63 | hope; strewn corpses

Corpses covered the ground like a fresh field of flowers, red blooming and seeping onto the pavement, no rain to wash away the colour of death and sins. Crimson splattered on the side of Elias' face as he dangled a loose arm in the air teasingly.

"Do you want to this back?" He said, 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 further dirty his own clothes.

A faceless clamoured for the doors as he was distracted, leaping towards it with an alarming speed. Elias hardly gave a glance backwards before string extended from his body, piercing 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 boy fell, spasming in pain as it squirmed.

Elias walked over lazily, peering down as the movements stilled, falling 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, heartless and 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 involved himself 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, walking over to the stairs as he took a seat, gazing at the image of 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 or some fresh air. 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 lead to failure was a waste of time. Success was too unpredictable.

He chose to remain a bystander to death and destruction.

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 distant and faint.

A voice that would've gotten along with that foolish sponge, no doubt. Even now, he found his thoughts wandering back to Lucas, still and quiet in the bed upstairs, unlike the usual snarly and annoyed face he was used to.

He slumped back further, 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 rung 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, to make some puzzle of his memories, 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 up 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 stood 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 and tall man crumpling to the ground 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 around him, swirling around his body, stinging with every graze.

He coughed, dark blood splattering onto the ground as he lifted his gaze, staring through the tangles of hair that pressed against his sweat-stained forehead. Staring at Lucas, who remained as still as a corpse.

The man who Elias had successfully protected on this cloudy day.

'Protecting somebody,' sneered the man through his pain, teeth clenched down. 'Doesn't suit me like 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, as it fell around their ears. 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 and surprised, as he parted his mouth wide. No sounds came out, but shock registered over 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 to have sympathy and treat those victims gently.

It had been going well, really. The gun hadn't been a dupe, and endless shots 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 the faceless in a few shots, ending their suffering quickly.

She dodged to the left, nails like sharpened claws slicing through her hair, cutting it shorter and uneven.

When she fell back, Elliot surged forth, a tiger peering at his prey. Eagerly, he lunged out and spun, flipped, jumped high into the air, 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 stamina and endurance from completing Stories were 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?

He swayed on his feet, a dangerous but blurring sheen over his eyes. Kill, kill, kill and kill. But never be killed.

There was something always worrying about the lack of empathy that stirred in his chest, the gaping hole of emotion that left him standing blankly. He thought of survival, made it in a goal in his head, but honestly, it was all meaningless.

Killing wasn't something he was opposed to. No, he'd made it a game to find some sort of 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 to peer at his temporary companions. How he'd ended up involved with this, he didn't know nor want to think about it. It certainly wasn't comradeship or friendship.

He slid the dagger into the stomach of a faceless, sliding the blade up, and if there was any bone, the daggers didn't catch onto it. It split the corpse in half without resistance.

No, he hadn't gotten attached to these fools, either. He simply 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 didn't like 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, crouched on the ground.

He leaned back, seeing a shadow appear above him, and the frightening and creepy faceless, that 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, heavy like lead. Inconvenient, and of terrible timing, but there was nothing he could do in the slowed seconds of his life.

The realization of death was both alarming, but calm.

He had been a little more desperate to survive in the beginning, careful not to take any risks beyond his ability. Wiling 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 echoed around them, a warning and afterthought of the horrible sight reflected in Elliot's widening stare. Trickles of running red fell 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 on the ground for a few more moments, before he pushed off with his other arm and wobbled to a standing position. One half of his coat hung loosely over his shoulder, and the other encased his remaining arm.

"The fight hasn't ended yet." said Kane hoarsely, though resolute and determined. "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 slightly, shaking in pain.

He couldn't help it; he rolled over and laughed, at how he almost died and how he'd been saved by a person that could remain stone-faced after losing their arm.

Kane shot him a dirty look, or tried to in-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 were decreasing dramatically.

Kane shook his head at the woman to stop her from hurrying over recklessly, 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 onto it. 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 on the ground for stability.

A faceless lunged at him, and Elliot leaped forward, slamming the body to the ground 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, clotted in red.

It had 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 brothers, 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 directly fell to the ground, lying 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, decided Elliot 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 am not strong. But I'm willing to step into dirty waters. That's the difference between you and I, and what you determine as weak or strong."

"This is different."

"Is it? All these faceless 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 that 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. In order to gain irrefutable power."

"Companion—which of them?"

Sylvia paused, slowly turning her head 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."