The Bellators

3:8:5

 In the darkness lies coarse grains and pebbles embedded into the dirt surfaces, an appearance so natural and yet one absent of nature's inherent beauty, for the material can only amplify the construct it composes, and that construct is the foundational definition of its allure.

Divots and craters expose a wilting foundation, shedding of the walls, degradation of a long neglect that tells of a slow deterioration. For corrosion was not a problem, as rather than the body losing its shine it instead loses itself in its entirety in a dragging decay, a crumble.

Above the earth and below the imprisoned in the Earth a white hand latches onto the surface, its wrinkly withered fingers clawing into the dirt, just slightly digging into the composite. Upon grasping the surface, it tightens its oppression, dragging pebbles and soils in, scraping with embedded trails breaking in the face.

A few moments later all the sudden the white hand relinquishes its tenacity, fully loosening its grip and lifting off the surface before dragging forward, deeper into the darkness, on ahead to grab again.

That hand reaches ahead, its wrist hung low, nearly grazing the dulled leather cuff of the sleeve that cloaks the entire arm in a natural darkness only brightened by the soft silver streak up the side just like the ones along the torso of the rest of the artifact.

Above the large leather collar which is accompanied by the black hood from behind, the juxtaposingly white face looms in the shadows, its few hairs of similar tones draped by its side, but standing apart are the sharp radiating azure eyes penetrating through the gloom.

Encased inside the tight shaft of dirt faces, the man pursues forward in a cautious crawl, not making a sound as he further treks deeper into the network, the exit not even visible from behind as a testament of the depth reached.

Behind the man crawls another being, who is similarly suited in black with even a slightly similar attire as it too features lapels, although the lapels of a professional blazer which beneath partly exposes a white shirt whereas the man wore another black piece below his own outerwear.

The being crawls forward too with metallic gold clawed fingers despite the rest of their hand and face being of a human tone. That tone, while visibly aged, is much riper and vivacious, with thick rich amber hair albeit at a shorter length over the head, bangs resting above the acute golden eyes, also remaining silent as can be.

In the duct the two crawl, however their forward motion however is of their own unique relativity, for the surface they crawl on is not a floor but rather a wall, as their crawl is rather a vertical climb.

Through the eyes of the lead, the end of the vertical shaft can be seen so close, only a few feet away. Just one white hand reaches forward, and as it grasps onto the wall and embeds itself into the dirt surface the next hand surpasses it whilst carrying the entire body forth in a repetitive yet necessarily slow motion.

Soon it reaches the peak, to which the man first plants both hands by the edge, not exactly over but directly under. He then meticulously peers over the edge, prepared for hostility, but only finding a horizontal shaft that continues ahead, connected to the vertical by a sharp rotation.

The shaft is also noticeably wider, but what is most intriguing is that far ahead in the shaft along the floor are multiple wide apertures over the whole surface all separated by chaotically variable lengths which bleed soft light into the vents, but not only light as it also bleeds in the sound of voice. The voices at first are muffled and incomprehensible, but their presence is telling enough.

With the coast otherwise clear, the lead pulls himself up and mantles over the ledge onto the flat duct. He then continues to crawl, now truly on flat ground, towards the light as the voices gradually become more distinct with uniquely pitched voices that distinguish multiple speakers of a familiar commanding man.