Cyber Chronicles 1: Crimson's Effect

Chapter 18: Lincoln (Past)

As the soldier ushered Lincoln along, a cautious warning slipped from Lincoln's lips, "Be careful. You don't want to end up like the last person who pushed me." The soldier visibly swallowed, fully grasping the gravity of Lincoln's remark.

Just as Lincoln attempted to convey more, a voice resonated from the direction of the water fountain, rupturing the tense silence. "How delightful, the anticipation of profound agony!" Lincoln's gaze fixed on a tall man descending a glass staircase beside the waterfall. Impeccably dressed in formal attire, he exuded an air of sophistication, with neatly combed brown hair and piercing grey eyes. A sinister smirk danced on his lips, casting an eerie shadow over his features.

Lincoln felt a shiver crawl down his spine as the man continued, his voice carrying a chilling cadence. "Ah, the prodigious Lincoln, a guest in my humble abode. How splendid it is to welcome one who has danced with death and emerged unscathed."

The man approached unhurriedly, each step echoing through the affluent room. "Do forgive the theatrics, my dear Lincoln. It's not every day we entertain a guest with such... unique talents." He paused, savoring the moment. "You may call me Boss, the architect of your current predicament. Delightful, isn't it?"

Lincoln's brow furrowed, his instincts signaling danger. "What do you want?" he demanded, the weight of uncertainty heavy in his words.

The mysterious man chuckled, a sound devoid of genuine delight. "Want? Oh, my dear Lincoln, it's not about what I want. It's about what you can offer—your latent potential, your untapped power. A canvas waiting for the master's touch."

A sense of foreboding settled in the air as the man circled Lincoln, his gaze penetrating. "You see, the world is on the cusp of a transformation, and you, my unsuspecting guest, are the key. A pawn, perhaps, but a crucial one in the grand tapestry of change."

The Boss's mischievous grin lingered on his face like a shadow, sending an uncomfortable chill down Lincoln's spine. Each word the man uttered felt like a crawling sensation, an ominous forewarning of impending change. Lincoln clenched his jaw, determined not to let his composure slip; he understood that maintaining control was crucial.

"Now then," the Boss declared, his voice carrying an air of command, "the stage is yours. Show me the results of your trials!" 

As if orchestrating a sinister performance, the Boss adorned what looked like bracelets on each of his hands. A metallic clink echoed in the room, and with two deliberate claps, the cuffs on Lincoln's hands clicked and tumbled to the floor. 

Lincoln scrutinized his hands, a sense of dread sinking in as he felt the dark energy coursing through him. Despite its potential, the power within terrified him. Recent memories flashed vividly in his mind, the aftermath of his unleashed abilities—the gruesome scene of bodies, severed limbs, and blood staining the room. The realization of the havoc he had wreaked made his stomach churn, an overwhelming desire to purge the darkness within him.

The very essence of his power seemed malevolent, as if it existed solely for destruction and death.

A wave of repulsion surged within him, urging him to reject this demonic ability. It felt like a force crafted for malice, something he wasn't sure he could wield responsibly. The internal conflict intensified as one part of him recoiled from the idea of taking another life, while the rational side recognized the necessity of his preparedness.

Since he had become aware of World War III and the relentless civil strife gripping the nation, Lincoln's singular aspiration had been peace, safeguarding his family's security.

Even from a young age, he was always ready to resort to violence for the sake of others. Now, armed with this formidable capability, he found himself at the intersection of morality and practicality. His lifelong preparedness had led him to this point, offering him the chance to become humanity's most formidable warrior.