The Doctor was right. The days that followed were busy and exhausted Troy. First, he had to hear everything that was wrong with his body, although he felt fine. The Doctor was convinced that his body was still in shock and further observation would be required over a long period of time. Brain damage, extensive muscle and tissue damage in his shoulder, even the stress from the incident had caused a trigger that left strands of his black hair silver.
After that enjoyable experience, some federal agents came by to interview him about the situation. Every time he tried to explain what he saw with the hooded figure and his iron branches, they dismissed it as side effects from the brain damage. They said that the forensics gave a clear picture of a group of assailants who massacred the entire club.
Then the nightmares began. Flashes of that night kept him awake, made him sick, he could feel everything from that night. He felt more aware of people than ever before, their looks, their expressions. Eyes that focused on him, the survivor of a horrific incident. It was like he could sense how they felt about him from being near them. It wasn't the only change. Some people's appearance began to change. Some became more monstrous, with black wisps and red eyes. Others screamed at him, but nobody could hear it when he confronted the first person who did it.
It was all too much for Troy. Everything became too much for him to bear. Until he found himself at the bottom of a bottle, sound asleep in silence. The first time in weeks since he left the hospital. The booze numbed everything. From the flashbacks to the hallucinations, everything became more quiet and peaceful in the numbness of being drunk, and thanks to the government cheque the agents presented as compensation for his traumatic experience. He could afford enough for the next little bit while he decided what to do next.
The fall sun caressed the skin not shaded by his hood, as Troy took another long swig from his forty-ounce bottle. Kids screamed and laughed as they ran around the rust covered playground equipment, complete with a leaf pile they would jump into. A shadow blotted out the last vestiges of sunlight that lay on Troy.
"That smells cheap mate. If you were trying to drown your sorrows you should go for the good stuff. Like an eighteen year single-malt. Mag-fucking-nifique."
Troy glanced through his bangs to examine the owner of the voice. A short man, with bushy blonde neck-length hair, small round red-tinted sunglasses, and an outfit that looked stolen from Jimi Hendrix's wardrobe. The man sat down on the bench next to Troy, scratching at the whiteish stubble on his chin.
"Fuck off Harry Potter. I'm in no mood," Troy stated.
"Now, now Troy. A handsome stranger approached, you don't get hostile. Especially when the handsome stranger want's to help." The man smirked.
"You been stalking me freak? How do you know my name? You know what fuck this, I don't need this."
Troy stormed away from the bench. The man pointed his finger with his thumb pointed upwards and clicked his thumb down. The bottle encased within the crumpled brown paper bag began to feel warm. The palm of his hand began to sweat and a sharp pain shot through the palm, to the fingertips. The bag darkened in color as the once encased malt liquor leaked out onto the asphalt pathway.
Troy spun on his heel towards the chuckling stranger, his hands gripped onto the lapels of his burgundy jacket, with one pull Troy had the man on his feet.
"You are one of them aren't you. A psyker, just like that monster."
"Just like you."
Troy let go of the man.
"Thank you. I know this is a lot to take in but--"
The stranger was cut off as Troy's fist collided against their jawbone. The man stood still, unaffected. While Troy fell through from his momentum into the man. Troy's hundred ninety pound frame did little to unbalance the man from his spot.
"Ok mate, calm down now. Really I am here to help. Let me guess, they said you have extensive brain damage, and that's how you are explaining the quote-on-quote hallucinations. It's all bullshit, your brain is fine. It's better than fine actually."
"How do you know all this, who are you?" Troy growled in reply.
"My name is Giles. I, like you, am a Psyker. Quite a strong one if I do say so myself. I know you aren't lying, that you saw a hooded man who killed everyone in that club, and how ever since the hospital you have felt more aware of everyone, seeing some things that don't currently make sense." Giles explained.
Troy could not hold back the tears, it had been the first time in weeks that someone hadn't dismissed him, or made him feel like there was something wrong.
"Oh no need for the waterworks mate, come sit for a second."
Giles wrapped an arm around Troy's shoulder and guided him back down to the bench.
"Not only do I know you saw The Hood, that's what we call him. You saw a figure of blue flame and golden chain right?"
"You know what that thing is?" Troy replied through his sobs.
"Sort of. We call him Zero. He is the progenitor of Psykers. Daddy Psyker as it were. He awakens each and every one of us." Giles explained.
"Wait you said we. Who is we?"
"Well there are Psykers all around the world, and we have begun to form little groups. You know so we can watch each other's backs and all that. That's why I am here. To invite you to join our little merry band of misfits. To bring you somewhere you can feel safe." Giles squeezed Troy's shoulder.
"Can we pick up a beer along the way?"
"No Troy, it's time for a detox."
Giles led Troy through the south side of the city, the buildings became more and more derelict, the people went from average families to large groups of people bundled up in dirt covered, torn clothes. The streets were littered with crumpled brown bags, old furniture, abandonded shopping carts. The two cut down an alley that was more cleaned up, no stragglers huddled against the brick walls for shelter from the wind. There wasn't even the strong smell of urine that had assaulted the senses as soon as they entered the area. As Troy tried to look around more the walls blurred, a dull throb began to grow in the back of his head. A few more steps and the damp concrete floor drew closer. His stomach began to turn and cramp, the frozen burritoes Troy had gorged on at four in the morning started to work their way up his intenstinal track.
"Oh right, really should have warned you about this. There is a psychic cloak in the area, it basically makes the place invisible to the normal eye. You are still slightly drunk so its having a more adverse affect on you right now. Let's get you inside."
Giles picked Troy up and walked him over to the graffiti covered steel door that sat alone at the end of the alley. Giles placed his hand against the wall, and a electronic beep and mechanical whirl began as the door slid to the side.
The strong smell of lemon pine cleaner made Troy's face scrunch up, with the deconstructed burrito close to following from it. As the headache faded, and his vison became stable. He was greeted to rich redwood walls, deep green carpet, booths that sat against the walls, and a long bartop with hundreds of bottles lined up against the lit up backdrop.
"Uncle Giles!" A high pitched voice shouted.
A small girl with long brown hair tied up in braided pigtails, a bright yellow shirt and denim overalls ran over to the two. Giles' smile was ear to ear as he lifted the young girl up.
"Hello Princess Monica. How is the kingdom today?" Giles chuckled.
"Perfect as always Uncle Giles! Who is this?" Monica turned to Troy.
"Troy, meet Monica. The princess of this castle. Now go play somewhere me and Troy have to have an adult talk."
Giles placed Monica back down, her head slumped and she began a slow march out of the room, down the hallway off to the side.
"Welcome Troy. To The House Of The Lost."