A Transition
Posted: Sun Feb 12, 2006 3:55 am
Walk. Left, right. Breathe. Zan's mind was transfixed into a sort of static simplicity as he fought to ignore the maelstrom of thoughts bombarding him. He had been looking for a home, some place that would harbor him without prejudice, since the moment he had been infected with Twilight. He was a man grasping at air and hoping to find gold. Astonishingly, he had accomplished just that, only to play a vital role in ripping it all away. Alone no longer? Perhaps, once upon a time when the world made sense and he could feel his own heart beat. Now he was just a husk, an empty shell. It was then he found himself wishing for his insanity back, for that bittersweet sustenance that kept such thoughts in a loop. Now he could only follow the mental path to his own self-destruction and see the hollow man that lay slumped at the end. The only sound he could make out in exception to his own thoughts was the crunch of gravel beneath his feat, a residual reminder of the humid, cracked desert he still walked. Nothing in his head, no knowledge Lowen had granted him, none of it told him how to get back. Zan had carved out his own graveyard with claws and blood-stained fangs.
Dark brown hair blew in a dry wind around his shoulders, rebellious strands obscuring his dull, Siberian-husky eyes from time to time. The only thing whipping harder then his hair was the black leather trenchcoat that wrapped as a sweltering blanket around him. The hotter he got, the better he seemed to feel, his biorhythms twisted and remade by the Twilight genetics he possessed. Indulging himself further, the fallen alpha tossed the leather hood attachment up and over his head. It was like emerging himself in a sauna, drowning away the hatred and the anguish that still writhed beneath the surface of his skin. Both his boots and the loose material of his pants as black as the coat around him, only the emerald hue of his shirt threw off what would have otherwise made him a drifting shade. Eyes stabbed into the ground as he walked against the wind, the lycanthrope came to a pause as the sight of three pairs of armored feet came into view. Lofted eyes met the presence of the knights of Truth, Decadence, and Salvation. Behind their metal-plated masks Zan could make out no expressions, no responses, no promises of attack. They simply stood there for a while, quiet, contemplating.
"...What do you want?" It was Zan who spoke first, an underlying growl embedded into the heart of his words.
"We heard your call. We want to help, your highness." Truth spoke with caution, with a wariness he hadn't possessed before. Something in his words stirred Zan, provoked a lash of the lycan's hand around his chainmail-protected neck, yanking him closer.
"Don't call me that. I'm not a king, I'm not an alpha. Spout anymore of that bullshit and I'll rip out your throat, got it?" Zan spat, shoving him away with a release of his hand from Truth's neck.
"As you wish, but there's something you need to know. Lowen, Boros, Jeng, and Elaina..." Rubbing the spot Zan had only recently let go of, Truth's eyes wandered, his words ceasing. The Heavy Blade followed that gaze to the hand that had crawled with a vile ink, a twisted transformation, only minutes ago. It shook with such violence, twitching with inhuman ferocity to the point that it had moments where it seemed to blur. When this finally came to a stop, Zan took a moment to flex his fingers, shaking the shock from his eyes to meet Truth's once more. "...they aren't gone. Not...not as you think. You believe them to be AIs, yes? That was something Her Majesty indulged you in, allowed you to believe. She knew you couldn't have ended her suffering if you thought her to be human." The knight stopped there, giving Zan a moment to register his words.
"They...she...they're okay? Where are they?" There was a light at the end of the tunnel, a hope that sprang as an excited thud in his chest. He could almost feel the knife waiting to twist his heart again.
"Lowen...she's, as you would say, trapped in limbo. The only thing keeping her mind alive is it's connection with yours, with the Plures Vultus Mortis. The other's, I'm afraid, had no such connection to keep their minds fortified. Their bodies are alive, but only barely. Machines keep them going. Without their minds to stabilize their coma, they became clinically brain dead. They're in a special ward in the same hospital as yourself." There was something he was leaving out, something he feared to say.
