride.
But when the car zoomed past, his expression fell. Damien turned to the man beside him, his eyes taking in the man’s attire. The man's tight shorts and lack of a shirt had caught [DB5] his attention more so now than it did earlier.
Damien cleared his throat and turned from the man. "It's called a shirt and pants," gesturing to his own clothes. The man remained silent, unfazed by the comment. He continued, "I have extra ones," hoping to coax a response from the man. When he received no reply, he let out a sigh of frustration and turned on him. "Seriously, we're not getting a ride with you dressed like that."
The man pulled up a pair of tight blue jeans over his chiseled thighs; tugged a loose T-shirt over his head; and wiggled his bare toes in the gritty and hot sand.
Damien stood nearby, looking on with an air of amusement.
"Loaners," he said with a snicker, eyeing the man's newly borrowed attire.
The man adjusted his crotch in the tight jeans.
"Never mind, you can keep 'em—"
As the man finished dressing, Damien dropped his pack and rummaged through it, pulling out two wafer candies. He held them out for the man to choose; one chocolate, the other strawberry.
"Which one do you want?" Damien asked, but the man remained silent, his eyes darting between the two treats. Impatient, Damien thrust the strawberry wafer into the man's hand.
Unbelievably, the man had no clue what to do with the candy and waited for Damien’s directive.
Damien swiftly unwrapped his candy and eagerly took a bite.
The man observed him closely, then imitated the action, tearing open the plastic wrapper with a loud crackle. The wafer crumbled under his touch, releasing the scent of strawberry syrup and crispy baked dough. He knew it was going to be a sensory spectacle before he even tasted it. He grinned as he finally put the candy into his mouth, his eyes sparkling with delight. He closed his eyes and savored every morsel, the candy melting on to his tongue and stimulating his taste buds in ways he had never experienced. Like a brief, intoxicating journey into a dreamlike state, he sighed with [DB6] satisfaction.
"Good stuff?" Damien remarked, noticing the man’s extreme, almost inappropriate pleasure, to which the man nodded heavily, holding out his hand for another wafer candy.
Damien handed him another, cautioning him to slow down.
The man gobbled up the candy in no time.
"You gotta be kidding me?" Damien spoke aloud to himself, as the man held out his hand for yet another wafer candy.
A loose rock tumbled down a rocky hillside.
Damien trailed the man’s footsteps as they scaled the jagged cliff. With each step the man took up the steep slope, Damien found himself slipping further behind, his breaths becoming heavier and his legs burning with exhaustion. The man moved with a fluid grace, as though the rocky terrain were his home, while Damien stumbled and grasped at anything he could find to keep himself from falling.
"How do I get myself into these positions?" he muttered to himself, grabbing a rock.
The rock slipped beneath his slick fingers, sending him into a free fall. Panic seized him as if he were in slow-motion. He tried to grab onto anything that could save him, but in actuality, his body was limp. The only thing that moved was his head as he glanced toward the ground rushing up to meet him. His heart hammered in his chest, and sweat instantly formed under his eyelids, of which he closed tight. For a fleeting moment, he prayed for a miracle, but it seemed there was no escape from the inevitable.
With quick reflex, the man caught Damien, grabbing his shirt before he fell only a few inches.
"Whoa." Damien quivered, exhaling shock and relief.
The man helped Damien steady himself on the uneven surface, then turned back to continue his climb up the hillside.
They reached the top of the plateau just as the sun set over the canyon tops. The man squinted at the breathtaking sight before him, while Damien dusted himself off and surveyed their surroundings.
"That's a beautiful view," Damien remarked, pausing for a moment to take it all in. "Did we have to climb a hill for it?"
But the man's attention had already shifted from the vista. He turned and began climbing back down the hill, leaving Damien to follow after him, grumbling under his breath.
"What the hell?" he sighed. "This guy is giving me an ulcer."
Damien held for a moment, thinking. Do I really want to follow this guy? But by now he was too curious. The man’s mysterious and steadfast nature got ahold of him, and the moment couldn’t have lasted longer than a nanosecond before he too started to climb back down the hill.
As the light drained from the sky, the man walked confidently towards the sun setting as it intersected the road. He was leading the way ahead of Damien, who trudged along the dusty road, a heavy pack strapped to his back.
"GUY!” Damien called out, his voice ragged with exhaustion. “It's resting time.” He dropped his bulky pack on the ground and began to hunt inside it.
The man halted and turned back slightly to look at Damien before facing the road again. He seemed to be chasing something that Damien couldn't see, an elusive goal that kept slipping through his fingers. He believed that if he stopped moving, what he desired would keep getting away from him, and the gap could [DB7] never be closed.
The man hesitated, but then retraced his steps and approached Damien. He didn't know why he was drawn to him, but he felt an inexplicable urge to be close. He sat down beside him, and watched him pull out sticks, a trowel, strips of cardboard, and matches. He observed Damien dig a hole and place the sticks across it to make a platform. It was an important task, and the man knew it, though he couldn't discern why.
Damien lit a match and placed it on the cardboard, then gently blew on the small flame until it grew into a fire.
The man was awestruck, his eyes lighting up with wonder. The pungent scent of burning cardboard clung to his nostrils, tickling his nose hairs. He inhaled deeply, indulging in its sweet scent of sunflower pollen. But he was even more captivated by the dancing flame, its fiery flicker reflecting in his heterochromatic eyes. He reached for it—Damien smacked his hand away without hesitation. The man recoiled, embarrassed by his impulsiveness.
"Fire, hot! No touchy," Damien warned him sternly.
The man looked at Damien questioningly, but then sat quietly, chastened yet still captivated by the hypnotic flames.
"Hungry?" Damien asked, pulling out a can of soup, opener, and small stainless-steel pot from his pack. He handed the pot to the man and started to open the can.
The man inspected the pot, unsure of what to do with it.
Damien took the pot from the man, opened the can, and poured the soup into it. He placed the pot over the makeshift fire. "You're not heavy in speech, are you?" Damien remarked, noticing the man's reticence.
The man smiled.
Damien returned a smile, amused by the man’s voiceless demeanor. "You’re a strange one, guy," he said, reaching back into his pack and pulling out two spoons. He handed one to the man and kept the other for himself, then motioned with his hand how to eat the soup.
The man mimicked Damien's movements.
Damien proclaimed, "Sustenance. It's every man's virtue." He dipped his spoon into the pot. "Like the sun and the water. It's all nourishment for the body," he said, pulling back the spoon. "And every man should have food for the soul," he added, taking a bite. He motioned for the man to eat.
