Awakening: Prodigy

22: Desperate Grip

POV Seth

Seth was too afraid to lower his arms just in case the building changed its layout on a whim. It had before, it would again. Seth was sure of that much.

He had no choice but to keep moving, to search for a door, an opening, anything. He followed the sharp turns down the new halls. A fork in the road never appeared, leaving him stuck walking a single winding path for ages.

He activated his digital mapping tool, intending to see the path he had come from. The mini-map loaded into the corner of his visor. The additional overlay remained fractured thanks to the damage to his visor. In the mini-map, a flashing green dot marked his position. The mapping tool recorded physical data, such as walls, rivers, and other barriers. It should have shown elevation details, as well as the faded green trail marking the route he had traveled. All of which were absent.

His tools were broken.

He squashed his fear as it bubbled to the surface, pointing out the absurdity of his situation. "I'm aware it's weird," he said to himself, hoping that someone on the squad channel would speak up, if only to keep him company. There was no point in entertaining his fears.

"Your imagination is your worst enemy." His drill sergeant said to his group on their first day of training. Those words were the precursor to the mental conditioning he needed to push through emotional walls. Between classes, training, and the games, Seth was often too exhausted to think of all the monsters in the dark. Exhaustion didn't change the fact that they existed. It just meant he was too exhausted to fight them off.

The lesson he had learned in those early days was to ground himself by focusing on the immediate sensory information.

The walls were solid and cool, but getting colder. A slow, rhythmic vibration numbed his fingertips, a sign that he was getting close to something. Maybe the source of this madness. Or maybe the data-pack that the Gaming Commission had sent them in to retrieve.

He felt a growing vibration through the soles of his boots. The hall didn't react to it. Nothing fell from the ceiling. It did not shake dust to life. There was no dust. Just old, poorly ventilated air.

He squinted into the darkness ahead of him. Something had moved. He stopped and listened.

It was pitch black. He shouldn't have seen anything. He couldn't see his hands, let alone the walls. It wasn't possible that he had seen movement. His sensory starved mind was fabricating a new reality.

He remained still, watching the fluttering of angry darkness ahead. 'Is it that 'thing'?'

Running was an option, but to where? If by some miracle he made it back to the door, it was locked, and a path beyond that was blocked by the game perimeter, assuming it hadn't changed since.

Fingers stroked his hand, seeking the certainty of his presence, making sure it had felt another living being.

He pulled away in surprise, only to have several hands grab onto his arm. They pulled on him, trying to pull him into the wall. They were strong. The overpowering strength of a mob, all unified by one terrifying purpose. He tried to pull free, only to get caught up in the reaching hands of the opposing wall.

With his light dead, he had no default defense against the things that feared the light. There was no way to prove that his imagination had taken over. He pulled his pistol. One of two, not that it would do any good. The G.C. had designed the weapon for the game, not for actual combat situations.

Seth smashed at the hands that held him. Some reacted by letting go, others held tighter. The hands felt human, almost desperate in their grip, so much so that it pained him to hit them with such violence. Like striking at hungry children. There were hands of all shapes and sizes, children and adults alike.

He kept smashing at them until his pistol fell to pieces. He pulled himself free in their moment of shocked submission. Ahead of him, the living darkness charged toward him, like a hound who had caught his scent. There was no way he could outrun it. But he ran anyway.

Hand became arms, pulling at his gear, latching onto his belt and armor as they knotted their fingers into his equipment. He broke their fingers in his desperation for escape, cringing at the snapping of bones. "Let me go!" he cried out, whipping himself about to loosen their hold on him.

They pulled him toward the wall, as stronger aggressive arms encircled his waist. He couldn't break free. He drowned in arms and hands.

The cracks in his reality reappeared as his panic set in.

He was going to die.

He didn't want to die.

Not here.

Not now.

Not like this.

In the light that escaped the cracks, he saw what he was up against. A sea of arms and hands were pushing their way through into his reality, desperately seeking whatever it was he offered. His terror manifested into reality, grabbing at him and refusing to let go.

Powerful hands wrapped around his armored throat. The protective sheet folding under the pressure.

Cracks turned to fissures. His vision blurred as tears ran down his cheeks.

The hands fought each other, slapping at each other. They weren't as unified as he had thought. Some hands pulled at the hands at his throat. Others tried to push him back into the hall. The arms across from him reached for him, calling to him to reach out for their help. Others balled their fists at his assailant. Others, not knowing what else to do, stoked him. In those hands, he felt their fear, their shame. A hand gripped his, giving it a comforting squeeze. He would not die alone.

Fissures burst as his panic reached its peak, flooding the darkness in a brilliant blinding white light. His reality shattered into millions of tiny black shards that scattered across the ground.