"What is it, Truth? Why are you telling me all this?" Zan wanted to ask about Lowen, about how he could save her mind from the same fate as her friends, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was afraid of the answer he'd receive.
"There's something you have to do. When you transformed, you ripped a wound across your data. Though I'm sure you're aware of the negative side effects of this, there's a silver lining. It's given you a way to go home." The caution persisted, continued in an almost painfully uninformative manner.
"And by home you mean..." Zan refused to finish the sentence, his fists curling into a clench in anticipation.
"I mean home. The real world." What should have been good news seemed dismal somehow, someway.
"What's the catch, Truth? You don't sound too enthused about my freedom." Zan's jaw clenched in unison with his hands, teeth grinding mildly against eachother.
"If we send you back, if we wake you up, you'll have a small window of opportunity to break the ties of your mind with Lowen's. In effect, you'll wake her up as well. However, whatever remains of the others' heart functions depend on her continuing coma. If she wakes up, they'll be forced to try and wake too. Unlike her, they have no mind to bring them back. Their hearts will stop. If that isn't bad enough, the moment you release her mind yours will have no freedom of its own. Not in the real world. Soon after you'll fall back into your coma, back into your digital body." If Truth was trying to persuade him, he was doing a piss-poor job of it.
"Then why do it, Truth? Why? What in the hell good can come of me going back, only to find my way here again? Tell me, because I sure as hell can't figure it out." Zan could feel the tremors in his hand begin to return and he could do nothing but pray for their passing.
"Why? You do this because it's your duty. Let's put the pleasantries aside. You started this, you caused this, so you better damn well finish it. Don't leave Lowen's mind locked away somewhere, don't leave the others stuck as vegetables for the rest of their lives." Truth bit back his anger the best he was able, deep breaths trembling in his chest.
"...Send me back." As much as he hated to admit it, the knight was right. Zan had to see this path through. He had to close this book.
"Not to change your mind or anything, but I feel obligated to tell you that once your digital wound scabs over that window is closed. There's no going back, not that way. Also, CyberConnect will have people at the hospital in minutes. You and Lowen are liabilities and CC isn't exactly socially apt. When she wakes up, you have to move. Quickly." Something in Truth's body language told the lycanthrope he feared Zan would change his mind. However, the leather-clad man simply turned from truth and dropped his head in preparation.
"Do it."
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Conner's eyes shot open, pupils taking a moment to adjust, to fight back the pain opening them induced. The world around him was a nauseating combination of the bright sting of light, the continuous blip of the heart monitor to his left, and the general hustle and bustle of the hospital world around him. His body felt heavy, weighted, exhausted. Taking a moment to clench and unclench his toes, Conner was happy to see the nurses hadn't slacked on the physical therapy. That done, the former college student sat up with a groan, holding a hand against his forehead to steady the vertigo. When he attempted to turn and drop from the hospital bed, a screaming pain in his arm halted him immediately. An IV fed him a steady stream of liquid nutrients, keeping his body from eating itself. Grunting, Conner pulled it from under the white tape over his wrist, removing that in turn. Though his eyes were still adjusting from use after all this time, they allowed him enough visual competence to glance around. A blue curtain encased his bed, allowing the would-be coma victim an ounce of unnecessary privacy. At least, what would have been unnecessary. Now it was just convenient. Leaning down from the foot of moving space the curtain allowed him, he opened up a small droor, searching for the white pants the mobile patients were allowed to wear about the hospital.
Upon finding it, Conner smiled to himself, sliding them on with an awkward sort of controlled hop. When had accomplished that, he untied the back of the hospital gown and tossed it on the bed beside him. Curious to see exactly how he was going to get away from being barefooted and bare-chested in this place, Conner opened the curtain, happy to see a sweater with his old school's logo thrown over a visitor's chair nearby. Leo had gone home and forgotten it, leaving Conner a way to give his 'disguise' a bit more of a complete look. Sliding the grey piece of clothing on over his head, he stepped completely from the curtain, looking to the nearby glass window for any shocked or dismayed hospital staff. Finding no such thing, he allowed himself a curious indulgence. Conner called out to his Beast and found it buried in his head, alive and kicking, but controlled as it had now become. The void in his belly that swooned for flesh still waited, still whined, but other than the mental affects the game had had on him, his body gave no response. No transformation took place, no storm of smells granted his nose a whiff, and as far as he could tell, he was as strong as he had been when he fell into the coma. Hell, he was (understandably) a bit weaker. Trying to shake off the sudden feeling of helplessness, Conner slipped into the hospital halls.
