Ever since my earliest memories formed, the spectre of betrayal has loomed, a seemingly integral part of my existence. My biological parents, through no fault of their own, were the first to inadvertently thrust me into this world alone, their untimely death an unexpected abandonment. My uncle, whose existence barely grazes my memory, was the next to perpetuate the cycle, absent and leaving me stranded amidst the wreckage of loss. The notion of trust began to erode with each subsequent disappointment, building a resilience, perhaps even an expectation, for the eventual downfalls that life seemed keen on delivering.

I stare at the cold metal pressed against my temple, feeling the chill of it even through the tendrils of my hair. My gaze inevitably drifts to her, Schwa, standing there amid chaos, seemingly in alliance with those who have bound me. It’s a betrayal, yet oddly, I don’t quite feel the sting of it, not yet. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, or perhaps it’s the numbness that spreads through me like a balm against the creeping threads of despair.

My mind races, recounting every interaction, every hint of secrecy she ever showed, trying to piece together a puzzle that seems frustratingly out of reach. Was every comforting hug, every soothing word spoken in genuine care, or was it a part of a deeper, darker plot all along? And yet, as I silently observe Schwa, I can’t see a trace of the warm, nurturing presence that raised me in her stoic demeanour.

This atmosphere, laden with fear and tension, causes my stomach to knot and churn, but I refuse to let it show. A part of me, the vulnerable, frightened child, yearns to scream out, to demand answers from her, to plead for her to take my hand and tell me it was all a misunderstanding.

But that voice is quickly stifled, overpowered by a new resolve that solidifies within me. I have to dissociate, to distance myself from the piercing hurt, the confused mess of emotions swirling within me. I have to preserve myself, because if I let myself fall apart here, in this abyss of betrayal and terror, I might never find my way back to the surface.

My eyes fixate on a crack in the concrete floor beneath my feet. I tune out the sounds of yelling, the chaotic scramblings, and instead, lose myself in thoughts that anchor me away from the emotional tempest threatening to engulf me. I remember the cosy glow of the TV screen, the familiar jingles of anime theme songs, and the comforting embrace of a soft couch beneath me. These memories act as a barrier, guarding me against the grim reality that encircles me.

Somewhere distant, Schwa’s eyes meet mine, and even though I know there’s something more beneath her hardened expression, a flicker of something pained and regretful, I forcefully sever any ties that might have yanked me into her emotional gravity.

I’m not here, I repeat in my head, a mantra to keep my thoughts from spiralling into darker territories. Not in this dank, hostile parking lot, not under the gun, not witnessing the unthinkable betrayal from my only family.

In my mind, I am back home, snuggled securely in a blanket, immersed in tales where pain and betrayal only ever serve to strengthen the bonds between characters. It’s a memory where the heroes always triumph and friendship overcomes all hardships, where the vibrant colours and triumphant narratives blot out the harshness of real-life’s shadow.

I realize then that I am crafting my own refuge, a sanctuary within the confines of my own consciousness, to guard against the potential shattering of my young, fragile spirit. I desperately latch onto it because, in a world that has abruptly torn every ounce of safety away, it’s all I have left.

But deep down, a small, persistent flicker of hope resists the smothering darkness. An impractical, irrational wish that perhaps, there exists a semblance of truth, an underlying reason behind Schwa’s actions. I find myself longing, not for salvation from this dire situation, but for something to prove that the layers of betrayal do not extend to the core of her being. Perhaps, in the depths of my fortress of solitude, I still harbour the need to believe in her, to know that amidst all the deceits and letdowns, the nurturing warmth of our shared moments wasn’t just another facade in a long line of disillusionments.

A haze, thick and distorting, seems to envelop the scene before me. I’m there, yet simultaneously distant, observing the spectacle unfolding as if I were a mere spectator rather than the subject, the victim, ensnared within this nightmarish tableau. It’s surreal, as if the reality itself is grappling with an ethereal dream, where the characters move and speak, but their actions and words are muted, softened by the protective veil I’ve drawn tightly around myself.

An older guy, his face a rugged map of scars, eyes me from beneath an eyepatch. His frame, imposing and unwavering, commands a certain respect, or maybe it’s fear, as those around him react to his slightest movements with palpable tension.

Close to him, an enigmatic figure donned in a lab coat flits into view, incongruent within the tumult, his youthful stature seemingly misplaced amid the violent chaos. His face, obscured by a bizarre jackal mask, exudes an eerie calmness as he attends to a lifeless form sprawled across the concrete, blood pooling ominously around. With a clinical detachment, he works, needles and strange apparatus in hand, intent on wrenching the fallen individual back from the precipice of death. His actions are precise, emotionless, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy that pervades the surrounding air.

Major, as he is referred to by those scurrying about in anxious activity, addresses a young woman, Betty, her fingers dancing nimbly across the screen of her phone. She’s tasked with disseminating a message, a proclamation of their accomplishments and intentions, across the social networks. Her fingers, swift and sure, navigate the screen, sculpting narratives and shaping perceptions in a realm where information is weaponized with alarming efficacy.

