White light. That was all there was: white light and endlessness. George couldn’t quite tell if he was floating or standing. The white seemed not only to cloud his vision, but his mind as well. Thinking became hard.
Where…am…I…? Spurring the thought into his mind was difficult enough; finding an answer to his question – or even a theory for that matter – was impossible. His mind remained blank, like the pages of an empty scrapbook. His body tingled, and there was a buzz in the air.
He seemed to spend an eternity there, amidst the endless white light. Floating, unthinking, simply being…
Then a pinprick of shadow appeared, blemishing the white like dirt blemishing a white top. The pinprick grew and grew, until it enveloped all of the white light. The fogginess in his mind dispersed and now he could feel it: his feet on the ground, the wind nipping at his cheeks, the rain hammering at his back – all of it. With a gasp, he realised where he was.
Morton Flats, a short and squat apartment block on the edge of the town of Marsheton. It was a recent build – like much of Marsheton was. Its walls were fashioned from sleek, black metal and were adorned with symmetrical grids of rain-spattered windows. Pipes and cables coiled up the side of the building like metal serpents.
I haven’t been here in years, not since… He stopped himself from reminiscing what it was exactly that had happened here that day, long ago. He did not need to relive that pain.
He frowned, shielding his eyes from the rain as he peered up at the building, lit by the cool glow of streetlights, floating in the air on their boxy propulsors. How did I get here? I don’t remember anything… Looking up at the building, his eyes narrowed. Well, I’m here now. Might as well take a look at what’s happened to the place since I left.
He entered the building through the double-doors at the front – which clanged shut behind him – and took the lift to the fourth floor. As the lift doors slid open with a beep, he stepped out onto the threadbare carpet and began making his way to their old flat. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, glowing dimly and flickering. Soon, he had reached Flat 413.
His ears pricked. There was shouting, coming from inside.
But before he could ruminate on this, suddenly, the door slid open, revealing a narrow corridor. And stood in the corridor was a dark-haired stranger.
George’s eyes widened as they fixed on the stranger; his heartbeat quickened. The stranger was Arthur Marsh – his younger brother. As his eyes rested on Arthur, he shook his head in disbelief. He had not seen Arthur for ten years; indeed, so great was his shock that he did not notice the youth and vigour in Arthur’s face – he looked the same as he had done all those years ago, still only a boy.
Ten years ago, Arthur had run away from home, George remembered bitterly. He’d run away after…after… His eyes filled with tears. After…What happened… He could not bring himself to think, to reminisce that most pain-wracked of memories, could not bring himself to recall that man, that thug, who had destroyed their lives.
Trying his best to keep his face steel-cool – for his younger brother’s sake – he stepped into the corridor. There was a whoosh as the door slid shut behind him. ‘Arthur, is that you?’ His question came out as a barely-intelligible croak.
He frowned, noticing Arthur’s skin was pale, almost white. George’s initial shock was wearing off now; his frown deepened as he realised Arthur’s youthful appearance. What’s going on?
Another bout of shouting from further down the corridor shook him from his thoughts. He turned to Arthur, gestured for him to follow him, away from the shouting. Arthur simply stared at him with wide eyes, feet rooted to the floor.
One of the doors lining the corridor slid open; an instant later, there was a loud thud as a man hurtled through the doorway – almost as if flung – and smashed into the wall. From the room came screams. The man who had just come through the doorway was middle-aged and balding, with pink cheeks, a big nose, and a light stubble. His eyes were dark and deep-set.
George realised, with a gasp, that the man was his father. But his father was dead. He had died that day, ten years ago…
Ten years ago. Something in George’s mind clicked, and he suddenly realised – much to his horror – what was going on. Somehow, he had gone back in time to that day. The day Rod had come. He remembered it vividly; from his memories, he deduced the screams he had heard were his mother’s.
As a dark silhouette appeared in the doorway, so broad it nearly took up the entire doorway, George’s heart plummeted. Instinctively, he leapt forward, wrapping his arms around Arthur and pushing him away. The figure in the doorway turned its head sharply in George’s direction; the metal plates that made the figure’s skin glinted in the gloom. It laughed; its laugh sounded like two blades of metal scraping against each other. George shuddered, heart pounding as the demonic red eyes of Rod fixed on him. The eyes of a predator.
‘Get away!’ George shouted, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. At his shout, Rod laughed again.
With his eyes still fixed on George, Rod raised its arm, pointing at George’s father. Where there had ought to be a hand there was, instead, a huge cannon, burnished into Rod’s flesh. There was a bang and a flash of purple light. George shielded his brother’s eyes as the purple light struck his father’s head, melting it into a puddle of goo. The smell of burning flesh hung heavy in the corridor. George cried out, glaring at Rod, tears welling in his eyes.
