The room was still heavy with the smell of blood and charred wood. I sit stiffly on a damaged chair, my throat still raw. Across from me lies a monster of a man. He nearly has to shorten himself to walk in his home, and his great weight makes cracks in the floor, warning those below him of the risky foundation. He is a rough pale man with grey spots infecting his skin, and his long locks of hair are no whiter than snow. His beard protects his neck, also colored snow. If he had not just saved me, I'd think he was the enemy, an intimidating fellow. His eyes look at me from another room, the shine of his glass eyes blinding me. He takes off a steak from the stove, adding it to a muddied plate of bacon grease and egg white. He sits down. Across from me, lies Prime, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of tea which the other pieces up a piece of bacon
The man seemed at ease, the earlier carnage no more than spilled drink. More interestingly so, despite how baffled I am at my situation, he heeds no concern, confusion, or care for who I am, or why I am here. I think that makes me trust him.
"You hungry?" Prime asked in earnest, though his sharp gaze cut through me like a blade. "You look like you could use some protein."
I shake my head. Silently. Eyes darting between the destroyed table, bloodstained floor, and the hulking man casually sipping tea. My coil suit skinks of piss, the scent is comforting. Prime chuckles.
"Suit yourself." He flipped a mug from the counter toward me, spilling a bit of hot liquid as it landed on the table. 'Drink that. Tea won't kill you. Can't say the same for everything else around here." He says in a boisterous matter. He thinks himself funny.
I hesitate to pick up the mug, gripping it tightly to steady my shaking hands. The warmth fails to reach the cold knot vibrating in my chest.
"So," Prime said, his tone shifting slightly as he tossed another piece of bacon in his mouth. He chews as he talks. "What's the deal with you kid."
I am taken aback by an obvious question, the shock has been reacting to normalcy strange. I take a second to clear my throat, wincing at the soreness. "I— I don't know," I admit. "I woke up in this suit and that man tried to kill me." I stare at the corpse of the man Prime has reduced to brain soup. I see him closer now, he is but a boy. The guilt falls hard on me, even though I know it is not my fault. "All I remember is my name, Kach."
Prime's eyebrows raise slightly, but his smirk doesn't waver. "No memory, huh?" He sets down his mug and looks to the sky, muttering something under his breath, I think he compares me to a character in a book, I have no idea what he means. "Ok, well." he makes a slight pause. "Let me catch you up real quick, kid, since you've been born again or something." He doesn't care for my origin, I appreciate that.
I lean forward instinctively, dragged in by a promise for clarity.
"This place? It's a death trap," Prime began. His eyes roll around his head as his wrist turns in a circular motion, gesturing vaguely around. He quickly stops what he is saying, looking stuck for a moment, before locking eyes with me again. "I guess this is a good place to start, do you have superpowers where you're from?" He tells me, the most serious I have seen him. My face shows that, no, obviously not. "See our cultist friend over here…" He pointed toward the near-lifeless body slumped against the wall. "They're all out for power. Mana, gods, whatever they can sink their claws into. And you?" His giggle returns. "You just stumbled right into the middle of it."
"What does that mean?" I ask. "What do you mean… Power?"
Prime chucked low, his fingers drumming against the table. "You saw what I did to him." He tilted his head toward the shattered remains of the knife user's head on the floor. "That's power. Raw, unfiltered strength. A gift you could say, from the world—or something darker." His face scrunches up like a girl, teasing me.
I stare at him, mind racing. I don't know whether to panic, run, or still perfectly still. I don't understand, and my trust is wavering. Prime leans in closer, his smirk growing.
Prime raised his mug, taking a slow sip of tea before setting it back down. His gaze never left me, sharp and unyielding, but there was something strange about how he moved—too precise, too deliberate. Robotic. Prime leaned back in his chair, his smirk turning into a full grin. "Tell me kid. What do you see when you look at me?"
I blink, unsure of the answer he wants to hear. "Uh… a lunatic?" I say, hesitating. I am not joking.