With deliberate movements, the man dipped his spoon into the steamy pot and lifted from it, tender chunks of chicken and fragrant broth. He brought the contents to his mouth and relished the warm, savory taste. A grin spread across his face as he met Damien's gaze. This was the best thing he'd ever tasted—even better than the strawberry wafer from earlier. The soup's rich, smoky aroma danced across his tongue like a gourmet meal, and the warm liquid soothed the chill of the late evening. He reached for another spoonful, but Damien slowed him down with a cautionary word.
"Remember, slow and steady wins the race."
The man acknowledged Damien with a nod and paced his actions.
They ate in silence for a bit, and then Damien spoke up, his voice low and serious. "I don't know why you're out here, guy, but I've learned that not knowing much in the Badlands can be misery, if you get my drift,” with a mouth full of soup, he continued. “Seem to have a good way about you, though."
Damien took another sip of soup before reaching into his pack and pulling out a wallet-sized photo. It showed a smiling girl who looked to be around seven years old. Damien's expression darkened as he stared at the photo. A cold shiver shot up his spine as if he had forgotten something incredibly important. He clenched his jaw and slid the photo into a King James Bible inside his pack, then pulled out an almost empty liquor bottle, drunk down to the bottom half of its Russian label.
"It's hard here," he murmured, "No one said it'd be easy." He shook the bottle, "You drink?"
The man only glanced at him before returning to his soup.
Damien shrugged and opened the bottle, pouring himself a drink into a small tin cup[DB8] . "I'm not big on drinking, but it keeps the blood warm at night." He tossed back the drink like a pro, suggesting he wasn’t trying too hard to convince anyone of his drinking habits.
He grabbed a sleeping bag from his pack. "Sorry, guy, I only have one sleeping bag, and we're not sharing it," he joked, but the man didn't get it. "I am willing to give up my pillow, though. My gift to you." Damien tossed the pillow towards the man.
The man ignored the gesture and kept [DB9] eating.
Damien sat on his sleeping bag, looking past the faint outline of the mountains. "Stars are coming out already," he mused, noticing the stars in the dusk sky and marveling at the twinkling lights above. "You ever thought about space? It amazes me how people look up at the stars and not believe in something greater than themselves. It's almost selfish in a way.” Damien went on, undeterred, and with enthusiasm. “When I look up, I see creation. Something I know I could never truly understand. How something can be made from nothing. It's enough to blow a guy's mind." He took a drink from his tin cup still looking up at the stars.
The man didn't respond, continuing to eat his soup.
As the night went on, Damien cozied up in his sleeping bag while the man had gotten comfortable using the pillow. The twilight had turned black.
It was midnight.
Suddenly, loud screams tore through the peaceful night.
Damien shot up in his sleeping bag, his heart racing. He fumbled for his flashlight on the front of his pack. What the hell is going on? he thought. Finally, he grabbed his light and turned it on, shining it around frantically until the beam landed on the man, who was writhing in pain on the ground.
"What the—hey, hey!" Damien crawled out of his sleeping bag and over to the man. "Guy, what's wrong?" Damien pleaded, trying to assess the situation.
The man kept screaming.
Damien got on his knees and pushed on the man, trying to get him to stop. The man's hot breath was like a furnace on Damien's face, and the smell of his sweat was overpowering. He could feel the man's muscles tense beneath his hands, and he knew that he was going to have to use all of his strength to restrain him. “Guy, wake up. Wake up!”
The man's eyes were wild, his sclera turning red as his irises flashed like strobes.
"Guy! GUY!" Damien yelled, trying to get his attention[DB10] . Fear prickled at his skin as he watched the man's sclera turn back to normal, yet his irises stayed pure white.
Like a missile homing in on its target[DB11] , the man's frown deepened as he focused a penetrating stare on Damien. He quickly stood and snatched the flashlight from him. He shoved Damien to the ground and directed the light in his face, blinding him.
Damien could feel his heart beating fast in his chest, his hand quivering as he shielded the beam of light from stinging his eyes. His voice trembled as he spoke, "Wha—What are you doing, guy?"
The light from the flashlight stayed steady on him.
Fear and confusion swirled inside Damien's mind. What was happening? Was the man dangerous? All he could do was wait, hoping the situation wouldn't escalate any further. Slowly, Damien lowered his hand, shaking as he placed it down to rise up. “I’m going to stand now,” he said, squinting from the piercing light. Carefully, he made his way to a knee. “Okay, guy? Just—” His voice trailed off, not knowing what to say, not knowing what his next move would be after he got up. His movements were cautious, his eyes darting around in the darkness for any signs of danger.
The light persisted, shining in his face.
Damien started to rise—the flashlight dropped. He caught a glimpse of the man’s bare feet running away. He felt a knot of dread in his stomach and quickly picked up the light, chasing after the man.
"GUY!" he shouted into the darkness. The beam of light waving wildly through the air, casting long, eerie shadows across the sand. The wind howled in his ears as he ran, his heart pounding [DB12] in his chest.
"GUY!" he shouted again, his voice shrill. There was breathing, rustling, and then a loud thud. Damien had fallen, and the beam of light was pointed at him. He quickly grabbed the flashlight and pointed it at the thing he had tripped over.
It was the man, curled into a fetal position.
As Damien watched the man retreat to an embryonic act, seeking refuge in what could be considered a metaphorical return to the womb, his mind was immediately transported back to his days as a missionary. To him, the unfamiliar and foreign nature of the man's behavior was no different than that of a fellow comrade experiencing the tremulous stress and anxiety of the border war in Croatia.
Damien was accustomed to handling such situations, and this was no exception. He scooted over to the man and sighed heavily. "You're an adventure," he chuckled lightly. "C'mon, we have to go back to the site."
The man turned and sat with his legs crossed, his face covered in dirt.
"My pack's back there," Damien said, thumbing in the direction of their campsite.
It looked to Damien as if the man were seeing him for the first time.[DB13]
Damien stood and offered his hand, the beam of light pointed at it.
The man stared for a moment, his irises flashed blue and gold. He took Damien's hand.
The fire pit spat and flickered as the two men warmed next to its bouncing flames.
The man clasped his hands to his chest, as if to protect his heart from the chill. His breaths creating clouds of mist in the cold air. He looked different somehow, more aware than before.