His mother’s shrieks grew louder and more shrill. There came shouting from the other room, and the shouts were suddenly muffled. Presumably, Rod’s men were in there too. George dreaded to think what they were doing to his mother.
Behind Rod appeared another figure – smaller in stature, with a lithe leanness to her. Her hair was long and auburn. Her face donned a mask of strength and confidence. It was Lilly, George’s older sister, though, weirdly enough, as of this moment, she was eight years younger than him – accounting for the age difference. At the sight of her, George tensed; Lilly was dead now, in the present, and seeing her now, alive, brought a whirlwind of pain into his mind. He pushed his grief from his mind and tried to focus. As of yet, Rod hadn’t noticed her. His men in the other room, however, most certainly had.
‘Oi, girl!’ came the rough shout from the other room, accompanied by a barrage of heavy footsteps. ‘Come ‘ere!’
Lilly did not oblige the command; rather, as Rod levelled his cannon towards Arthur and George, she dove between the two huge, metal pillars that were Rod’s legs and ran to her brothers. ‘Run!’ she shouted.
At once, George’s instincts kicked in, and his the fear dissipated in an instant. That was Lilly’s effect on him. He scooped up Arthur in his arms, and together with Lilly, smashed open the door and raced outside. As they dove either side of the doorway, a purple ball of light zipped through. It crashed against a wall opposite their room, chewing through it; George grimaced as the smell of molten plastimoid stabbed at the inside of his nose.
He and Lilly ran for the lift. Behind them came the sound of Rod’s footfalls as his metal legs thudded against the carpet. There was another bang, and a ball of purple light soared past them, striking the lift, which sparked violently. George swore and raced past the lift, down the corridor, clutching Arthur tightly to his chest. Lilly chased after him, her confident mask now swiftly dissolving to be overcome by fear.
Rod’s grating laughter came from behind. ‘Run, little piggies. Run. Run until you cannot run anymore.’ He cackled loudly, sending several more balls of purple light hurtling down the corridor.
George grimaced as they ran past melting doors and walls, struck by the purple bolts of Rod’s cannon. Can’t expect anyone to help us. They all know Rod and what he’d do to them if they got involved…
The corridor, however, did not last forever, and soon it finished in a dead end. Holding Arthur in one hand, George ran to the wall and slammed his fist against it, howling curses. A soft hand touched his shoulder – Lilly. As he turned to face her, he saw her cheeks were slick with tears. She glanced at him and shook her head. George sighed.
‘You cannot escape,’ Rod grunted, thudding towards them. ‘You cannot escape.’ He let out another bout of creaking laughter.
George gritted his teeth and turned sharply towards the cyborg, staring into those soulless red eyes. Did Rod feel any emotion? Did he feel anything at all? He clenched his fist. All other attempts at escape had failed, but there was one thing still left to try…
He didn’t wait for Rod to get any closer; he glanced at Lilly’s tear-strewn face and at Arthur, who had now been put on the floor and decided instantly his course of action. With a mirthless roar, he charged at the cyborg, swinging his fist.
But his attack was too slow: Rod caught the blow with his hand, chuckling. His metal face twisted into a cruel smile. ‘Too slow,’ he growled. ‘Too sl–’
His jeering was cut short at the sight of George’s glowing fist; soon enough, the cyborg was soon embroiled with golden light, which danced and spiralled across his metal body. George could feel, now, the cyborg’s fear, but also his hate; he shuddered. The golden light grew in brightness, almost blinding George. Without thinking, he craned his neck to cast one last look at Arthur and Lilly, the last look, he knew, he would ever get, before the golden light blinded him, and he returned to the endless, white realm…
#
George gasped as the green light of the delaeon burrowed into his eyeballs; as dim as the light was, it still felt as though white-hot daggers had been thrust into his eye sockets. As he stumbled forward, shielding his eyes and fighting the cloudiness of his mind, he turned around to face the delaeon. In the delaeon’s egg-shaped surface was a rapidly-fading human-shaped impression.
Then he remembered it. Everything that had happened. I was in the delaeon…then I was at Morton Flats… His brow creased. What happened? Was that all…just a dream? He shuddered at the memory of Rod’s glowing, red eyes, at the hate he’d felt when he’d used his Ov’l powers against the cyborg. It had felt too real to have been a dream; it had felt as though he had been back there on that fateful day, ten years ago…
He was shook from his thoughts – literally – by a strong hand that grasped his shoulder. He looked up to see Hugh’s wrinkled face looking down at him. The man looked speechless.
‘You…You defeated the delaeon.’ Hugh’s eyes were wide, mouth slightly ajar. He shook himself suddenly and commanded, ‘We need to go – now.’ He gestured to the hollow metal cube – a psychic bomb, he said it was – lying next to the delaeon. ‘We can survive the Realm’s implosion, but we can’t survive the bomb’s explosion!’
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