Prime chuckled, tapping his finger on the side of his head. "Close, but not quite. Look at me." Something about his expression changed—an intensity that made Kach's stomach twist. The man reached up, pulling his glasses from his face and tossing them onto the table.
I freeze, this time not in fear.
Prime's eyes were cloudy, a pale green, almost ghostly. The scars around his sockets told a clear story: this was a man who couldn't see.
"You're blind?" I blurted out before I could sensor myself.
"Took you long enough." Prime grinned wider, his teeth flashing. My mind reeled. I think back to the fight earlier, the way Prime had moved with deadly precision as if every action had been perfectly planned. He hadn't stumbled, hadn't hesitated, hadn't missed a single step. But… How? I ask, thinking I said it out loud. Prime stood slowly, his massive frame towering over Kach. His eyes closed. Without warning, he grabbed the still-hot skillet from the stove and hurled it directly at my head. I barely have time to yelp as I duck, the pan flying past me and banging against the wall in an ugly clank.
"What the hell?!" I shout, my heart pounding. Prime was already moving. He stepped toward me, lifting his hand, and pointed directly at my face—despite his cloudy, unfocused eyes. "You moved before you even thought about it, Prime said, as he gestured his fingers around my eyes. "And you weren't the only one." He tapped his temple, a faint glimmer of light tracing along the curves of his face."I don't have eyes to see, kid. I see everything before it happens. Every step, every breath, every thought you're about to have. It's like watching a play I've already read a thousand times." Prime brags. I don't know what to and what to not believe, although it stands as a second step to understanding. Prime is happy with himself, to be able to brag to someone ignorant of his world gives him much enjoyment. And even in the most abstract of senses, I understand this 'power' he talks about just a little bit more clearly.
Prime nodded, crossing his arms. "That's right. A little gift from the earth that has given me the ability to see what others can't. Makes me damn near invincible." Shrugging, smug.
I shake my head in disapproval. "That's impossible…"
Prime smirked. "Impossible or not, it's how I crushed those rats earlier, and it's how I survive in this world. If you plan to keep on making enemies you best learn to defend yourself." He gestured toward the unconscious blood covered boy slumped on the floor. "You? You've got instincts, but instincts won't save you, kid. Not unless you learn to trust them."
I look at him, he is clear but I am an even mix of shock and ignorant. Nothing he says is setting in my mind. This was the inappropriate response to show to this crazy man.
Prime's smirk widened. Every time I think his smile full, it continues to stretch. Honestly it's quite disturbing. He gestures toward the unconscious man covered in blood. "This man here also has a power gifted from the earth." Prime says, attempting to shake away the man, splashing his blood around. "People who attain his power go by a name, we call them factions, this asshole belongs to the Sanguine Coven." He shakes harder. He stands up from his chair over the unconscious man. Prime is so tall he unintentionally brings him feet above the ground, grabbing him by the collar, as if weightless. The man groaned, his head lolling to the side, draining his blood from all angles.
"What's going on? What are you gonna do to him?" I ask, cracking with alarm.
Prime didn't answer. He smashed the man's head into the table—once, twice, six times—each impact sending shockwaves through the wood. Splinters fly as blood smeared across the surface, and the man's groans turn into strangled gasps. Prime let go, letting the man crumple back onto the floor. I had assumed the man dead this whole time, I see in the mans eye, he wishes it were true. He attempts to recover, clearing the blood from his vision. Prime turned to me, wiping his bloodied hand on his cloak, wincing at the stain it will leave. "He's still breathing." Prime starts to crack, "well, barely." He turned to the Coven member as he trys so hard to gain her footing. "He's the deal… What's your name?" Prime stands staring at the Coven member, tapping his feet. He gets no response. "You know what, we will call you asshole. So listen up, kill him, and I'll let you take me back to wherever you think you're going."
My heart sinks as he stares right at me. The knots in my stomach retwist. What?
Prime stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over me. "You heard me. Kill im, or he'll kill you. Honstely I thought I was pretty clear. 'Asshole' is weak, but still dangerous. I'm giving you a chance to finish what you started earlier.