"Scared me for a second there." Damien said, his tone casual. "Nightmares? I have those sometimes." There was a long beat of silence, until he spoke again. "I wasn't going to say anything, but you have some freaky eyes, guy."
The man didn’t understand Damien’s joke. He looked at him, puzzled, unsure of what he meant.
Damien reached for a liquor bottle and held it out for the man to take.
He eyed Damien, who motioned for him to grasp the bottle. He hesitated before taking it, then sniffed the bottle’s opening; his nose curled at the awful smell, reminiscent of paint thinner[DB14] .
Damien pantomimed drinking from the bottle.
And the man mimicked him, taking a swig. He immediately regretted it, spitting out the liquor and coughing harshly—Damien snatched the bottle from the man. "Acquire the taste," he said boastfully, "helps you sleep." He drank from the bottle and tried handing it back to the man, who refused.
Damien shrugged and took another drink. "I haven't prayed in a while," he said, taking another swig. "I was hoping to see my daughter. They say a father never forgets his kid's face, but..." He took another drink, his voice slurring.
The man noticed a shift in Damien’s attitude and paid close attention.
"Time is nothing to God. I strive to be more like God if possible. It's been the total opposite.” Damien took another swig, into a drunken tangent. "Humans make logical choices for our own selfishness even when we say it's for someone else. We all know it, but we justify it somehow. If you do good, good things will happen to you. It all comes back to you. We come into this world as one and we leave as one. It's a hard thing to think about. It's a hard pill to swallow." He went for another drink but stopped, setting the bottle down and glaring at the man. "How can I pray for my own selfishness?" he asked, his voice rising with intensity.
The man listened to Damien's words, unsure of what to think, but could see the pain in his eyes.
Damien shook it off. "Don't take what I say as failure. We could be better as a people, live in a land of paradise if we wished. If we remember what's important." He spoke quietly now. "But it's hard to remember." He grabbed the liquor bottle and took another long swig, then laid down and turned his back to the man, staring out into the darkness.
The man also turned, peering into the night, lost in thought.
The fire pit began to burn out, the embers dying down, leaving the two men in complete blackness.
The midday sun shone on the empty fire pit, its once-dancing flames now reduced to ash and burnt sticks. An empty liquor bottle discarded next to it, a testament to the previous night's events.
Further down on a path made with rock and sand, the man and Damien trudged along, side by side. The man's face was still dirty, and his hair was tousled from a restless night's sleep. Damien, on the other hand, appeared to be his usual self, save for his tired expression. Holding the straps to his pack, he glanced over at the man and commented, "Last night didn't faze you one bit."
The man kept his sights forward, not bothering to respond.
"I must sound hysterical," Damien continued, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. "Talking to myself." He turned fully to the man, his expression brightening. "Guy, I need to grab supplies. We're running thin, and I know how much you like those strawberry wafers."
The man peered at Damien, his attention piqued.
Nestled between rolling hills and framed by an endless sky was the small town of Interior. As if it were a Norman Rockwell painting, it had a certain charm that drew in passersby like moths to a flame.
As the man and Damien got closer, the scent of sagebrush and pine filled their nostrils. And the crunch of gravel beneath their feet signaled their arrival.
The town was made up of a few main streets with only a handful of simple, yet weathered buildings; a general store, a gas station, a post office, two restaurants, and scattered homes, each with their own unique character. Despite its small size, there was an evident sense of community in Interior, with friendly locals and a quiet, peaceful atmosphere. Aside from the distant call of a coyote or the rustling of wind, only the occasional car or truck passing would break the silence. Time seemed to stand still in this place where the natural world was as much a part of life as the people who lived there.
The general store looked old and shabby, with pea green peeling paint and two creaky doors that spoke of years of use. A faded sign posted on its interior glass window read, “Food, Tools, and Liquor”. Damien hoped they had what he needed. He turned to the man, “There’s a bathroom inside. I suggest you clean up.” Upon seeing the man’s bafflement, he sighed and took his hand. He couldn’t explain everything all the time. He pulled him into the store, like a parent leading their child.
The man's ravenous eyes darted across the store, taking in every mouthwatering sight. Shelves stacked [DB15] with tempting snacks and savory soups beckoned to him, while the hypnotic scent of smoky hot dogs roasting on a rotating grill filled his nostrils. His mouth watered with anticipation and his stomach growled in hunger. A sharp and crisp sound cut through the air and demanded his attention.
It was Damien, snapping his fingers.
Damien forced the man’s gaze to fix on himself, then mimed washing his face with exaggerated gestures before patting him on the back and motioning him in the direction of the bathroom. The man watched as Damien meandered off before turning toward the bathroom door. After considering the food, he felt he should listen to his traveling companion and made his way to the door marked “Toilet”.
The door opened, and the man stepped inside, greeted by a scene that was beyond disgusting. The off-white walls were tainted with shit particles; the sink was stained with blood and sand; and the toilet was soiled with urine stains and feces marks. His nose wrinkled from the awful sewage stench, and he turned to leave. But, he caught himself in the mirror. Taken aback by how filthy he was, he tried to wipe away the dirt from his face, but it wouldn't come off. He looked down at the sink and its handles, twisting them to turn on. But they wouldn’t. He hit them, and they still didn’t work.
He resumed a strong scrutiny upon the sink, placing a hand over it, hoping for something miraculous or that of impossibility. His hand glowed for a split second and then a spark flew from his fingertips, triggering the water to flow from its faucet. Initially, the water was brown from the gunk in the pipes and years of non-usage, but it became crystal clear after running for a bit. Surprised by his intention, though not at all competent on how he did it, a smile flashed across his face in accomplishment. He took the water into his cupped hands and splashed it onto his face, cleaning away the muck. After a fine scrubbing, he looked at himself in the mirror, focusing intensely on his blue and gold eyes.
He took several seconds to look at his golden eye. Then, out of nowhere[DB16] —a tear fell from his blue eye. He tried to touch his gold eye in the mirror but hit the glass surface with his hand. He held his hand on the glass, then turned his hand on his actual face, touching it, moving down past his gold eye.
—A sudden shooting pain struck him, and he curled over in agony, gripping his chest. Between his fingers, his chest glowed with the outline of his past insignia, "N57".
A memory flashed in his mind; a man who looked uncannily similar to himself, save for his blond hair, sat on a white sand beach, gazing out into the bluest of oceans. His face somewhat blurred by a faulty membrane, but as his head turned, his face became clear, his eyes golden akin to a burning sun. Then, static emerged as the man’s memory went blank like a VHS tape reaching the end of its reel. He wanted to go back, craved to remember so badly his teeth bled, but it was no use. He found himself back in the nasty bathroom, clutching his chest as though he were trying to heal the pain in his heart.
