In a brief moment, Griffin found himself in a ruined world. The air tasted of dust and something acrid.
Griffin squinted as his eyes adjusted to the perpetual twilight cast by the blood-red sun, eternally fixed on the western horizon. It neither rose nor set; it was simply a "weird" disc of crimson fire staining the sky in shades of plum and angry pink.
No clouds were present beneath this alien canvas.
Below where Griffin stood, wearing an astonished expression, the land sprawled like a desiccated corpse.
Cracks, wide and deep, webbed across the parched earth, revealing layers of ochre-coloured strata.
Griffin noticed jagged mountains in the distance, their peaks scarred, their slopes a patchwork of rust-coloured rocks.
Everything about this world was both unfamiliar and utterly foreign to him—from the scale of the land to the unnatural hue of the sky, to the bizarre stillness.
"Where is this...? Some kind of living fantasy," Griffin struggled to discern the details of his whereabouts.
After a few moments of confusion, he scoffed. It seemed he might have temporarily gone insane.
"You really think I would run that distance!? What a 'dangerous' joke. Quite a good one that deserves an award, and if it's truly a quest—force me to complete it!" He spoke off-point; nothing he said related to the current happenings: 'Run', 'Distance', 'Quest', 'Force me to complete it', 'Dangerous joke'...
Suddenly, a monstrous snarl echoed in his ears. He slowly turned, his eyes trembling.
What he saw was beyond his imagination: a massive, serpentine creature. Its body, at least sixteen feet long, undulated with a terrifying grace. Two large, curved horns protruded menacingly above its crimson eyes, which glowed with predatory intensity.
This inexplicable entity's gaze was fixed on him like a predator sizing up its prey.
Not wasting a second, Griffin launched himself forward, running as fast as he could, never glancing back. He ran, constantly on the verge of falling, his boxers slipping inch by inch, but he drew them back and ran faster.
His eyes were wide with terror.
All that raced through his mind was "run, run, run..."
Ten minutes later, the monstrous beast had mysteriously vanished without a trace. Griffin collapsed, breathing heavily, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. Each ragged breath sent fresh waves of pounding through him.
The adrenaline within him slowly ebbed, leaving him trembling and disoriented.
Forthwith, he found himself back in his room. He instantly rushed to his workbench in search of the gem, but unfortunately, he couldn't find it anymore.
His first thought was that the gem might have had something to do with all this strange occurrence.
Uhn, it was here... Did someone come in and grab it? But my door is locked, so that can't be possible.
Not knowing what to do next, he decided to take a deep breath first and then figure out the situation; the memories had also halted.
Is that how it works? Think of it gone, and it will be... Think of its appearance, and it will be here right away.
Seemingly, that's the only thing I can fully understand about this occurrence for now...
Griffin slowly realised that while he was running and inwardly wishing for everything to be a dream and simply cease to exist, it did!
He thought of it gone, and it was. But did he ever think of its creation? No! So how?
Many questions were left unanswered, more mysteries, more strange mirrors that couldn't be seen through...
On second thought, he wondered if he might have been going crazy from staying inside his room for over a month now and surviving on the crumbs he had at hand. He had only made contact with the mechanic through his window, and so did the person who answered his request.
With Griffin finally coming to a conclusion—just a brief one, so that he wouldn't lose his senses—he dropped back onto the ground, heaving a sigh of relief.
Slowly, his heart returned to its normal rate, and he had time to calm his mind; all the intense pain had subsided.
Bam! Bam!
A hurried and brutal banging came upon his door. He wondered who it was this time, as he wasn't expecting a visitor or delivery...
Griffin's gaze swept around his room, trying to determine if anything was amiss before answering whoever was at the door.
He called out an excuse to stop the stranger from knocking, "I will be there! Getting dressed!"
Griffin quickly removed his now oversized underwear while staring at himself in the mirror, stunned by the six-pack he had. He couldn't keep his eyes off his body—falling in love with it more than ever.
He scurried away from the mirror to beneath his makeshift bed, searching for any clothing that could fit him.
Fortunately, he found a dark grey jacket and a pair of denim jeans.
The insistent rapping at the door spurred Griffin into a hurried motion.
He grabbed the dark grey jacket; the elbow patches scraped against the rough-hewn wall as he shoved his arms through the sleeves, leaving the lower buckles dangling.
Then, he hastily put on the dark denim jeans, yanking the jacket's collar high, hoping to at least appear somewhat presentable.
"Strange; this fits me quite well. I never knew I had such "elegant" clothing beneath my junk bed..."
Griffin rushed to the door, prepared to see who this rude stranger might be. His guess led him to suspect it might be a Watch officer.
The Watch were a paramilitary force of awakened individuals; they operated as a quasi-official bureau, enforcing law and order within the city's two districts.