I am at a loss of words. "I… I can't," I mutter the words under my frozen breathe. My head shakes, which in turn infects my hands as I glance at the broken man on the floor, blood pooling around him.
Prime's smir is gone now. "If you don't kill him, you'll die the second he gets to his feet. This is how my world works. You think he's going to show you mercy? You think he won't rip your throat out the first chance he gets.?"
Asshole's hand starts to twist as he reaches for the edge of the table to pull himself up. His bloodied face twisted into a grin, teeth bared like a feral animal. The man is young, even younger than the knife user I fought earlier, he can't be older than a teenager, sporting a buzzcut with juvenile facial hair. The dark red of the blood blends in with his maroon skin, and as I stare him down the bright glow of his blue eyes keep him visible in my tremor. The boy who just a second ago was wishing to die, like a snake, has evolved learning he has a real chance of survival.
"You're dead." Asshole rasped, his voice weak but filled with venom.
Move. Fight. The fog had returned and those echoing words came back to haunt me.
The blood pooling around him slowly starts to rise. Defying gravity as it twisted and spiraled through the air. Asshole's movements were sluggish, his body swaying, but the blood seemed to act of it's own accord, swirling into a protective shield that shimmered faintly with crimson light. I should be in awe, my brain saves me by reminding me of impending death. I can question the supernatural later. His eyes burned with determination, even when his body threatened to give out. Each step dragged, the blood surrounding him with a light precision—a sentient force keeping him upright.
I grit my teeth, my own blood still dripping from my useless right hand. The wound burned with an unnatural heat, and I could feel the pull, faint but present. I look down to my wound. My hand is bubbling as if boiling, and past my hand I see my blood drip. Gravity steals it control, bringing quickly to the ground before it slows, and slows, until right before it hits the ground it stops. Pooling together as I continue to drip. The floating pool of blood starts to flow in a stream back toward Asshole. It joins his protective sheild of rain, I near piss myself.
It is now or never.
Asshole lunged, his body slow but his blood moving fast. The crimson shield lashed out like a whip, a jagged tendril of liquid slashing toward my chest. I barely dodge. Asshole's blood clashes through the air, leaving a sharp metallic tang in its wake. I stumble back, my breathing inconsistent, feet sliding on the blood-slick floor. My left hand grabs the knife I still held from my previous battle, it feels more natural now, and I hold it tightly. Another ray of blood struct out, faster. I quickly drop lower, feeling it graze the air above my head.
He's controlling it, I realize. I look for clues, eyes searching between Asshole and the swirling blood. An answer I don't find, but I understand one thing clearly. His body's barely holding on. If I can outlast him…
Prime looks us over from his chair, he is seated once again. He is not bluffing, I shouldn't waste my time giving him any heed because he will not save me twice.
My thoughts are cut short again. The whirling blood starts to return to his injured aim where a striking cut belongs. The blood returns to his person, stopping the bleeding as it returns and seems to health everything but the flesh. As the blood continues to flow in, the extra blood starts to form a blade around his arm. The is bright red, the flow beautiful. It seems a simple fountain, I have learned well enough to assume it can cut through steel.
Asshole staggers, his movements slow and unsteady. The blade trains him on a path of deadly precision.
"Come on, then," I hype myself up, trying to calm the pounding in my chest and fire on my right hand. My muscles coil as Asshole lungest again.
The liquid blade whistles through the air, a wide horizontal slash aimed at my center mass. I duck, pivoting on my back foot, feeling the heat of the blade pass were inches from my vitals, scratching just into my muscle. Before I can rise, the swings continue, this time in a tight upward arc. I twist my body to the side, he slices my after-image. I counter, thrusting my knife toward Asshole's exposed ribs. The blade glances off the hardened blood armor still clinging to Asshole's body, the impact jarring my arm. It hurts me more than him, still I cut through him.