He released his chest and smashed the mirror, his fist gushing blood that instantly healed. He struck the sink with a downward thrust, and it crumbled to rubble. He exited the bathroom, leaving the busted mirror and sink as reminder of his pain.
When the man rushed outside, he accidentally bumped Damien, who noticed his heavy breathing.
"You alright?" Damien asked, concerned.
The man slowed his breathing, trying to compose himself.
"Okay? —Got you something." Changing the subject, Damien handed the man a box of mixed wafer candies. "Don't eat 'em all at once," he warned, before saying, "Let's go look for a ride." He walked off.
The man took a moment, then followed, still trying to process what had happened in the bathroom.
The sun lowered as the man and Damien continued their journey off the beaten path.
“Can you believe no one was willing to give us a ride?” Damien spoke aloud, his tone evasive.
Resting, the man enjoyed a chocolate wafer from the mixed box of candies he was gifted earlier, while Damien sat on a nearby boulder, flipping through a guidebook he picked up at the general store.[DB17]
Damien turned to the man and offered a friendly smile. "Found this at the store," holding up the guide like a souvenir. "It's where I'm heading." He flipped through a few pages, showing the man highlights of Minnesota. "You’d like it, guy. Ten-thousand lakes, nice people. Where I grew up actually."
The man graciously took the guidebook and looked at the stunning view of Lake Superior on its cover. He peered off into the arid landscape where there appeared to be a body of water, but it was a mirage. Holding up the pamphlet, he matched the image of Lake Superior to the watery mirage and realized that this was what he had been searching for. His new directive was now firmly ingrained.
The man noticed Damien reaching for his open pack as he declared, "I've been to every state now, except Alaska. But Minnesota keeps calling me back. Nothing quite like it."
He tried to hand back the guide to Damien, who shook his head and said, "Might be a place you want to explore in the future," before closing his pack.
The man nodded in appreciation and put the guide away.
Damien threw his pack over his shoulders.
And they continued on their journey, the man offering Damien a wafer, which he gladly accepted.
As the sun kissed the sky goodbye, the two travelers found themselves in a remote area, sitting by a freshly dug divot, listening to the hooting of the great horned owls from the sandstone bluffs, the chirping of the black-tailed prairie dogs from their underground colonies, and the squeaking of the endangered black-footed ferrets in the surrounding grasslands. It was as if the animals were putting on a symphony just for them, a twilight serenade to soothe their tired souls.
The man held strips of cardboard and cautiously placed them into the divot.
Damien smiled reassuringly, holding an unlit match. "No better time to learn," he said, carefully lighting the match between his rough thumb and index finger and handing it to the man.
The man took the match and delicately laid it to the cardboard, and a small flame rose.
"Go on, blow on it," Damien encouraged.
The man blew gently on the flame, and it grew into a fire.
Damien nudged the man with glee. "Let there be light!" he exclaimed.
The man grinned wildly, happy for his success.
"This calls for celebration," Damien announced, pulling out a new liquor bottle from his pack, which he bought back in Interior. He opened the bottle and took a swig before offering some to the man.
The man shook his head vigorously and mimed eating soup.
Damien nodded and handed him a can of soup and steel pot. "Remember how I made it?" he asked.
The man nodded eagerly and got to work. He pressed his finger down on the can of soup, and with a satisfying "pop," he opened it and poured the contents into the pot. His ability had either grown or he had done it unconsciously.
Damien turned back, holding the can opener, and looked at the man in amazement. "How the heck did you do that?" he asked.
The man placed the pot over the fire.
Damien shook off his surprise and put down the can opener. He grabbed the pillow from his pack, but before tossing it to the man, he asked, "You're not going to freak out like last night, are you?" He stared at the man, who was focused on cooking the soup.[DB18]
The night was black and loud screams pierced the darkness.
A flashlight popped on and pointed at the man's face, who was twisting on his pillow.
Damien, exhausted, wiped his face down to his chin, clearly frustrated by the man’s nightmare reoccurrence.
The fire pit crackled and the flames roared, emitting a warm glow over the men as they sat beside it.
Dancing flames illuminated Damien as he took a long drink from his bottle. He swallowed hard and set the bottle down. "Those must be bad nightmares," he said, breaking the silence. "Want to talk about it? It’ll never get better unless you get it off your chest.” He tapped the man’s chest, urging him to open up.
The man copied Damien, tapping his own chest before clenching his shirt like it were his heart.
"Every man has his problems," Damien spoke softly. "It's all about how you deal with them."
The man loosened his grip, but he remained silent.
Damien picked up the bottle and took another drink before speaking. "I lied before," he admitted. "I do remember my daughter’s face. But I try so hard to forget." He took another long drink before continuing. "I ran from my daughter because I was scared. Scared of dependency, scared of responsibility... I was scared to be a father... But sacrifice is always scary, and love is sacrifice." He took another drink, his words slurring slightly. "How could I ever be like God with all these pathetic issues cast over my head? I’m trying for heaven’s gate, but I’m more like the devil God has created... And these memories—" Another drink, draining the bottle. "I can never forget... But then, I take a drink of this elixir and..." He held the empty bottle up to the fire, watching the flames flicker off its frosted glass. "I can almost blank everything." He shook the bottle, hoping for one last drop, but it was empty.
The truth is, when Damien stumbled upon the dehydrated man days earlier, he knew he had found an opportunity to procrastinate. He could have easily continued on his journey after giving him a drink and helping him to the next town, but his past sins weighed heavily on him. He was plagued by the demons of his abandonment and the fear of facing his daughter after so many years. He had replayed the moments he would say to her in his head countless times, but the reality would never live up to his expectations. As he sat beside the fire, he couldn't help but wonder what God would want from him. Would it be better to leave his daughter's life untouched, or should he face his fears and try to make amends? These thoughts haunted him, and he couldn't escape the pressure of his consciousness.
“If I end up not going through with it, guy. Will you go in my stead?” Damien asked, looking down at his white-knuckled grip around the liquor bottle. “Will you tell Mary that I'm...” He trailed off, unsure of what to say. There was a moment of stillness.
The man reached out and touched Damien’s shoulder, signaling his understanding.
Damien smiled gratefully, his eyes closing as he leaned back, drifting to sleep. The empty bottle slipped from his hand, landing with a clink beside him.
