Specter: Project Archangel

Chapter 1 | The Nightmare

Blake was running again. His boots pounded the cold, cracked earth beneath him, every step echoing into the endless void that stretched seemingly endlessly. The horizon was a smear of gray, neither sky nor ground clearly defined, only a vast, featureless wasteland. Soon, the entire area was filled with thick smoke that pinched the eyes and hindered movement like water. Blake didn't know why or where he was going, but internally, he felt that if he didn't get there as soon as possible, if he got there too late, something very bad would happen. The hum in his ears increased as he traveled, merging with the screams of pain. He sped up.

Ahead of him, a figure emerged from the fog. Familiar. Lieutenant O'Malley, his old commander, walked with his back turned, just as he had on the last day.

"Lieutenant!" Blake called with a hoarse voice, but O'Malley didn't turn. He never did.

Blake reached for him, but as soon as he touched commander's shoulder, the body collapsed like a pile of ash, scattering into the wind. Blake stared at his empty hands, at the dust slipping through his fingers.

The smoke parted briefly, and suddenly, the ground around him was littered with bodies. Bodies of the men he had served with. Faces he knew. Eyes he'd seen staring back at him from across trenches, over campfires, in brief moments of shared silence. He forced himself not to look at the dismembered body parts, slit throats, torn flesh, bullet wounds. His legs moved of their own accord, carrying him through the carnage until he found himself kneeling beside a familiar figure.

The man sat slumped against a tree—how was there a tree?—his head was tilted downward.

Rodriguez slowly, painfully, lifted his head. His face was pale, drained of life, but it was his eyes that struck Blake like a physical blow—dead. Empty. Lifeless. The same dull gray as the wasteland surrounding them. His lips parted and he whispered something Blake didn't want to hear.

"Get out of here."

No. He couldn't leave them. Not this time.

"Go."

The word repeated, louder this time, drowning out everything else.

"GO!"

Blake jolted back, but something cold pressed against the back of his skull. Metal. The unmistakable chill of a gun's barrel.

Click.

Blake's eyes snapped open with a gasp. His hand instinctively went for the knife beneath the pillow, fingers closing around the familiar hilt before his mind registered where he was. He could still smell the cordite and the churned earth, hear the scream and pleas for mercy before the ringing in his ears swallowed it all in a muffled cacophony. He'd thought he was numb to it by now after so much loss. But the visions and regrets still crept back. With an anguished groan, he shoved his legs off the bunk and slowly sat up.

The room was quiet, except for the low, steady hum of the air conditioner. The first rays of daylight penetrated through a single window, illuminating the interior; it was as bare and utilitarian as they came—just the essentials. A narrow bed pushed against the far wall, a single wardrobe, a desk cluttered with mission reports and a half-empty pack of cigarettes, all surrounded by blank concrete walls.

Making his way towards the bathroom, Blake cupped his hands under the faucet, splashing ice-cold water on the face. The shock helped ground him to reality which wasn't that much colorful either. And more often than not, he wondered if it wouldn't be better if he was the one who...  

He gripped the edges of the sink, finally raising his gaze to confront his reflection, seeing the man who looked back at him — tired, worn, devoid of anything. Even his tanned skin managed to look somewhat pale and sick. His gaze fixed on the angry scar that ran from his left eyebrow to the left cheekbone. The eye itself was milky white, unseeing and lifeless. In that moment, it looked eerily similar to Rodriguez's dead stare from the nightmare.