Byzantine Purple

Chapter I: One Man and His Monsters

Later they would call him a monster. Later. For now, they called him 'Master Glasscracker.'

"Why are you here?" the Glasscracker asked, undisturbed by the muffled footsteps and loud click of the door's rusty bolt. He did not turn and did not greet his visitor. Still as a long-dead tree, he stared at the tattered map of Europe on an otherwise empty wall. The dark room smelled of dusty antiques and moldy newspapers – mementos of the lives left behind and forgotten. Had he bothered to remove the clutter from the building, it might have looked more like a home than a collapsed warehouse. But he never cared.

"You buy lives," the guest's voice trailed off, when he caught a glimpse of the host's colorless eyes and greying hair. "I've come to offer you mine."

The Glasscracker turned around, measuring the newcomer from head to toe, his stare cold and calculating.

"A bold choice. Your past will fade if you join us. Eventually, it will be gone. But I cannot guarantee your survival."

The man retreated, pressing his lips together and picking at the seams of his worn jacket. He was no different from the rest of the Glasscracker's visitors – a creature hollowed by despair, coming to his doorstep with fresh hopes in tow. The man did not dare to meet his gaze.

"You are a ghost, aren't you?" he asked. "The one who brought me here called you 'Master Glasscracker'."

"Did he?" The Glasscracker scoffed. The strange nickname stuck to him like evergreen sap, but he never knew if it was the sound of his brittle voice, or the scars left by glass shards on his face that had inspired it. "We refer to ourselves as 'Offcasts'," he said, folding his arms on his chest. "'Ghost' is your word."

"It does not matter what you call yourselves," the man said, staring into his empty eyes. "You can fix me. That is all that counts."

"The procedure may be deadly," the Glasscracker noted with a nervous shrug.

"I'll take the chance."

"The result will terrify you." He sighed, shook his head and stepped forward. "You'll feel the Veil and you'll be a part of it, but you won't be able to stay sane more than a couple of days without its cover. That's the price for living in another dimension. That's what discerns an Offcast from a Native. Your environment is hostile to us, and given a chance, it will kill us. We are stuck between worlds. We don't belong anywhere. We fear suffocation and madness."

"It sounds... implausible. I've always thought you were some sort of spirits." A deep frown marred the guest's smooth forehead, "I do not mean to offend you, of course..."

Did he think he could offend him? The Glasscracker pressed his thin lips together and stared at the map again. The room drowned in darkness, and only the timid light from his table lamp cast shadows across his bland wallpapers. Could it be different this time? Could he succeed?

"Are you certain you want to proceed, knowing all the risks involved?" he asked. The man replied without thinking.

"I am dying. What are the risks in my case?"

The Glasscracker sighed. It took him years to understand how painfully insignificant his destiny, ambitions and hopes were – all cogs in a wheel that never stopped spinning. The man in front of him did not have the time to come to this conclusion. Death meant something big to this man. Death was important.

The man's hazel eyes widened in shock when the Glasscracker swirled around and grabbed his arm, sending electricity through his veins, giving him his first taste of the Veil. Then he withdrew, pulling a vial filled with purple-colored liquid out of his sleeve.