Élan: A Youngblood World

3 | In The Mouth Of The Abyss |

[Graphic Content Warning!]

       AN explosive splash. The hollow purling of the frozen water filled Zakuro's ears. Mini bubbles sizzled against his face as they dove up. Its gentle melody once again sings to his conscious-ridden mind. He can never forget the cries of the lonely depths. The faint, glinting rays of moonlight seeped through the surface of the tender course that enveloped his entirety as a mother would cradle her child. It allowed Zakuro to float aimlessly on its body of glassy silk.

       He would have temptingly dozed off but even his biological construct was not built for marine adaptation. And he would if it were not for the twines of kelps growing elongated claws. It sought for Zakuro's legs, one latched onto his boots, constricting like a snake that would never let go. With several vigorous kicks, his boot came off, leaving his socked foot bare as he swam to the surface.

       The lid of the coffin cracked open. Zakuro climbed out, stumbling in the process before he reached land on all fours. He spewed out a few gurgles of water and panted heavily. He felt oddly light; he realized his clothes were fresh dry. Somehow, it was as if his clothes were immune to the dampness of the water.

       It took moments before he could get all the water out of his system. Once he regained his composure, he stood back up. He realized too late he would rather choose to be dragged by the kelps and drown when his eyes blinked against the decrepitude crimson environment. The blood-red sky overlooked the miserable empty plain, clogged with smog clouds lacking the impression of landscapes on the horizon.

       "Where..."

       Thousands of befouled steel weapons and armor forged with either metal plates or leather scraps dispersed on the ground. Arrows snapped in half and swords coated with the diverse colors of life fluids of numbers of lifeless forms impaled in pools of rainbow blood, staining the charcoal skin of Zakuro's remaining boot. The stench of rotten guts, putrid intestines, and carious bones swarmed by flies as it spilled all around were prepared for the vile scavengers to satisfy their gluttonous appetite. Pillars of smoke rose from the distant horizons to touch the vermillion sky on every corner he faces.

       Only one word came into his mind.

       "Nyrhaea."

       He was home. 

       The thought was more of a fact than a question. Not as welcoming as it had been since. Let alone alluring to the eyes of tourists.

       Over the caws of crows feasting on the rotting carcasses, cries of human-sized vultures grazing through the flyblown meat, and buzzing of the insects, abruptly came far-flung shrieks, winces, and grunts of agony filling the thick atmosphere; the echoes of distress coming from beyond the edge of the war grounds. Zakuro could not help picturing the horrid images behind those screams.

       The unwelcome cold began to bite into him. It was unnatural; he could never feel cold. For as long as he could remember, at least. Despite the myriad of questions puncturing his mind, he knew he had to get out. 

       Escape.

       He took a heavy step, setting off a shrill crackling sound. He looked down to where he stepped on shards of lamp glasses, alongside multisized hypodermic pieces of equipment, the broken tube remains, scalpels, and wired head straps scattered.

       "N-no..."

       The unreasonable growing fear began to eat at him. It was as if it was not his own, but he could feel his heart pounding, chest heaving, knees trembling.