However, their mandate was occasionally marred by a vivid bias against the citizens of the Lower District, leading to accusations of systemic subjugation...
Griffin opened the heavy metal door, unlocking the fixed key. The sound echoed in the dark alley where Griffin's room stood—it was always embraced by shadows, whether day or night, as it was situated in a tight corner that made it hard for sunlight to penetrate.
Standing before him was a man, his boots sunk into the shallow, rain-soaked mud—the remnants of yesterday's downpour.
"Oh, Officer Silas..." Griffin thought inwardly.
Silas was quite popular in the Lower District, as he was the one in charge of monitoring every teenager about to hit the age of 16; he would come periodically to confirm the age and status of each.
His last check had been a week before.
Silas was built like a blacksmith's anvil—broad-shouldered and mighty muscled, though not particularly tall. His physique displayed less grace and more brute strength.
His face was an expansive roadmap of wrinkles etched by the sun.
A strong jawline was partially obscured by a neatly trimmed dark beard, and his eyes were an icy blue, holding a cold and assessing gaze on Griffin.
A network of fine lines crinkled around them. His skin was tanned and weathered.
The brass star on his gorget reflected every little dot of light; this one star also signified that he was a low-ranking Watch officer—just an officer, not far from a recruit.
Not even a feigned smile crossed his lips; he simply stood there like a living statue. Silas's presence filled the tiny space, making Griffin tremble slightly...
He dared not utter a word or sound to the grumpy officer.
Officer Silas reached into the capacious side pocket of his uniform and withdrew an Ornithopter—a device barely smaller than a grown man's hand—approximately 7 inches wide, 5 inches deep, and 2 inches high—quite bulky if you ask me.
The case itself was constructed of rusted iron, a bit scarred... Its hinges were thick and elaborately engraved, groaning like an old sea chest as Silas raised the lid.
Creak!Whirr!
The screen was a surprisingly modern-looking (for the current era) piece of amber-tinted celluloid, coming to life with a soft orange glow. Beneath the screen lay a jumble of brass gears, copper tubes, and silver wires that whirred and clicked.
A miniature steam engine, no bigger than a thimble, hissed gracefully as the tiny piston pumped along.
This powered multiple mechanisms: a brass-cased gyroscope, a series of interconnected levers and knobs, a small conical glass reservoir, a punched-card reader, an array of light sensors, and a small hand-cranked generator.
Thaddeus Finch was the inventor of this intricately built device, a frail man from the Lower District. It was invented after the First War.
Finch came from a family of mechanics that specialised in clockmaking and repairs; he dedicated himself to creating different tools, and this served as his greatest invention. His life's work culminated in it.
Though he was a socially awkward man who always preferred the company of his inventions, he had a short history, and for a while now, he had been declared missing.
Silas cleared his throat, a deep groan escaping him. He began asking the normal routine questions as he searched for Griffin's data; each tap on the device made a clicking sound—the kind a reloading Glock makes.
Click! Click! Click!
Click! Click! Click!
A few seconds later, he found it and began the real questions.
"Name and current age?" His voice carried depth, resembling a lion's roar.
Griffin quivered and replied, "Griffin Caravan, currently 15, and turning 16 in a month and a few days..."
He awaited the next question.
Silas gave him a sidelong glance while confirming this information; it was correct, but the strange look made Griffin think otherwise—perhaps he no longer knew his name and age.
"Weight and height?"
"Parents' names?"
"Their status?"
"Your registration number?" asked Silas in a rushed manner. "Answer the questions!"
Griffin was a bit fazed, but he soon composed himself and began answering the questions.
First, he logically calculated his current weight without the use of any tools. However, he worried that a mishap might arise from the drastic change in his last recorded weight.
After a few quick seconds of introspection, he finally answered with a composed tone.
"65 kg, 5'5" (165 cm) tall!" This was indeed his current weight—'65 kg'.
"Mira Thorne and Dunn Caravan..."
"Status..." He paused for a few seconds, feeling a sad withdrawal through his body, but he eventually answered, "Dead..."
Officer Silas didn't bat an eye at Griffin as he declared them "dead."
His gaze remained fixed on the device.
Griffin slowly continued, "Registration number: 8909-45-689."
Registration numbers are assigned to every citizen from birth, and since Griffin had a "photographic memory," he never forgot his number.
Officer Silas coughed, covering his mouth with a hand. He then looked at Griffin, nodded, and turned to leave. Suddenly, he noticed something on the device—incorrect information, or perhaps something confusing...
"Why is your current weight different from the last check? The last was 87 kg; now this is 65... How is it possible for you to lose 22 kg within a week?" asked Silas in a sinister and ominous tone while staring into Griffin's eyes.
His left ha...