Corpses covered the ground like a fresh field of flowers, red blooming and seeping into the pavement with no rain to wash away death and sins. Crimson splattered on the side of Elias' face as he dangled a loose arm in the air teasingly.
"Do you want this back?" he asked as the body slumped towards him, mouth sewn under a flap of skin that could only protest in mumbles or groans. "Well, I suppose you can't really speak, can you? Apologies."
He dropped the limb to his collection of scattered parts, swinging the chains out as they wrapped around the leg of a faceless, dragging the struggling body closer.
Dragging the scalpel across the neck, feeling warmth pool onto his fingers, he wiped his hands on the clothing of a corpse. He didn't want to dirty his own clothes further.
A faceless rushed for the doors as he was distracted. Elias hardly gave a glance backwards before a string shot from his body, puncturing the tender flesh.
The faceless froze, before its body jerked and twisted, and it plunged its fingers into its own mouth, dislocating its jaw.
The body fell, spasming in pain.
He swayed on his feet, a dangerous but blurring sheen over his eyes. Kill, kill, kill, and kill. But never be killed.
Something was worrying about the lack of empathy in his chest, the gaping hole of emotion that left him standing blankly. He thought of survival, made it a goal, but honestly, it was all meaningless.
Killing wasn't something he was opposed to. No, he'd made it a game to find some amusement. In this world of madness, the key wasn't to remain sane.
No, madness should be fought with obscurity and chaos.
He kicked away a floppy corpse and tilted his chin back at his temporary companions. How he'd ended up involved in this, he didn't know, nor did he want to think about it. It certainly wasn't comradeship or friendship.
He slid the dagger into the stomach of a faceless, dragging the blade up. If there was any bone, the dagger didn't catch onto it. It split the corpse in half without resistance.
No, he hadn't gotten attached to these fools, either. He didn't have anywhere else to go. Though running away now would be a good time.
Nobody to stop him, nobody to care. Not to mention, they were in danger, and he really didn't want to face any more severe injuries—injuries were painful, and Elliot loathed pain.
He checked the state of his own body—terrible. His movements no longer flowed freely, and his nimbleness had faded into stiffer, uncomfortable movements.
"Elliot!" Nora's shout ran over his head as he crouched on the ground.
He leaned back, seeing a shadow appear above him. A creepy faceless stared at him with wide, bloodshot eyes and no mouth or lips. Now that would be a bad way to die, or remain half-alive, whatever they were.
'Ah... I won't be able to move.'
His feet remained planted on the ground like lead. Inconvenient, but there was nothing he could do in the slowed seconds of his life.
The realization of death was both alarming and tranquil.
He'd been a little more desperate to survive in the beginning, careful not to take any risks beyond his ability. Willing to do anything, no matter how cruel or terrible.
But he was still alive, and the world was still ending.
At this point, Elliot numbly wondered if it would be more satisfying as a corpse.
That was when Nora's scream resounded, a warning and afterthought of the horrible sight reflected in Elliot's widening stare. Trickles of red splattered against his cheeks as he watched in both fascination and horror.
He watched, dumbly, stupidly, at the arm that split away from the body, torn from where the elbow connected. A white coat fluttered around it, the long sleeve disguising the broken limb.
There, that doctor jumped, his arm rushed out as if to defend and protect. Kane grimaced and bit his tongue, but he didn't scream or shout.
Time sped up again, and he rolled onto the ground pathetically, cradling the stump where his arm should've been. His pain came in no clear form, written over his expression but not displayed in a scream or panic.
He stretched out, grabbing the disconnected limb.
He remained writhing for a few more moments before he pushed off with his other arm and wobbled up. One half of his coat hung loosely over his shoulder, and the other encased his remaining arm.
"The fight hasn't ended yet," rasped Kane through choked gasps. "Keep going. We're almost at the end of it."
It felt so anticlimactic, Kane's reaction, that Elliot almost laughed. Clearly, that man's arm had been torn off dramatically, clearly sweat and pain embedded in his forehead, and his tall body hunched in pain.
He couldn't help it; he rolled over and laughed at how he almost died. How he'd been saved by a person who could remain stone-faced after losing their arm.
Kane shot him a dirty look, or tried to, between his twitches of pain.
Nora tried to run over, but found herself surrounded. However, Kane's words were true, and the number of faceless was decreasing dramatically.
Kane shook his head at the woman to stop her from recklessly hurrying over, pulling away his coat and the blood-stained fabric that clung to the broken stump on his limb.
His fingers trembled as he skirted over the bloody wound, pressing down. His jaw clenched. Holding the detached limb close, he squeezed his eyes shut, thick eyebrows furrowing.
Then, silvery threads spun from his fingers, weaving in and out of his skin, led by an invisible needle. It threaded the pieces of flesh, bringing the severed arm closer. Blood crusted and covered where the stitches met.
The doctor was breathing heavily now, exerting all of his efforts as he stumbled back, planting his feet firm for stability.