The man watched him for a moment before turning his attention to the bottle. He picked it up and stared at it for a breath, then tossed it into the fire. The glass shattered, sending tiny shards flying in all directions. He watched as the flames consumed the broken bottle, his gaze stoic and unblinking.
Under the soft glow of the moon, remnants of the fire pit lay in disarray. With shards from the liquor bottle mixed in with the dying embers, a prairie rattlesnake coiled in the pile of ash, basking in the warmth. Its gray skin, dappled with black blotches, resembled that of the snake from five days previous.
As the embers dwindled and the air turned colder, the snake’s glistening scales shivered in the faint moonlight. Seeking a warm place to rest, it spotted a figure lying on the ground and slithered over to investigate.
Damien snored slumped over in his sleeping bag, his body still warm from the dying fire. The unexpected visitor curled up next to his leg, hoping to absorb some warmth. Unaware of the snake's presence, he remained lost in a drunken stupor. But as the snake brushed against his prickly leg, he stirred in his sleep, and the serpent recoiled in fear. With a loud hiss, the snake lashed out with a venomous bite to his ankle. Despite the attack, he remained blissfully unaware, shielded by his alcohol-induced haze.
The snake slithered from under Damien's sleeping bag, leaving his ankle bleeding and a winding trail in the sand as it moved to a nearby bush.[DB19]
Meanwhile, the man slept soundly next to the ashes, unaware of the events that had just transpired.
The early morning sun rose over the hilltop.
Damien stayed snuggled in his sleeping bag, looking worse for wear. He had darkness under his eyes, hollowed out by sickness. His lips were parched, with white saliva clinging to the corners of his mouth.[DB20]
The man roused from his slumber and nudged Damien to wake him.
Damien groaned softly as he barely opened his eyes, squinting against the brightening sky. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision before turning his sights up at the man, who stood over him like a shadow against the morning light. "I'm up, I'm up," he murmured, his voice hoarse.
It was high noon, and the blue skies contrasted sharply against the rocky erosion, with small brushes dotting the horizon. Reciting a bible verse, Damien's voice echoed throughout the valley, filling the air with solemnity and reverence.
"For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life," he preached aloud, his voice weak and faltering. This was his revelation, the guiding principle that had kept him going when all seemed lost.
Damien's legs ached as he struggled to keep pace with the man. His face was gaunt; eyes sunken and rimmed with dark circles. He stumbled over a loose rock; his once even stride now wobbling. His skin was pale and clammy, the cold sweat clinging to his forehead and a dull ache in his chest. He took in air, each breath coming in shallow and jagged. Regardless of his physical weakness, he clutched the tattered Bible tightly in his paper-white hand as if it were his only source of strength.
"Feel the weight of that," he said, offering the Bible to the man.
The man accepted it, surprised by its heaviness. He turned the book over in his hands, examining its well-worn pages.
Damien spoke, "That's the power of God, my friend," before coughing harshly.
While the man furrowed his brow, concerned for his companion's health, a photograph unexpectedly fluttered out from between the yellowed pages. Reacting quickly, he reached out and caught it before it hit the ground. He eyed the faded image and tossed the book back to Damien.
Even though Damien caught it with practiced ease, he scowled at the man for lobbing the Bible without warrant. "Hey! You don't throw the book of life! It's precious material," he chastised before breaking into another coughing fit.
The man studied the photograph: the seven-year-old smiling girl, with dark hair and eyes.
"... My daughter," Damien squeaked out, holding in his coughs. He strolled over to the man, his voice heavy with emotion. "Only one I have of her. Mary Louise Lawrence. She'd be in her twenties now."
The man felt a pang of sympathy for Damien, who seemed to be carrying a heavy burden.[DB21]
As Damien coughed again and again, he dropped to one knee, struggling to catch his breath.
The man crouched, tending to him.
Damien's legs trembled as he wheezed out, "Sorry, guy... Can we rest a bit?" between breaths. He slid his backpack off his sore shoulders and slumped against it, feeling its weight press into his back. The sun beat down mercilessly, making his skin feel like it was on fire. He fumbled for his canteen, his hand shaking with fatigue. He couldn't hold it steady, but to his relief, the man helped him with a firm grip. Damien's eyes thanked him with a faint smile as he took a grateful sip of water.
Feeling a brief reprieve from the sweltering heat, he poured the rest of the water over his head, the cool droplets trickling down his face and neck. He took off his sunglasses, squinting against the bright light. In the distance, the horizon shimmered with heatwaves, distorting the landscape. "I must be hallucinating," he muttered, his voice hardly above a whisper.
The man followed Damien's gaze and saw a dot in the distance.
Damien attempted to stand, but his knees buckled under him. He felt the man’s arm around his shoulder, holding him up.
With each passing second, the dot grew larger, until it became a black SUV with tinted windows. It pulled up beside them, idling. The driver rolled down the passenger window and waved. “Hey there! Need a lift?” He asked with a gracious smile, smelling of cigarettes and cheap cologne.
Damien let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling as if this were a sign from God.
However, the man remained cautious, his sharp eyes studying the driver's helpful demeanor with a wary gaze. He couldn't shake off the feeling that something was amiss, and wondered if they could truly trust this stranger.
As the SUV traveled down the straight road, the scenery outside transformed. The once barren terrain was now lush with greenery, and the rough rocky bluffs had smoothed out into flat lands. Despite being a self-driving vehicle, the driver, a young man in his twenties, a buzz cut and aviator shades, kept one hand on the wheel, and the other concealed out of sight. His eyes flicked between the road ahead and the rearview mirror, where the man and Damien sat silently. The purr of the engine was the only sound, until the driver finally spoke up. "How long have you been traveling?" he asked with a smile.
The man had no intention of answering, even though he disapproved of Damien's expected reply. He understood that Damien would respond merely out of niceties[DB22] .
"—While now." Damien replied, taking it easy.
The driver was curious, "What for, if you don't mind me asking?" His eyes spying the man in the mirror.
"Hey, umm..."
The driver introduced himself. "Ted."
"You have some water?" Damien requested weakly.
Ted took his hand off the wheel and popped open the center console. He dug out a small bottle of water and began to pass it to Damien.
The man's eyes followed Ted’s every move. He noticed Ted's sleeve slide up, partially revealing a tattoo of a sword and shield. His vision narrowed as he glared at Ted with deadly intent.