His walk was as normal as he could manage it, head dipped down and his light brown hair strewn forward to hide his face. It wasn't exactly inconspicuous, but it was the best he could come up with. If Truth had been right, Conner had only minutes to find the coma ward where Lowen and the rest were being held before CyberConnect tried to take Lowen and Conner away. It should have been more exciting, more enthralling to be back in the real world, to be back with actual people. However, Conner knew this wasn't meant to last and he was doing his damndest to keep those thoughts at bay. If he dwelled on it too much he knew he'd cave and that was one thing he couldn't do. People still needed him back in the World. He still had friends to help, responsibilities to fulfill. Leo would understand, he had to. Brushing past an old man that was absently mumbling about "the God damn duck", Conner found himself where he needed to be. 'COMA WARD' was carved into a plaque next to the door with brail dotted neatly under it. How had he found his way here? Was it her? Was Lowen calling to him? No, that wasn't it. It was all just luck, the fair Lady granting him a good hand. Still amazed nobody had tried to stop him or ask him who he was, Conner slipped into the room, closing the door behind him with a peculiar click.
Four curtains as blue as Conner's had been wrapped in a cloth fortification around the beds in the room, unsynchronized blips of the heart monitors and gusty exhalations of the breathing machines meeting his ears. He had only so much time, so Conner threw caution out the window and began to drag open the curtains one by one. The first to be opened revealed an Asian boy no older then seventeen, the clipboard at the foot of the bed reading "Charlie." Charlie? No, Conner corrected, Jeng. With the breathing tube stuffed down his throat as it was, Conner moved on in self-disgust. The next curtain revealed false hope, a small blonde girl who couldn't have been much older then Jeng. A smile began to twitch at the edge of Conner's lips, but something was off. This girl, this Amanda (as a quick check of her clipboard revealed), she wasn't Lowen, which left Elaina. The way her chest rose and fell with a sort of meek attempt at life, the breathing tube 'decorating' her mouth as it had Jeng's. Fighting the urge to bolt, to run off, he moved on to the third. Another boy this time, younger than Elaina or Jeng, but oddly taller. It was the youth in his face that set him apart, that set the supposed "Matthew" apart from his peers. No, he corrected himself for a second time, not Matthew, but Boros. In a different situation, it would have been humorous to look at the person in front of him and think of Boros. Where the Viking had been rugged, brutish, and almost freakishly built, Matthew was no bigger or smaller then any kid with a monstrously quick metabolism would be. When Conner's eyes fell to the breathing tube as it had the others and he was reminded of the effects of his anger, he turned to face the last curtain.
Slowly, he lifted his hand to it, the same hand that had trembled with preternatural consequences in the World now shaking with human fear. If he could hardly bear the sight of the others, how would he handle the sight of Lowen in the same fashion? Clenching his jaw tighter than was comfortable, he slid the blue material aside. Conner's heart caught his throat, threatening to choke him as his eyes fell upon the girl in front of him. Older then the others, but no more then nineteen, she held as much beauty in this world as she had the last. Raven tresses fell perfectly against the pillow and past her shoulders, her eyes shut in an almost peaceful acceptance. Cinnamon skin complimented the hue of her hair, added to it. A quick look at her clipboard had Lowen read off as "Marilyn." The name wasn't as alien to him as the rest. In fact, it brought a smile curling the corner of his lips, a subtle motion. Unlike the others, Lowen had no breathing tube. The rise and fall of her chest was of her own doing, something that only heightened the former college student's joy. All of this came crashing down, built upon a rusted foundation, as he realized what had to come next. Moving to lean his back and head in turn against the wall next to her bed, Conner's eyes fell closed. What if he could help the others? What if Truth had been wrong (a paradoxal irony that should have been funny, but wasn't)? Was one life really worth three others? Could he really be so selfish as to simply end their lives with a whim just to save Lowen? With a mental sigh, the sound of a groaning, waking girl next to him, and the loud ring of three stopped hearts...
