"Wake up... my dear Pariah. Awaken to the world without sin." A woman's voice smooth as silk rang out through the echoes of Pariah's subconsciousness. Opening his eyes, a young man approximately twenty-one years old was lying on an operating table shirtless, he wore black trousers and dress shoes. Furrowing his brow from the disturbance of sleep he sat up and placed a hand on his chest feeling a sharp pang. Looking down he noticed a scar from an incision.
Where am I?
Who am I?
How did I find myself here?
Who did that voice belong to?
Lacking all recollection of his past, Pariah turned letting his feet touch the floor. Standing up slowly the weight of gravity ached his ankles as if he had not stood for some time. He noticed a white button-up, a red with gold thistle embroidered vest, and a black double-breasted coat with crimson interior neatly folded on an identical steel operating table adjacent. Pariah ran his cool fingers across the material but stopped abruptly when he noticed a pale white-skinned sleeve covering his left arm attached at the shoulder with stitches. Rotating his wrist he moved his fingers curiously.
Flesh. But it's not a human's. Somehow Its mechanosensory neurons are connected to my central nervous system. How advanced.
Reaching for the shoulder with his right hand to pull at the stitches a sudden sharp pain coursed through the shoulder into his heart. Dropping to his knees he slammed the right hand on the operating table to support himself. Groaning through gritted teeth, Pariah felt the thumping of his heart bang against his chest repeatedly until it slowly began to subside. Taking a deep breath before standing up again, Pariah grabbed the articles of clothing and tossed them on hurriedly. Slipping the buttons through then fixing the coat's collar, he walked towards the door, placed a hand on the handle, and paused. Looking to the left a wall-pinned mirror reflected his image. Average pale skin, soulless dark eyes devoid of color, and raven wavy hair that curled at the ends were draped in a curtain-bang fashion. The unkempt back cascaded down just below the contours of his jaw, slightly longer and fluffier than Hierophant's.
How is it I understand mechanosensory neurons embedded in flesh but I failed to recount my appearance? It seems the only vacant memories are ones corresponding to myself.
He walked through the door closing it behind him. Descending the wooden stairs to a narrow corridor leading to an open-concept room, marble columns were embedded into the walls creating opulent archways accentuated by gothic windows. Railings at the edge of the center of the room acted as visual partitions, a closed door was in the white wall. Approaching with caution he turned the knob but it refused to pull open. Locked. Taking in his surroundings no memories of the giant room came to him. Above him was a spiral staircase that was too high to reach.
There must be a contraption that lowers the winding staircase. This must be a tower.
Pariah strolled to the large coffee-colored double doors with golden embossing. Pushing them open with struggle the world outside was bleak and clouded blocking out direct sunlight. Surrounding the area was a barren lawn with nothing but dirt, the odd weeds, and cracked cobblestone leading to the ebony gothic fence that squared around the perimeter. To the right was a dried-up multi-layered fountain where the statue was broken. The cold air chilled his skin giving Pariah goosebumps. Not paying any mind he turned around to look up at the once grandiose clock tower now dilapidated. The yellow-stained turret clock was riddled with cracks and dust from neglect. Four decrepit spires symmetrically placed at the head were broken and shredded revealing hollow foundations. Encasing the base of the clock tower was a cathedral-esque structure that acted as the first floor. Behind the fenced-in area was a dark and brooding forest that stretched farther than the eye could see from the ground. Beyond the main gate was a Victorian city lacking signs of life aside from abandoned carriages and old homes. However, billows of smoke arose in threes far into the distance.
The city is divided into boroughs. Long abandoned lesser middle-class housing beyond the gates, an industrial district on the other side. Something must have caused the people to forsake this area. Why is an imposing clock tower attached to a clinic styled like a cathedral stationed here? Even if it's rundown it's far more impressive than the neighboring buildings.
Re-entering the clinic-styled clock tower, the young man looked to his left opposite the locked door. Above many conjoined wooden desks spanned paned windows that looked out to a cliff that overlooked a sea in the distance, the view squeezed between the edge of the forest's cliff and the city's perimeter. The tumultuous waves stirred violently crashing against the rocks of the cliffs. Realizing the clock tower was built just outside the city limits it must have been due to law restrictions. Approaching the desks many papers were scattered and yellowed goat-skinned parchment scrolls were sprawled depicting detailed sketches with notes jotted eloquently in small separate bodies with arrows drawn to the points of interest. Looking down stoically, Pariah stared at the illustration of the flesh sleeve identical to the one stitched to his shoulder. Narrowing his gaze instinctively his eyes danced across the writings.
The pale-skinned sleeve is named 'The Remission.'
The Remission: crafted from the flesh of a long-forgotten monster, the sleeve is grafted to a histocompatible patient. Once attached it binds itself to the recipient's subconscious and central nervous system making it impossible to remove without killing the host.
Hand of God: A name for the unique traits of The Remission's palm it is comprised of unique tissues from the rest of the skin. It is unclear what purpose this serves but the tissues seem reactive to sentient lifeforms. The darker their nature the more excitable the tissues on a microorganic level.
Bloodletter: The pallid flesh soaks up blood entirely not even leaving a stain. Its absorption properties exceed all other materials and seem to store vast amounts progressively transmuting a rich sanguine. I theorize that once linked to the subconscious of the recipient they will be able to release the stored blood via bloodletting and manipulate its composition and properties.
What strange abilities. Do monsters exist? Or is it a cover-up for some form of experimentation?
Pariah took a step away and looked towards the front door. Deliberating carefully, seconds ticked past before deciding on his next course of action. Walking to the double doors he pushed them open with mild effort. Stepping outdoors the heavy doors closed behind him automatically. Progressing to the gate he placed his pale-sleeved hand feeling the cold of the black iron suffuse through the light-grey skin as if it were his own. Wincing slightly he opened the gate and passed through. Closing it behind him he made sure it latched before turning back toward the abandoned borough ahead of him. Analyzing his surroundings not a sound was carried in the gentle breeze. Taking a step he embarked on his journey into the city in search of clues to who he is and what led up to this moment.