Betty looks up, eyes landing on me, and I feel a shiver, a disconcerting penetration of my mental fortress. She desires to amplify their terror, to extend their reach through visual proof of my captivity. The device in her hand is lifted, aimed in my direction, the lens a black void threatening to suck me into a realm of unstoppable, spiralling despair.

But S1, the girl whose duplicity still lingers like a bitter aftertaste, interjects, her voice a jarring disruption in the organized chaos. The gun, still ominously present, is an unspoken threat at the periphery of my awareness. She argues, fervent and insistent, her eyes, when they fleetingly meet mine, a tempest of conflicting emotions.

S1 demands recognition, acknowledgment for her role in my capture, and despite the venomous context, I perceive an undercurrent of desperation, a hunger for validation that somehow renders her terrifying and pitiful in equal measure. Her pleas are directed at Major, eyes flickering between authority and defiance, as the semblance of unity within this gruesome gathering flickers, threatening to fracture beneath the weight of ego and unrestrained ambition.

In the midst of the unfolding chaos, a monstrous figure lumbers into my peripheral vision, his towering stature a grim silhouette against the dimly lit surroundings. His form, hulking and imposing, stirs a faint, muffled alarm through the cocoon of my internal retreat. Despite the monstrous aura that clings to him, his eyes, wide and infused with a tangible desperation, betray a stark incongruity to the brutish appearance.

He’s like a wretched giant, an embodiment of constrained savagery and concealed pain, as if battling an inner chaos that parallels the external turmoil surrounding us all. With deliberate, heavy steps, he shifts, a lumbering mass of muscle and sorrow, toward the staircase from which we came from.

And I, amidst this carnival of horrors, remain anchored within my internal sanctuary, my spirit enveloped in the comforting embrace of imaginary worlds. Even as my physical form exists within the confines of this harrowing reality, my mind, my essence, resides elsewhere, shielded from the corrosive touch of despair and degradation.

 

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The air is thick, a pregnant pause hanging heavily in the dark of the entrance hall as we three, panting and bloodied, stand facing the gargantuan figure that emerges from the shadowy staircase leading to the parking lot. His eyes, a haunting canvas of anguish and unbridled rage, lock onto mine, and I feel a shiver crawl up my spine, a visceral response to the palpable hatred oozing from his every pore. His voice is a low rumble, resonating with a pain so profound it renders the atmosphere almost suffocating.

“YOU…” he growls, his voice cracking under the weight of his loathing, the shotgun in his monstrous hands gleaming ominously in the dim light. It points in my direction. “YOU KILLED MY SISTER!!”

A blink. A breath. Silence.

NANAYA and GON share a sideways glance, an unreadable exchange flashing between them before the former quips, a mischievous, albeit tense, grin tugging at his lips, “Well, you seem popular today.”

GON snorts, her eyes not leaving the mountainous form before us. “Maybe she stole his candy or something, what do you think?”

I feel a strange emptiness at the accusation in the stranger’s voice, my mind scrabbling for any recollection of him, any inkling of the evident history he perceives between us. But there is nothing—just a gaping void where perhaps once, there was something. Something that now fuels his fury.

My voice is a whisper, almost drowned out by the thick tension in the room. “I… I don’t remember you.”

The shotgun lifts, his focus unwavering and I know, in the marrow of my bones, that any conventional strategies are futile against this behemoth fuelled by vengeance and agony.

My pulse hammers in my ears, a frantic symphony that underscores the tense tableau unfolding before us. GON’s stance, usually so cocky and nonchalant, tightens ever so slightly. The monstrous figure before us, his eyes so brutally singular in their focus on me, doesn’t falter. Those eyes scream of loss, of an abyss that’s swallowed everything but wrath.

With a war-cry, muffled yet jarring, he lunges towards us, the shotgun booming through the stark emptiness of the hall. The pellets whizz by, close enough to carve pathways through our hair, and we scatter, instincts propelling our bodies into frantic motion.

NANAYA, face a mask of calculated fury, attempts to close the distance, his blade lifted with deadly intent.

But our opponent is deceptively quick, swinging the shotgun like a bludgeon and catching him across the shoulder. NANAYA is sent sprawling, the grunt of pain echoing ominously amidst the charged atmosphere.

GON whirls into action, her blade a shimmering arc in the dim light, aiming for the joints, the gaps in his defenses. Yet he’s unyielding, every strike absorbed by layers of maddened resolve and an almost surreal tolerance to pain. Each slash that would fell any normal foe only seems to spur him further, his movements unrelenting and vicious.

With a gritted jaw and coiling dread in my stomach, I draw my own weapon. As the next shotgun blast shatters the relative silence, I weave through the mayhem, attempting to flank him, seeking some form of vulnerability amidst the fortress of agony he’s become.

It’s a dance, one macabre and fraught with peril, as we weave, strike, and recoil in a cycle that feels increasingly desperate. His onslaught is brutal; each swing of his weapon, every bone-jarring shot that erupts from the barrel, is a testament to a desolation so profound it’s become his armour.

