One. Breath in. Hold for...
Two.
Three.
F-Four.
“Fuck— it doesn’t work— the fucking counting doesn’t work— breathing exercises my ass— ouch.”
Should it concern 001 that he was talking to himself? Maybe. But it wasn’t something he was too worried about, especially in this predicament. His head was pounding, and he could feel them. Static. Motionless. Lost inside the darkness. Waiting for him to release them. He would have to, but he needed a few moments to catch his breath and calm down. Only that it didn’t work.
“It doesn’t work if you do it by yourself— why did I keep trying?! This whole year— It never worked after— ugh!”
Anger was easy. Kicking the wooden box in front of him was easy. Ignoring the pain in his leg was easy. The bleeding bullet wound in his calf and the one in his abdomen were a bit more pressing though. It hurt to breath. And he wasn’t that worried about bleeding out. He was covered in cuts from where the bullets grazed his skin, he was sweaty and a bit bloody, a few bruises here and there from when they grabbed him and tried to put him down.
When the first one tried it a few weeks before, he was forced to break his promise.
After the war, he swore not to use it anymore. He couldn’t remember what happened in that chaos, but he could remember being somehow thrown out and landing on a street in Italy. Alyan could still feel the taste of the bile that came up his throat when he realised in front of which house he landed. It was once a place he called *home*. Even in his situation then, after he emptied the contents of his stomach on the sidewalk, he ran away from the street. Ran. And ran. And ran. And ran. Until he reached the shore. Until he kneeled on the sand and yelled in the middle of the night. Thankful he still remembered where the isolated beach was. His lungs were on fire. His throat was raw. But cme sunset he had a plan.
He twisted some ropes, pulled some strings, coerced people to do what he wanted. Used some connections he made long before he knew what was going to be made of him. Hacked his way into stocks and bank accounts people thought they hid so well. He may not have been in the scene for a while, but he never forgot.
Never forgive, never forget.
Once he had himself established, hidden, new identity, filled bank account, he set out to get revenge. He could and he would, but he wouldn’t use his powers. He had enough skills, enough experience to not need it. He knew what he could release, and others didn’t need to suffer. The bitter laugh that escaped him when he realised, they all contributed to this and now they would pay. He set the record straight in Italy, finished off the ones the military couldn’t find. They were easy to dig up from their wholes when you knew how. Then he flew off to the States, to settle other accounts. In between he did odd jobs, easy ones that couldn’t ever be traced back to him. They couldn’t trace stuff back to him online, he made sure of it. He didn’t think they would realise it was him so fast. Maybe his targets were obvious. They all knew what they were up to. How they kept themselves entertained down in that shithole.
They still found him out, somehow tracked him down and tried to force him to go back. But they forgot he had more tricks up his sleeve than they did. The shadows, the darkness rejoiced as it got unleashed again. After being suppressed for weeks, months— a year. It was out to play, and it was out to get every single one of them that he touched. It was scary though, the way in which his hands were slowly starting to turn black, even as he released the people from their mental cages. It wasn’t something he could control anymore, the growth of the darkness, and watching it expand over his arms, like vines taking over until it was a solid colour was starting to panic him. It hadn’t happened in so long, he wasn’t ready.
He didn’t want to go through all of it again. He was sick of it.
Sick of pain.
Sick of hurting.
He could hear the footsteps coming close and closer, yet the sound was taken over by the way his ears were starting to ring. Slowly everything was fading out as he started to tremble, fingernails scratching at the mark onto his chest as it started burning, the fire-like pain coursing through his heart and veins. It couldn’t happen there. The building next to them was residential. They wouldn’t make it, nor the building next to it. He was so stuck into his mind, the spiral he was going through, he didn’t see the smoke-like tendrils extend from the shadows of the room, mixing with the wisps of darkness emanating from his form as he was losing control. Just as they broke the door open, he was succumbed in darkness, shadows wrapping all around him and taking him away. Leaving the soldiers staring at the blood puddle that was left behind.
Free-falling was never a nice feeling, but nothing could beat the excruciating pain radiating through his body as he materialised on a beach. Frantic violet speckled grey irises scanned his surroundings to make sure no one was around. As the darkness advanced up his neck, black vines travelling up his face, he started to feel the white cracks appearing on his arms.
Like a mirror slowly cracking. The pain was too much for him to move, his whole-body trembling and wisps of darkness leaving his frame, as he felt the explosion slowly forming, the darkness fighting its way out. Wanting to lash out. To destroy. To annihilate and claim. He could feel the tears starts running down his cheeks. He was tired.
So tired.
Of hurting.
Of trying and being knocked down.
He was doing good and was so so so close to finishing all of them off. And then he could disappear, go off the radar and maybe, just maybe, be given the chance to live. To be his own person.
Faith always had other plans for him.
Crack.
001’s neck could have broken with how fast his neck turned towards the source of the sound. He should warn them, tell them to run away. But it was so hard to see, talking was almost impossible when he got in this state. Not making any sound was easier. He trained himself not to. No one ever heard a sound out of him in this situation in years.
However, the silhouette was familiar. Too familiar. And his slowly cracking and fragmenting heart stopped mid-beat as he blinked through the onslaught of tears. Through trembling lips, the word could get lost in the breeze, the fear and surprise obvious in his dilated pupils. The uncontrolled shaking of his body as he tried to fight against the agony in which every cell in his body was screaming and move. Get away because he knew what was coming.
“0- 004?”
Earth was not his home. But Orion learned to make it one. After he got better, after his mind calmed down and he could leave the hut he was hosted in. He always kept the gifts Annwn close to him, the collar and the letter, they meant the world to him. The hound could not part with the last remnants of his past life. Everything was gone, in a storm of pain and hurt and words. The words were what hurt him most, not the abuse to his body over those months, but the words said to him. They all conspired to bring his mindset down and he fell into the pool of despair: pushed away these people he loved, everything he held most dear. But now, with a new name (*his last gift*) and his earn for the celestial plane, he took a deep breath and faced the human world. He did not know anything about how they lived and the elder was just so much help. Yet he was ready to adapt, to find himself again. It took centuries to get his *true* memories back, it was time to start healing his soul and face the adventure that the humans were.
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