The Protector and the Peacemaker

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Eight

(Porter)

The darkness was so thick that it weighed down on Porter like a blanket. He immediately sought out Sarah in the impenetrable blackness and took her hand. This time, no light appeared to save them.

"What's he doing?" she demanded, gripping Porter's hand hard enough to hurt him.

"I- I don't know!" Porter answered, desperately scanning the area, searching for anything that would give him a clue.

They both stood there in each other's arms, not speaking or moving, until a sound in the distance caught their attention.

"Stupid!" a voice was shouting. "Weak! Useless!"

Keeping a tight grip on Sarah, Porter slowly moved towards the sound. A light appeared in the distance, dull and lifeless, not like the one Porter and Sarah had made. The voice got louder.

"You are not my son!" This was followed by the sound of a blow, and someone crying out in pain. "My son wouldn't be so weak!"

"Is that Mortoph?" Sarah asked softly. Porter shook his head. The voice was full of cruelty, but it didn't sound like the Master Slayer's.

They passed into the putrid yellow light, and found themselves in the middle of what looked like the Slayers' training gym. Weights, barbells, and various weapons sat in racks set up along the walls. Rubber mannequins made to look like different species of Mythics stood lined up on the floor, waiting to be cut to pieces. On the far end of the room, Porter saw two people. One of them was very large, and stood over the other one, who lay cowering on the floor.

"How could any son of mine be as weak as this?" the large man demanded as he kicked the person on the floor. With his massive build and long black coat, Porter thought for a moment that he was Mortoph after all, but then he saw the man's hair, which was cut much shorter than the Master Slayer's. His voice, while deep and commanding, wasn't Mortoph's either.

"I'm sorry," the person on the floor pleaded, curling into a fetal position to protect himself from any further blows. From the sound of his voice, he was no older than Porter or Sarah. "Please stop! I'm sorry!"

"Stop?" the man said. Reaching down, he grabbed the young man by the back of his shirt and hauled him upright. He shook the boy like a rag doll, his face livid. "Why should I stop? Are you strong yet? Are you a man?"

The boy whimpered and closed his eyes. The man stopped shaking him, and struck him across the face, knocking him back to the floor again. Towering over him, he began to kick the boy in the stomach. The boy grunted in pain with every blow, and when he coughed, blood spattered on the floor below him.

"What is this?" Sarah whispered, holding Porter even tighter. He could feel her sense of horror, and her disgust at how cruelly the Slayers could treat their own people.

"If you don't become strong, you're going to die," the large man said, kicking him one last time. The boy was flipped onto his back, gasping for air. "You will die! Do you understand what that means? Do you, Drake?"

Porter and Sarah both gasped as the massive Slayer backed away, finally giving them a clear view of the young man's face. It was youthful, pale, and lacking the muscles that framed it in the present day, but Porter couldn't deny that the boy he was looking at now was none other than Drake Mortoph. He barely had time to register this, though, before the scene vanished, leaving him and Sarah in darkness yet again.

"Drake Mortoph?" Sarah echoed in bewilderment. "But how..."

Before she could finish her sentence a new setting appeared in front of them. They were at a funeral now, standing at the back of a large chapel. The pews were filled with solemn faced men wearing black coats, and two familiar faces were standing by the coffin at the front.