Ted didn't notice because he was too busy taking in Damien’s appearance. "You don't look so good, fella," he said offhandedly.
Damien took a sip of water and immediately slumped over, unconscious.
The man had no choice but to turn his attention from Ted and fixate on Damien.
"Shit, is he okay?" Ted asked.
The man lifted Damien’s eyelids, hoping to see some spark of life, but there was none. He poured water over Damien’s lips, but they remained dry and cracked. Hyperventilating, the man gasped for air. His heart pounded like a drum, his veins throbbed like wires, his throat constricted like a noose, and his eyes brimmed with tears. This couldn’t be real. Damien couldn’t be gone. His mind spun with frantic thoughts, and his eyes flickered from side to side, unable to focus.
His emotions rose like a flood, but then, like a dam, Damien's calm and reassuring voice rang in his head. "Remember, slow and steady wins the race." He reined in his feelings and recalled, "It'll never get better unless you get it off your chest." He touched his chest, a reminder of where he had torn off his insignia, the symbol of his past. As he ruminated, he remembered the bathroom, where he had unleashed his power and caused the water to flow from the faucet with vigor.
He knew what he needed to do, but first he needed to compose himself. Then, he checked his wrist for something. And the something wasn’t there. So, he hit his wrist. Again. And again, searching for a way to access his power.
Ted turned to him. "Hey! What are you doing?!" he demanded.
Ted's voice faded into the background as the man relentlessly pounded on himself, moving from his wrist to his arm to his chest and, finally, his head. It felt like his skull was cracking open, but he didn't stop. He hit himself once more, with all the force he could muster. And then, in a sudden burst of light and sound, his body lit up like a torch. Electrons [DB23] flowed through his veins, charging his fingertips with energy. He had done it. Whatever he had been trying to do had now worked. His eyes flashed white for a brief moment, and a memory that had once tormented him became as clear as day.
—An athletic man with blond hair, shirtless and wearing white tactical pants, stood on top of an endless ocean surrounded by blue skies that mirrored the water's depths. His striking golden eyes contrasted with his dark skin, which enhanced his chiseled features. The insignia "N56" was emblazoned upon his sternum, a symbol of unknown significance. As he extended his hand, a crackling current surged from his medulla down his body. He smiled gently as he touched another man, whose point of view we saw through. And as soon as their fingers met, a brilliant white light burst forth, engulfing everything in a blinding whiteout. There was no discernible orientation as the light permeated everything[DB24] . Then the man came to, back in the SUV with Damien and Ted.
Ted reached out to stop the man, but before he could make contact, a discharge of static leaped from the man and shocked his hand. A current traveled up to Ted’s medulla, linking both the man and Ted’s brain. Inadvertently, the man's eyes flashed, and he invaded Theodore Nelson Jr.'s consciousness.[DB25]
He experienced Ted's life in a flash; from his past, growing up in the worst part of Kansas City, to his present as a ranger in the United States army, and what could potentially be his future. He felt Ted's every emotion. Joy when playing with his toy car, pain from a fistfight in high school, love when kissing his mother goodbye as he left for service, and hate from his first infantry kill. Not only that, but he was privy to Ted's wishes for love, regret of career, secrets of insecurity, and even plans to capture him.
He zoomed in on a fragment of Ted's memory, in which a grim general briefed him on a target code-named N57, a dangerous humanoid they had to bait and snare without arousing his fury. Project Legion's classified documents revealed that N57 was a potent force that could unleash immense havoc. Four days ago, the military had discovered N57's frozen pod and had been tracking his movements ever since. Instead of facing him head-on, they devised a cunning scheme to apprehend him, and Ted was chosen for the task. Soldiers doused Ted with stale cologne, and he chained smoked cigarettes to disguise him as a normal guy who would pick up N57 and Damien as they hitchhiked.
With this revelation, the man knew he was—N57.
N57 spun on Ted with a look of disdain and anger. [DB26]
Ted noticed N57’s glare in the rearview mirror, and his chest inflated from panic.
But before either Ted or N57 could do anything to each other.
Damien began to convulse.
N57 shifted his interest back to Damien and gently pressed his hands against his chest. As he did, the air around them glimmered with a warm, amber glow. A burst of energy pulsed from N57's palms, flowing into Damien's body like a river of electricity. In response, Damien spasmed as if hit by a defibrillator. N57 persisted, drawing on his otherworldly powers to infuse Damien with vitality.
Poison oozed from the bite holes on Damien’s ankle where the snake had sunk its fangs. Soon it gave way to fresh blood, and the wounds began to reseal, healing themselves without the venom’s influence.
"Whatever you're doing back there, desist! We're going to a hospital[DB27] ," Ted ordered.
As seconds ticked by, Damien's condition steadily improved, his complexion regaining its healthy hue. His lips, once pallid, now bloomed crimson with freshly circulating blood, and his dark eyes regaining their natural color. He let out a deep exhale as the amber glow intensified.
"N57, stop! That is an order, soldier!" Ted yelled again.
But N57 didn’t stop, unwavering in his focus to fix Damien, his hands still hovering over him, glowing.
Ted revealed his hidden hand, holding a military issued M9 pistol, and pointed it at N57's head. [DB28]
As Damien's eyes fluttered open, N57 was all-encompassing. He beheld him like a divine being bathed in an ethereal aura. For an instant, he was lost in the radiant glow, feeling as though he had been delivered from the jaws of death by a celestial force. But his reverie was short-lived, as he spotted Ted clutching a firearm, poised to strike. Damien cried out, "Guy! Look out!"[DB29]
N57 whirled around as Ted squeezed the trigger. An ear-piercing bang of the gunshot reverberated within the SUV’s cabin. The bullet whizzed past his head, the rush of air grazing his skin. In a blur, N57 lunged forward and seized Ted's wrist, his hand latching onto him like a steel trap. With a sudden jerk, he twisted it with bone-crushing force and the sharp crack of a splintered elbow filled the space.
Ted let out a loud cry and frantically reached for something hidden under the seat.
N57 reacted quickly and violently shoved Ted’s head into the steering wheel, causing him to go limp—the sudden impact caused the autopilot to disengage, sending the SUV into a wild spin.
Glass shattered and sprayed throughout the interior; N57's head hit the roof as the vehicle tumbled. Ted became trapped in his seatbelt, and Damien was thrown to the back of the cabin, his body bouncing like a ragdoll. Shards of metal and plastic tore into their skin, and the pistol fired off once more, splattering blood on the smashed windshield. Sparks flew, and the SUV caught fire, the contents of Damien's pack sent flying in all directions.