Asshole presses the attack, his blood blade morphing mid-swing into a serrated edge. The weapon strikes down in a diagonal arc. My footwork guilds me unconsciously, it didn't account for the slick blood painting the floor. The blade grazes my shoulder, tearing through fabric and leaving a shallow gash. Pain blossoms. Asshole shifts his attention to my right arm, raising his free hand. My wound starts to burn, before a pain, simply a sensation. Now it was real. White-hot blood trickles from my palm unnaturally, almost as if being pulled by an invisible force. My hand jerks without warning, as if on a pivot, it continues the same shape. My knife waves in a semi-circle, inaccurately. My hand rises against my will, fingers curling into a mix, and in a quick blas,t my fingers twist into each other as the pain overwhelms me.
I scream.
"You think you can resist?" Asshole hisses, his voice ragged but filled with venom.
My body fights itself as Asshole takes control over my arm. Blood manipulation. My hand moves to my throat, shaking uncontrollably. I hopelessly fight it back with my left arm, stopping the advance.
Asshole smirks, his hand transforming again into a spear. He thrusts it at me, aiming for my solar plexus with a burst of speed. I roll with the strike, it hurts more than I can describe, luckily he only knicks my shoulder. I expect to be lifted by my shoulder, a bloody scarecrow. I am not lifted. The pain is deep, radiating outward like fire licking my veins. My body is taken over by instinct again, still unable to save myself, but a bloodlust activates in me that I cannot explain. Even in this situation, it is unsettling to me. My free hand moves to cover my new wound, blood flooding the dam of my fingers. My body prepares itself for that phantom grip to take it, the feeling of my body betraying itself once again. But nothing happens. I stagger back, the strike took enough focus to loosen his grip. Asshole's spear of violet violence dissipates into puddles of blood that coil back into his body.
Why didn't it work this time?
Asshole takes a limp at me. The blood coiled around him now returns to his legs, returning his strength. He slits his left wrist, and the blood spurs out in a wave or knives building up around his person. He is ready to end me.
My right-hand paules, the same heat as before burning my arm. My shoulder has begun to succumb to the adrenaline, I look in search of a reason. I find it. My eyes fall to the faint glow of the cut, the symbols shimmering faintly in the lighting. My mind races and I piece fragments together. The symbols. The knife. My hand.
It's the knife.
I'm slammed. The blade cursed with its glowing symbols didn't cut me—it marked me, bound me. And however it works, he can now control my arm.
The idea is insane. Reckless. But I am a desperate man, and I am out of options.
Asshole steps closer, his body struggling through the energy drain as he builds up an army of killing tools to fly at me.
It all happens in the infinite painful stretch of a second. But in that short time, I had broken down and regained hope through a new dark and warped perspective that might just save me.
I glance at my torso, and then my thigh—both of them. No time for doubts. With a sharp inhale, I raise the knife and drive it into my left thigh. The pain explodes, immediately, sending my body into shock. These unknown instincts take over. I reverse my grip on the knife and quickly strike the other thigh. My leg buckles slightly, but I keep myself tall. Blood wells up around the wound, hot and fast, staining the fabric of my pants. Asshole freezes. His eyes widen, confusion breaking his expression and more importantly, his concentration. His knives slowly disperse as I lock eyes on him. For a millisecond we stare, still. I take the blade for the last time and give myself a scar diagonal to my abdominals, and the immense blood rush completes my gamble. Just as the blood had done a moment ago, the blood rush moves me like a magnet toward Asshole. My blade in hand. I fly at him faster than I expected, and he is defenseless because my speed is not possible. I slice his face before I stab his shoulder. He gasps, the air rushing from his lungs in a wheeze. All blood used for attacks returns to his body, draining my life as I attempt to take his. We are now in a battle of wills. Will I steal his life before he steals mine? His blood pools around him, much as he was born to this battle. I sit on his hips, my expression unsure, my vision narrowing, my grip unrelenting. I refuse death. Asshole looks into my eyes as they fade, his dark skin tones shifting from maroon to red. Blood red. My attacks are random, fueled not by survival, but anger. I only remember my last strike, the one that ended him. I drive the knife into his chest, and he finally collapses. The blood surrounding him stills, its unnatural glow fading to nothing.
The room is silent, save for the sound of a flood. I lay backward on my back, and my viewport is obstructed by a giant Prime. He is the last thing I see.