A faceless lunged, and Elliot leaped forward, slamming against the body and stabbing the dagger down mercilessly. The threads continued to float around the wound, in and out of the skin.
Finally, Kane almost doubled over and staggered.
But Elliot and Nora no longer stared out of worry or caution. Instead, clear astonishment was written over their faces.
Kane was no longer holding onto the severed arm, and the threads had snaked back into his fingers. But the arm remained in the air, attached to the original stump.
It'd been reattached.
Once again, Kane repeated, though his words were laboured and breathy after he used his ability. "Please continue."
Saying those words, he rushed forward blindly, or seemingly blindly, but each move was in fact strategic and carefully planned. His concise movements, weaponless if fists didn't count, soared through the air.
Kane was thankful that he'd learned martial arts, several kinds, in case Lucas ever needed help to beat up bullies or found himself in a perilous situation.
Of course, the responsible Kane, young as he had been, wouldn't have resorted to violence so quickly. That was the fundamental difference between the two, but by the end of the day, they were both capable of fighting.
The fight was over soon after, though everybody's state was on the brink of death. Elliot fell to down and indifferent to the bodies that surrounded him.
Kane lowered his head, sorrow in his gaze as he stared at the bodies surrounding his feet. Lives that weren't quite dead. Disfigured beyond repair.
Had he the time, he would've searched for a way to repair their bodies.
But time wasn't on his side.
Logically, he didn't feel as sorrowful when he didn't know the faces behind the flaps of skin sewn over, masking their identities. He understood that and turned away.
There wasn't time to bury all of them this time.
Perhaps it was a good thing Lucas hadn't stayed behind—Kane didn't want his brother to be subject to such sights.
A booming clap thundered around them, and all three flinched. But instead of more faceless, or something more horrifying, Alastair clapped his hands together loudly.
Arguably, Elliot decided in a low sulk, Alastair's messy appearance was more horrifying than those creatures.
"Now, that was a better play than I expected! Wonderful, splendid! I'll meet the end of my deal, naturally. You may keep the weapons on hand, and I'll deliver something special via Sylvia later."
Kane frowned. "Was it all amusement to you—this senseless activity?"
"What else? Though again, I would've preferred to hang your beautiful skins in my collection, or to decipher and study your anatomy, this will do."
Anger seethed in Nora. "What was the point? Do you feel proud, stampeding over lives as if they were nothing, relishing in your strength?"
"Ah, but you see, I'm not strong. But I'm willing to step into dirty waters. That's the difference between you and me, and what you determine as weak or strong."
"This is different."
"Is it? All these faceless people you see before you tried to kill me, you see. All of them were survivors, willing to do anything to live. Is there something wrong with me defending myself?"
The scruffy man showed no sympathy, stubborn as a wall. He believed there was nothing wrong with his actions and would not attempt to understand the others'.
"Well, at least be thankful. You've met the requirements for Tartarus."
Kane's frown remained. "Tartarus?"
"A Story that is as close to Hell as you'll get. But for heroes like you, it is an inevitable fate you'd arrive at."
Sylvia, who had remained silent by Alastair's side, spoke up in her icy tone. "It's a place that your companion seeks to reach. To gain irrefutable power."
"Companion—which of them?"
Sylvia paused, slowly turning to Nora, who looked back in confusion. Sylvia tilted her head slowly, calmly.
"The man who stood by your side in that Story. The one less infuriating to look at." Seeing Nora stare in confusion, she continued.
"The one you followed—that prisoner companion of yours."
Elias strolled over, peering down as the movements stilled into death.
"Unfortunately, you picked the wrong person to fight with. I don't intend to give you a kind burial like that foolish doctor, either."
A scene of carnage would best describe the hospital's parking lot. Madness swiveled in the cerulean gaze, void of any feeling. A chilling smile that watched, how even without moving, the bodies shredded themselves around him.
A dozen strings extended from his body, whispering dangerous thoughts.
Then, he recognized a bloody A burned into the fragile skin of the faceless, spotting it on several others.
Elias raised an eyebrow. "A... don't tell me it's that pervert."
In the many business deals and conversations he was involved in, most were often members of the wealthy with twisted hobbies. He never judged so harshly, indifferent to the pastime of strangers, but one had been particularly obscure.
If that person was involved... Elias shook his head, moving to the stairs as he took a seat. He gazed at the death and gore laid before him.
Leaning back against a pillar, he almost resembled a charming businessman who'd stepped outside for a smoking break. His behaviour was relaxed, but upon closer inspection, one would see various tears in his skin or slices from attacks.
His breathing was laboured, and the fight had not gone without effort.
Effort, mused Elias in his mind, something that he often didn't bother with. Effort that led to failure was a waste of time. Success was too unpredictable.
He chose to remain a bystander to the calamity.
He sighed, the constant throb of old memories replaying in the back of his head like an unwanted film.