...and Conner had his answer.
Dark brown hair blew in a dry wind around his shoulders, rebellious strands obscuring his dull, Siberian-husky eyes from time to time. The only thing whipping harder then his hair was the black leather trenchcoat that wrapped as a sweltering blanket around him. The hotter he got, the better he seemed to feel, his biorhythms twisted and remade by the Twilight genetics he possessed. Indulging himself further, the fallen alpha tossed the leather hood attachment up and over his head. It was like emerging himself in a sauna, drowning away the hatred and the anguish that still writhed beneath the surface of his skin. Both his boots and the loose material of his pants as black as the coat around him, only the emerald hue of his shirt threw off what would have otherwise made him a drifting shade. Eyes stabbed into the ground as he walked against the wind, the lycanthrope came to a pause as the sight of three pairs of armored feet came into view. Lofted eyes met the presence of the knights of Truth, Decadence, and Salvation. Behind their metal-plated masks Zan could make out no expressions, no responses, no promises of attack. They simply stood there for a while, quiet, contemplating.
"...What do you want?" It was Zan who spoke first, an underlying growl embedded into the heart of his words.
"We heard your call. We want to help, your highness." Truth spoke with caution, with a wariness he hadn't possessed before. Something in his words stirred Zan, provoked a lash of the lycan's hand around his chainmail-protected neck, yanking him closer.
"Don't call me that. I'm not a king, I'm not an alpha. Spout anymore of that bullshit and I'll rip out your throat, got it?" Zan spat, shoving him away with a release of his hand from Truth's neck.
"As you wish, but there's something you need to know. Lowen, Boros, Jeng, and Elaina..." Rubbing the spot Zan had only recently let go of, Truth's eyes wandered, his words ceasing. The Heavy Blade followed that gaze to the hand that had crawled with a vile ink, a twisted transformation, only minutes ago. It shook with such violence, twitching with inhuman ferocity to the point that it had moments where it seemed to blur. When this finally came to a stop, Zan took a moment to flex his fingers, shaking the shock from his eyes to meet Truth's once more. "...they aren't gone. Not...not as you think. You believe them to be AIs, yes? That was something Her Majesty indulged you in, allowed you to believe. She knew you couldn't have ended her suffering if you thought her to be human." The knight stopped there, giving Zan a moment to register his words.
"They...she...they're okay? Where are they?" There was a light at the end of the tunnel, a hope that sprang as an excited thud in his chest. He could almost feel the knife waiting to twist his heart again.
"Lowen...she's, as you would say, trapped in limbo. The only thing keeping her mind alive is it's connection with yours, with the Plures Vultus Mortis. The other's, I'm afraid, had no such connection to keep their minds fortified. Their bodies are alive, but only barely. Machines keep them going. Without their minds to stabilize their coma, they became clinically brain dead. They're in a special ward in the same hospital as yourself." There was something he was leaving out, something he feared to say.
"What is it, Truth? Why are you telling me all this?" Zan wanted to ask about Lowen, about how he could save her mind from the same fate as her friends, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was afraid of the answer he'd receive.
"There's something you have to do. When you transformed, you ripped a wound across your data. Though I'm sure you're aware of the negative side effects of this, there's a silver lining. It's given you a way to go home." The caution persisted, continued in an almost painfully uninformative manner.
"And by home you mean..." Zan refused to finish the sentence, his fists curling into a clench in anticipation.
"I mean home. The real world." What should have been good news seemed dismal somehow, someway.
