Drone

5 Vidder Olsen.

Niklas tried to pull himself to his feet, but his former casual strength betrayed him. He fell back down. His inflamed face bled, bloody stripes raked his back, and his knee throbbed treacherously. He had never wished so badly for sweet unconsciousness' merciful fingers to wrap him in her embrace. He slumped, deadbeat, and finished. His swollen eyes itched from his tears.

I'm a pathetic child, he realized. That only added an internal sting to his wounds.

As bad as he hurt, it paled compared to the sickening reality of his broken mask. The zealots had stolen his valor. A drone's face was his soul; without it, he would be forced to endure Stigki's endless torment Pit when he died. Beyond that, he was a criminal now. A banished outcast.

"Why?" Niklas whispered, his voice coarse and rough. Anger finally seeped through the pain, fear, and solitude. Why had Mother Gyva ignored his plea? Had he not been her faithful servant his whole life? Was she really so offended that he had obeyed her holy daughter? Why did she allow him to be in a position where he was caught between two commandments? The choice to disobey a mother or to look upon and speak to her?

Fueled by his anger, he managed to pull himself to his feet. His world spun, and he almost fell back down, so he leaned against the tree for support.

"Why?" he cried, this time looking at the sky through the hole through the city. He hoped Mother Gyva was listening. "I have always been faithful to you. Will you abandon me now?"

He received no reply. Of course he didn't. Gyva didn't care about him. Nobody did. The Clan hated him as a child, and they hated him now. They used to mock him, telling him that he wasn't a true son of Stigki. Stigki didn't bear Pink skins. Maybe they were right. Maybe the Relrin god was his true creator.

No. Niklas recoiled in horror as the weight of his blasphemous thought fully sunk in

That was a stupid idea. The Relrin God murdered their mothers. He was worse than Stigki himself.

He remembered the priests telling them stories of valorous men who faced life's trials and remained faithful. In the stories, Gyva always rewarded them for their diligence. Niklas had always wanted to be like them.

If God wanted him faceless, he would bear it. He would gladly go if she saw fit to condemn him to pit.

Whether he was faithful or not, the clan had rejected him. He groaned and clung to the tree more tightly.

He was a good drone! They needed him!

Niklas shook his head. Who was he kidding? The only person who would notice his absence was Edgar.

Edgar! Niklas had to try to get back to him.

Looking around, Niklas found a stick, which he converted into a makeshift crutch, and snatched his dirtied jacket.

A wave of pain rippled across his back. Grunting yet again, he pressed on, pushing past the discomfort.

He started heading to one of the nearest lift stations. He quickly calculated which one the zealots would have taken to get back up and started in the opposite direction.

Niklas knew his efforts were futile. He knew what would happen, but he had to try.

The trip shouldn't have taken as long as it did. Limping at an agonizing pace past giant trees through the city's underbelly, Niklas considered the severity of his wounds. He could hardly put any weight on his right knee. One eye had swollen shut, and his back throbbed in hot pain.

Niklas paced himself from tree to tree, taking a break and trying not to collapse when he had a trunk to lean on. He would never take a healthy body for granted. Just the day before, he was sprinting and clearing obstacles. Now, it took everything just to stay upright.