Finally, after its violent flips, the SUV came to a halt upside down.
N57 awoke in the wrecked vehicle, feeling a sense of disorientation. The world around him seemed to blur and swirl, his senses dulled by the impact of the crash. He shook off the daze, and his eyes fell upon the motionless body of Ted, his once living foe, dead, a gunshot wound to the head.[DB30]
Desperately, N57 searched for any sign of Damien, but he was nowhere to be seen. With mounting anxiety, N57 wrenched his torso around to look behind himself, only to find that the back window was no more, and a body lay crumpled in the distance.
A swift kick, and he sent the side door flying off its hinges with a resounding crash. He crawled out of the SUV wreckage, his body riddled with cuts and bruises, and pushed himself up to his feet. As he rose, his battered appearance became non-existent and his injuries healed instantaneously.
Despite the miraculous healing of his body, N57's mind remained in strife as he approached the far-off body lying on the ground. A sense of apprehension crept over him, and his heart sank as he realized that the body was indeed Damien, impaled in the abdomen by a piece of the vehicle’s rear fender.
N57 fell to his knees beside his fallen companion, placing his hand on the fender.
Damien coughed up blood and let out a pained wail from the contact. "Guy, guy, please..." he begged.
N57 took his hand off the fender, afraid he might do more damage.
"Mary... In Silver Bay," Damien whimpered, blood spilling from his mouth. "My pack, it has..." He tried to lift his arm and point, but he was too feeble. Tears mingled with the blood on his face and he uttered a few unintelligible words.
N57's mind raced as he looked for a solution. The healer in him knew what to do, but his doubts gnawed at him, undermining his confidence. Would his power be enough to heal the gaping wound in Damien's chest? Could he even fix something like that? He felt a lump form in his throat.
Regardless of the uncertainty[DB31] , N57 refused to give up. He placed his glowing hand over Damien, feeling his own energy drain as he poured into him. Simultaneously, he tried to remove the fender, but Damien cried out. N57 hesitated. The look in Damien's eyes was enough to make him stop, to make him listen to the silent plea for mercy.
N57 searched frantically for a way to save Damien, but the reality was grim. There was no magical solution, no hidden remedy. Damien was slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Guy,” Damien said softly, looking up at him with awe.
N57 looked back at Damien with a glint of hope his friend might survive.
“You think I’ll see my dad in Heaven?”
Damien smiled faintly as he recalled a sunny day on the farm as a youth, when his father had ruffled his hair and gazed at him with pride and affection. His father’s face was like a rougher version of his own, with a sharp chin and a stubbly beard. His eyes were bright and his hair was soft, but streaked with gray from the hard life he had led. He said something to Damien, something warm and reassuring, but the words were lost in the haze of memory. His father stepped off the porch and walked away, never to return. Damien had spent his entire youth staring out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him again. But he never did. And then he too, drifted.
After uttering his last words, filled with involuntary nostalgia, Damien passed away.
N57 stared at Damien, his eyes clouded with tears as he mourned the loss of his friend. For the first time, he wanted to say something, to offer some kind of comfort, but there was nothing he could utter. He shut his mouth, realizing that even if he spoke, it wouldn't bring him back to life. Damien's eyes had already deadened, and his body lay inert. He was gone. N57 knelt beside him, incredulous, his eyes flickering from blue to gold and then to white with a tumultuous mix of confusion and agony.
Grief transformed into a fiery rage that seemed to engulf N57 completely. He released a primal scream that shook the very ground, causing a ripple of energy to course through the earth. His body crackled with power, as though he were a living bolt of lightning, and the air around him grew thick with an electric charge that shot off, igniting the vegetation. He floated above the flames, towering like a god of destruction, only to fall back to his knees with a heartrending sob as he cradled Damien's lifeless, cold body in his arms.
N57 could no longer hold Damien, the weight of his vacant essence causing his arms to go limp. He set his friend gently to the ground, then curled into the fetal position he knew all too well.
From a bird's eye, N57 lay there, diminutive and unremarkable in comparison to the vast expanse of the Dakota plains, but his anguish was anything but miniscule. It was a force of nature, a tempestuous hurricane of grief and rage that threatened to swallow him whole. He began to claw at the earth with his bare hands, gouging out chunks of asphalt and dirt until a deep crater surrounded him. And when that release was not enough, he turned his wrath upon himself, tearing at his own flesh with savage abandon.
In a frenzied state, his own blood painting the ground beneath him, he fervently scraped at his flesh with his fingernails, ripping off his face and hair in a twisted display of self-destruction. However, his face and hair rematerialized within a blink of an eye, achieving nothing but healed wounds. Then, in a moment of madness, he plunged his hands into his own chest, shattering his ribcage and rending himself in two. He believed that this was the only escape from the torment of hatred and pain, the only path to transcendence from the sorrow that had wracked him so deeply. He healed again, then ripped out his mandible. His unique physiology allowed him to perform such a grotesque act, although his mind couldn't fully comprehend it. His body's molecular geometry continuously reconstructed itself, but he remained resolute in his desire to die, driven by a desperate need for salvation as he tore into himself again and again.[DB32] [DB33]
The thick odor of iron and cloying blood misted the air. Reminiscent of fabric being torn but with a more visceral, organic quality was the sickening crunching of his tissues being separated and ruptured. A wet, muddy sound, like someone tearing apart a piece of raw meat with their bare hands, made the blood run cold. It seemed to go on forever, a never-ending nightmare that crescendoed a hundredfold.[DB34]
With each brutal thrust into his body, he felt as if he was unlocking memories he had long forgotten. A rib snapped and he saw a brother’s face, a clavicle cracked and he felt a father’s touch, a skull smashed and he heard a lover’s voice—a friend’s bark—an enemies order. He was a puzzle of pain, unlocking his memories with blood and bone.[DB35]
The act of self-mutilation was a strange kind of therapy, carving away the parts of himself that caused him pain, while synchronously piecing together the fragments of his fractured mind. The memories still swirled in a hazy mist, but the pieces were slowly falling into place. He could almost feel the wounds on his psyche healing with each slice of his flesh. Even with this progress[DB36] , he couldn't bring himself to stop. He continued his frenzied self-attack, never pausing or taking a breath. And then, like a sack of potatoes hitting a hardwood floor, two dismembered pieces of his body thudded to the ground, their blood unifying and coagulating together to form two large puddles.