"What's the catch, Truth? You don't sound too enthused about my freedom." Zan's jaw clenched in unison with his hands, teeth grinding mildly against eachother.
"If we send you back, if we wake you up, you'll have a small window of opportunity to break the ties of your mind with Lowen's. In effect, you'll wake her up as well. However, whatever remains of the others' heart functions depend on her continuing coma. If she wakes up, they'll be forced to try and wake too. Unlike her, they have no mind to bring them back. Their hearts will stop. If that isn't bad enough, the moment you release her mind yours will have no freedom of its own. Not in the real world. Soon after you'll fall back into your coma, back into your digital body." If Truth was trying to persuade him, he was doing a piss-poor job of it.
"Then why do it, Truth? Why? What in the hell good can come of me going back, only to find my way here again? Tell me, because I sure as hell can't figure it out." Zan could feel the tremors in his hand begin to return and he could do nothing but pray for their passing.
"Why? You do this because it's your duty. Let's put the pleasantries aside. You started this, you caused this, so you better damn well finish it. Don't leave Lowen's mind locked away somewhere, don't leave the others stuck as vegetables for the rest of their lives." Truth bit back his anger the best he was able, deep breaths trembling in his chest.
"...Send me back." As much as he hated to admit it, the knight was right. Zan had to see this path through. He had to close this book.
"Not to change your mind or anything, but I feel obligated to tell you that once your digital wound scabs over that window is closed. There's no going back, not that way. Also, CyberConnect will have people at the hospital in minutes. You and Lowen are liabilities and CC isn't exactly socially apt. When she wakes up, you have to move. Quickly." Something in Truth's body language told the lycanthrope he feared Zan would change his mind. However, the leather-clad man simply turned from truth and dropped his head in preparation.
"Do it."
------------------------------------------------
Conner's eyes shot open, pupils taking a moment to adjust, to fight back the pain opening them induced. The world around him was a nauseating combination of the bright sting of light, the continuous blip of the heart monitor to his left, and the general hustle and bustle of the hospital world around him. His body felt heavy, weighted, exhausted. Taking a moment to clench and unclench his toes, Conner was happy to see the nurses hadn't slacked on the physical therapy. That done, the former college student sat up with a groan, holding a hand against his forehead to steady the vertigo. When he attempted to turn and drop from the hospital bed, a screaming pain in his arm halted him immediately. An IV fed him a steady stream of liquid nutrients, keeping his body from eating itself. Grunting, Conner pulled it from under the white tape over his wrist, removing that in turn. Though his eyes were still adjusting from use after all this time, they allowed him enough visual competence to glance around. A blue curtain encased his bed, allowing the would-be coma victim an ounce of unnecessary privacy. At least, what would have been unnecessary. Now it was just convenient. Leaning down from the foot of moving space the curtain allowed him, he opened up a small droor, searching for the white pants the mobile patients were allowed to wear about the hospital.
Upon finding it, Conner smiled to himself, sliding them on with an awkward sort of controlled hop. When had accomplished that, he untied the back of the hospital gown and tossed it on the bed beside him. Curious to see exactly how he was going to get away from being barefooted and bare-chested in this place, Conner opened the curtain, happy to see a sweater with his old school's logo thrown over a visitor's chair nearby. Leo had gone home and forgotten it, leaving Conner a way to give his 'disguise' a bit more of a complete look. Sliding the grey piece of clothing on over his head, he stepped completely from the curtain, looking to the nearby glass window for any shocked or dismayed hospital staff. Finding no such thing, he allowed himself a curious indulgence. Conner called out to his Beast and found it buried in his head, alive and kicking, but controlled as it had now become. The void in his belly that swooned for flesh still waited, still whined, but other than the mental affects the game had had on him, his body gave no response. No transformation took place, no storm of smells granted his nose a whiff, and as far as he could tell, he was as strong as he had been when he fell into the coma. Hell, he was (understandably) a bit weaker. Trying to shake off the sudden feeling of helplessness, Conner slipped into the hospital halls.