"Elias, don't ever forget what it means to kill. Or the apocalypse would've succeeded in its twisted goals." He recalled a voice warning him, but it was already faint.
A voice that would've gotten along with that foolish sponge, no doubt. Even now, he found his thoughts wandering back to Lucas,quiet in the bed upstairs, unlike the usual snarky and annoyed face he was used to.
He slumped back, disregarding his posture. Look at the effort he put in to kill all those lives, most likely unfairly reaped.
How empty he felt.
He wondered, if Lucas was awake to see, would that man utter a meaningless and dull 'good job' to praise Elias' good deed in protecting all of them, instead of running off with Lucas' sleeping body and leaving the children to die.
Was it cruel, or was it realistic?
He remembered, once upon a time, trying to be a saviour. When he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the worship that rang in the air, and how adored he was because of his use and ability.
A beacon of hope. Some had praised while they sat watching, doing nothing.
And he could see, both blurry and vague, all his comrades, dead at his feet.
The mad laughter that reverberated around him. See how his effort resulted in failure, how the world damned him?
"Tch."
Elias stood shakily, feeling a rush of dizziness in his head. Perhaps he really did overexert himself—his calculations had been off. Or had he unknowingly used more effort than expected, thinking to protect Lucas?
With wounds dripping onto the ground in a quiet rhythm heard by none, he dragged his torn body to Lucas' room.
He lingered silently at the entrance for a few moments.
Reaching a hand out, he realized it was smeared with blood. His own, or the faceless, he didn't know and didn't care. Though his body did ache, and his mind protested in exhaustion.
He had an impulse to drag this person, this hero who claimed to be anything but that, to the murky depths he would eventually end up in.
Though he wouldn't. Because if Lucas were to become filthy and terrible like himself, Elias would have no interest in that man. It wouldn't be Lucas anymore, but some sorry victim of the apocalypse.
Time was changing; the inevitability of the end suddenly seemed unclear.
Strings lashed out of Elias' body, sending the proud man crumpling in a heap, fingers inches away from grazing the sleeping cheek.
Elias gasped, pain rushing through him, as if he were set alight with white-hot flames. He'd definitely gone too far—to protect what? Lucas, the manifestation of possibility? Lucas, who seemed key in witnessing something newer, less terrible?
A wretched laughter tore from his throat as the strings burst, swirling around his body, stinging with every graze.
He coughed, dark blood splattering onto the ground as he lifted his gaze through tangles of hair that pressed against his sweat-stained forehead—staring at Lucas, who remained as still as a corpse.
The man whom Elias had successfully protected on this cloudy day.
'Protecting somebody,' sneered the man, teeth clenched, 'doesn't suit me as it suits you.'
His eyes flickered to the wall, where the other children remained, tucked in peacefully by the ever-so-caring doctor and that amiable woman. Protecting suited them, too.
His mind told him all the children would die—Lucas too, if that man wasn't careful. That Lucas couldn't protect all of them. Elias didn't believe that could happen.
But through the blur of his dull gaze, due to delirium and exhaustion, he had the trickling of hope—
—hope to see a different ending.
'I hope you all return alive.'
———xxx———
Nora screamed.
The shrill sound bounced around them, encased in the prison of the subway tunnels. She knew it, but instinctively couldn't help yelling out as blood splattered before her eyes, dancing in the air.
Elliot swung his head over, startled, as he parted his mouth wide. No sounds came out, but shock registered on his face.
Dozens of bodies littered the ground, sliced to pieces, inhumanely bent in all sorts of angles. During a battle like this, there was no time for sympathy for treating those victims gently.
It had been going well, really. The gun hadn't been a dupe, and endless shots were fired and fired, clearing a row of the faceless.
The woman's aim had improved dramatically, and though she felt conflicted about being proud or terrified, it allowed her to kill in a few shots, ending their suffering quickly.
She dodged left, nails like sharpened claws slicing through her hair. Cutting it short and uneven.
When she fell back, Elliot surged forth, a tiger peering at his prey. Eagerly, he lunged. He spun, flipped, and jumped high, avoiding the swaying hands or limbs that grasped at him.
The daggers spun as if being dragged around by an invisible thread, obeying his every ridiculous action, and cutting through skin smoothly.
Mistakenly, he'd nicked himself on the arm, revealing a bloody gash that wasn't deep enough to kill him; therefore, he disregarded it.
There were several close calls, with the most dangerous weapon being his own blades. Or Alastair's daggers, technically, though he really had no intention of returning them.
It was in his hands now, and therefore his.
Following his selfish thoughts, he thrust the dagger into a faceless' chin, hopping over them as he watched their body slump forward.
"God, there's no end to them. Do they like us that much?" He muttered a string of curses, feeling his own body wearing out.
The improved endurance from completing Stories was beneficial, but not enough to make him superhuman. He was bleeding in various areas, due to his own mistakes and the obscure and unpredictable movements of the faceless.
How many more, how much longer could he last?