The blood did not remain stagnant for long; it began to boil and churn, transforming into an agitated vortex of crimson. As if emerging from a blasphemous baptism, two naked figures ascended from the turbulent bloodbath, their bodies drenched in what had once been N57.
Their eyes met in a silent exchange, unspoken words passing between them.
One had eyes of gold on the left and blue on the right, his jet-black hair cascading in wild waves around his face, matted with blood and pieces of flesh. The other had eyes of blue on the left and gold on the right, his hair a glimmering platinum between the blood stains in the sunlight. Both bore the insignia "N57" upon their chests, signifying that they were part of something much larger than themselves.
Standing there, slick with the remnants of their former selves, the two figures suddenly heard an approaching convoy. The roar of U.S. military vehicles grew louder by the second, a warning that they were no longer alone. But the two figures stood firm, unyielding and fierce, ready for whatever would come their way.
[DB1]indistinguishable
[DB2]He wondered where the water could be going and why he could never reach it, the mirage fading in the far-off distance.
[DB3]see
[DB4]The two men dragged their feet along the dusty road that seemed to stretch on forever. The air was hot and hazy, creating a mirage that distorted the distant landscape into a blurry illusion.
[DB5]But when the car zoomed past, his expression fell. Damien turned to the man beside him, his eyes taking in the man’s attire or lack thereof. The man's tight shorts and bare chest had caught his attention more so now than it did earlier.
[DB6]He sighed with satisfaction and reached for another piece.
[DB7]Would means more of strong possibility it will happen
[DB8]Do we need to know where this came from?
[DB9]After this sentence --
The desert night was silent, save for the crackling campfire.
[DB10], to help him
[DB11]Is this a POV shift?
[DB12]thumping
[DB13]Damien thought the man looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time.
The man looked at Damien as if he was seeing him for the first time.
[DB14]Woould man even know what this was?
[DB15]stocked
[DB16]a strange thing happened
[DB17]Resting, the man enjoyed a wafer from the mixed box of candies Damien had given him earlier, while Damien sat on a nearby boulder, flipping through a guidebook he picked up at the general store.
[DB18]Damien shook off his surprise and put down the can opener before reaching for a pillow to toss to the man. "You're not going to freak out like last night, are you?" he asked, looking at the man who was focused on cooking the soup.
[DB19]The night progressed, and the snake slithered out from under Damien's sleeping bag, leaving his ankle bleeding and a winding trail in the sand as it made its way towards a nearby bush.
[DB20]His lips were parched and cracked, with white saliva clinging to the corners of his mouth. [DB20]
His lips were parched, with white sticky saliva in the corners of his mouth.
His eyes were dark around the sockets, sunken in as if emaciated. And his lips were parched with white sticky saliva in the corners of his mouth.
[DB21]POV shift, but could change to Ted when he finally sees into his head from when he dies
[DB22]politeness
[DB23]Ions
[DB24]Make different than bathroom memory or clearer
[DB25]POV shift, needs to be changed
[DB26]N57 quickly spun around and looked at Ted with disdain and anger.
[DB27]Need?
[DB28]Ted revealed his hidden hand, which was holding a military issued M9 pistol, pointing it at N57’s head.
[DB29]But his reverie was short-lived. Ted was clutching a firearm, poised to strike. Damien cried out, "Guy! Look out!"
[DB30]N57 awoke in the wrecked vehicle, and he felt a sense of disorientation. The world around him blurred and swirled, his senses dulled by the impact of the crash. He shook off the daze, and his eyes fell upon the motionless body of Ted, his once-living foe, dead, a gunshot wound to the head.
N57 awoke in the wrecked vehicle, feeling disoriented. The world around him blurred and swirled, his senses dulled by the impact of the crash. Shaking off the daze, his eyes landed upon the motionless body of Ted, his once-living foe now lifeless, a gunshot wound to the head.
[DB31]In spite of the uncertainty
[DB32]He remained resolute in his desire to die, driven by a desperate need for tranquility as he tore into himself again and again.
Catharsis
he remained resolute in his desire to die, driven by a desperate need for release as he tore into himself again and again.
[DB33]he remained resolute in his desire to die, driven by a desperate need for liberation as he tore into himself again and again.
He remained resolute in his desire to die, driven by a desperate need for escape as he tore into himself again and again.
He remained resolute in his desire to die, driven by a desperate need for peace as he tore into himself again and again.
He remained resolute in his desire to die, driven by a desperate need for freedom as he tore into himself again and again.
[DB34]Reminiscent of fabric being torn but with a more visceral, organic quality was the sickening crunching of his tissues being separated and ruptured. A wet, muddy sound, like someone tearing apart a piece of raw meat with their bare hands, made the blood run cold. The thick odor of iron and cloying blood misted the air. It seemed to go on forever, a never-ending nightmare that crescendoed a hundredfold.
[DB35]He tore into himself with savage abandon, each wound a key to a forgotten past. A rib snapped and he saw a brother’s face, a clavicle cracked and he felt a father’s touch, a skull smashed and he heard a lover’s voice. He was a puzzle of pain, unlocking his memories with blood and bone.
With each savage penetration into his own flesh, it was as if a forbidden vault of forgotten memories burst open in a tempestuous whirlwind. The torn rib, like an ancient key, released a fleeting glimpse of a long-lost sibling, their laughter echoing through the corridors of time. His shattered clavicle, a fractured prism, refracted fragments of a distant father, a stoic figure lost in the recesses of his mind. And as his relentless assault on his own being hammered against the fortress of his frontal lobe, it summoned a mosaic of faces: a lover's tender gaze, a friend's reassuring smile, an enemy's piercing glare. Each thrust became an act of desperate remembrance, a violent dance with the ghosts of his past.
As he plunged his hands into his own chest, tearing away chunks of flesh and bone, he was flooded with a barrage of memories long repressed. The ripping of a rib brought forth a fleeting image of a sibling's smile, a shattered clavicle stirred up the sound of a father's laughter, and a relentless hammering of his frontal lobe conjured a kaleidoscope of faces - a lover, a friend, an enemy - each one a shard of his fractured past.
With each brutal thrust into his own body, he felt as if he was unlocking memories he had long forgotten. A rib he tore out unleashed a flash of a sibling he once knew, his shattered clavicle stirred up a shadow of a father pushed to the back of his mind, and a relentless hammering of his frontal lobe summoned a lover, a friend, and an enemy.
[DB36]Progress of memories healed, or memories regained