His walk was as normal as he could manage it, head dipped down and his light brown hair strewn forward to hide his face. It wasn't exactly inconspicuous, but it was the best he could come up with. If Truth had been right, Conner had only minutes to find the coma ward where Lowen and the rest were being held before CyberConnect tried to take Lowen and Conner away. It should have been more exciting, more enthralling to be back in the real world, to be back with actual people. However, Conner knew this wasn't meant to last and he was doing his damndest to keep those thoughts at bay. If he dwelled on it too much he knew he'd cave and that was one thing he couldn't do. People still needed him back in the World. He still had friends to help, responsibilities to fulfill. Leo would understand, he had to. Brushing past an old man that was absently mumbling about "the God damn duck", Conner found himself where he needed to be. 'COMA WARD' was carved into a plaque next to the door with brail dotted neatly under it. How had he found his way here? Was it her? Was Lowen calling to him? No, that wasn't it. It was all just luck, the fair Lady granting him a good hand. Still amazed nobody had tried to stop him or ask him who he was, Conner slipped into the room, closing the door behind him with a peculiar click.
Four curtains as blue as Conner's had been wrapped in a cloth fortification around the beds in the room, unsynchronized blips of the heart monitors and gusty exhalations of the breathing machines meeting his ears. He had only so much time, so Conner threw caution out the window and began to drag open the curtains one by one. The first to be opened revealed an Asian boy no older then seventeen, the clipboard at the foot of the bed reading "Charlie." Charlie? No, Conner corrected, Jeng. With the breathing tube stuffed down his throat as it was, Conner moved on in self-disgust. The next curtain revealed false hope, a small blonde girl who couldn't have been much older then Jeng. A smile began to twitch at the edge of Conner's lips, but something was off. This girl, this Amanda (as a quick check of her clipboard revealed), she wasn't Lowen, which left Elaina. The way her chest rose and fell with a sort of meek attempt at life, the breathing tube 'decorating' her mouth as it had Jeng's. Fighting the urge to bolt, to run off, he moved on to the third. Another boy this time, younger than Elaina or Jeng, but oddly taller. It was the youth in his face that set him apart, that set the supposed "Matthew" apart from his peers. No, he corrected himself for a second time, not Matthew, but Boros. In a different situation, it would have been humorous to look at the person in front of him and think of Boros. Where the Viking had been rugged, brutish, and almost freakishly built, Matthew was no bigger or smaller then any kid with a monstrously quick metabolism would be. When Conner's eyes fell to the breathing tube as it had the others and he was reminded of the effects of his anger, he turned to face the last curtain.
Slowly, he lifted his hand to it, the same hand that had trembled with preternatural consequences in the World now shaking with human fear. If he could hardly bear the sight of the others, how would he handle the sight of Lowen in the same fashion? Clenching his jaw tighter than was comfortable, he slid the blue material aside. Conner's heart caught his throat, threatening to choke him as his eyes fell upon the girl in front of him. Older then the others, but no more then nineteen, she held as much beauty in this world as she had the last. Raven tresses fell perfectly against the pillow and past her shoulders, her eyes shut in an almost peaceful acceptance. Cinnamon skin complimented the hue of her hair, added to it. A quick look at her clipboard had Lowen read off as "Marilyn." The name wasn't as alien to him as the rest. In fact, it brought a smile curling the corner of his lips, a subtle motion. Unlike the others, Lowen had no breathing tube. The rise and fall of her chest was of her own doing, something that only heightened the former college student's joy. All of this came crashing down, built upon a rusted foundation, as he realized what had to come next. Moving to lean his back and head in turn against the wall next to her bed, Conner's eyes fell closed. What if he could help the others? What if Truth had been wrong (a paradoxal irony that should have been funny, but wasn't)? Was one life really worth three others? Could he really be so selfish as to simply end their lives with a whim just to save Lowen? With a mental sigh, the sound of a groaning, waking girl next to him, and the loud ring of three stopped hearts...
...and Conner had his answer.