GON’s blade meets his side, finally finding purchase, but the victory is short-lived. With a guttural roar, he retaliates, swiping at her with an arm that moves with a speed belying his size. She’s thrown off balance, her form crumpling upon impact with the wall, yet she’s back on her feet almost instantly, her gaze flickering with a blend of wrath and apprehension.

NANAYA, barely managing to dodge another ferocious swing, locks eyes with me, a silent understanding passing between us, even as his form tightens, readying for the next onslaught. GON, ever the maverick yet not blind to the futility, skids to a halt beside me, her breaths ragged, eyes aflame with a mix of defiance and resigned acceptance.

My mind races even as GON steps forward, her iaito unsheathed and glinting menacingly. “This isn’t a fight we’re going to win, is it?” Her words are more of a statement than a question, a realization settling heavily upon us.

NANAYA’s eyes remain on me, a question lingering in his gaze, before shifting back towards the man, his stance ready yet cautious.

I shake my head slightly. “No, but we don’t need to win it. We just need more time.”

GON’s lips curl into a sad, resigned smile. “I can give you that.” Her voice, usually so lively and teasing, now bears a solemnity that seizes my chest with a bitter, foreboding dread.

“What the hell are you talking about, minion?” NANAYA barks, his eyes flashing with a fierce protectiveness, yet she merely turns, affording him a gentle, reassuring smile.

“It’s simple, really,” she responds, her eyes returning to meet mine, a silent plea within them. “You go on, and I’ll… I’ll hold off this ugly bastard.” Her smile widens, yet her eyes swim with an unspoken hype. “I’ll keep him busy. And hey, who knows? Maybe I’ll actually manage to take him down.”

I nod, though I never expected these guys to be so useful.

She smirks, the mischievous spark returning to her gaze even as she squares up to the colossal adversary before us. “You’re tall as a dinosaur, big guy. Let’s see if you’re also as strong as one.”

With that, NANAYA and I turn, breaking into a sprint towards our objective, the sounds of clashing metal and guttural roars echoing behind us, a constant, harrowing reminder of the sacrifice being made in our stead.

 

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Amiss the rising tension between Betty and S1, my heart jolts when Schwa’s familiar voice, potent and brimming with latent fury, finally perforates the chaos, creating a stillness that is almost more terrifying than the preceding tumult. Her foot lashes out, a swift and decisive movement, connecting with the gun that’s been looming ominously at my temple. The impact sends it skittering away, its metallic clatter echoing hauntingly across the concrete as S1 screams, her hands reflexively cradling the foot that dealt the unexpected blow.

Then, with a surge of kinetic energy, Schwa pivots, snatching Betty by the collar and slamming her to the ground with a viciousness that belies her usually composed demeanour. The sound of Betty’s body meeting the concrete is harsh, a blunt reminder of the raw, unfiltered rage emanating from Schwa.

She whirls back towards S1, her hands wrapping around the latter’s neck, her fingers tight and unyielding. Words, venomous and seething, spill from her lips, a torrent of wrath and protective ferocity. “That’s my SON you’re talking about, you fucking BITCH,” she snarls, each syllable saturated with a primal rage that sends shivers down my spine despite the insulated space I’ve mentally caged myself within.

It’s then that the unexpected occurs, further spiralling the situation into uncharted chaos. ASCLEPIUS, who I’d mentally catalogued as an enemy, reaches into his bra, producing a sleek, lethal-looking handgun. Without hesitation, a shot rings out, the sound sharp and deafening within the confined space of the parking lot, ricocheting off the walls in a violent cacophony.

Betty’s body crumples, a lifeless puppet severed from its strings, blood seeping into the cold, unforgiving concrete beneath her.

“I, ASCLEPIUS of the Agency, under Koteloppolo SIRONA’s orders, declare that the hostage is safe,” the words escape from ASCLEPIUS’s lips, not into the open air, but funnelled directly into a radio, meant for ears far from this chaos.

SIRONA’s voice crackles back through the speaker, a composed contrast to the turmoil. “Good job, ASCLE-PYON. Say something nice to the kid for me.”

ASCLEPIUS, stoic amidst the chaos, responds flatly, “Say it yourself,” holding the radio slightly aloft, as if offering it to the invisible presence of SIRONA, connecting her voice to this hellscape.

My knees buckle beneath me, emotions, previously held in strict check, cascading through the meticulously constructed dam I’d erected within my mind. Tears sear paths down my cheeks, each droplet an amalgamation of relief, shock, and a multitude of emotions too entwined to dissect.

My gaze, blurred by the wet veil of my tears, lands on Schwa, and I’m torn, a maelstrom of love, confusion, and relief waging a war within me. My mouth opens, a myriad of questions, accusations, and affirmations teetering on the tip of my tongue, yet, they remain unvoiced, a silent scream amidst the chaotic symphony enveloping us.

Everything is too much, yet not enough, a surreal nightmare from which the awakening is just as harrowing. The emotional tempest, so long held at bay, threatens to consume me, and amidst the unfolding chaos, I’m perilously adrift, a vessel amidst a storm, unanchored and vulnerable.

 

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