High Society: The tales from Victory

REAPER [Part II] (Chapter 23)

The ache in his skull began to stir him into consciousness. Slowly he rose up, sitting on the dark glossy stone. It had a shimmer of obsidian, but the texture was off. Dim light from black stone barely illuminated the cave, worse than dependence on moonlight. He could barely see the words written on the wall 'REAPER'.

He muttered softly, "That's fucking unsettling."

He put his hands on the ground, and pushed himself up. He was used to being beat down, but this time it was by nature. He got to his feet and shivered, noting how cold the area was.

John looked at a glossy stone to see his own face. Bruised and with terribly messed hair. He had a few cuts, but he realized there was no blood due to the flood that swept him away. His face felt numb, but slowly he could feel it once more. Once the numb sensation vanished he realized this was not a dream.

He looked down at the stream of water that trickled by his feet. He patted himself down and didn't notice any of his items or his pokeballs. He looked around and called out, "Ponder? Lacy? Vanessa? Guys? Team? Anybody?"

There was no response, but the echo of his own voice. It hurled into the darkness and bounced back at him, but never to be heard by his friends. The silent reply was the acknowledgment of the knowledge he had just come to find out.

He was alone.

The darkness was of no comfort and only served to suffocate him in his own mind. A blanket of isolation and despair. So he did the only thing he could, he began to laugh. John hollered to himself, grabbing his side, finding this hilarious.

Of course he was alone.

Why wouldn't he?

He was just the orphan.

Just that.

Nothing more.

John felt his face, noticing tears drip down his face. He knew they weren't from whatever soaked him. They were hot to the touch; salty and depressed.

He punched the glossy stone and felt the pain surged through his fist. His laughter devolved into a scream. He roared until he couldn't any more. He looked up and and panted.

John stumbled around on his feet. He slammed against the stone floor and followed the stream, almost instinctively. The path before him was basically sharp and rigid. Leading straight and with a jagged turn ahead.

As he made the turn, he froze. The path was sectioned almost perfectly like roads. The water dividing them by quadrants. Wire seemed to dangle from the walls; at least, that's what it seemed, for all he knew it could've been moss.

Yet what got him were the thick pipes that symmetrically ran down every stone wall in sight. Their angles were sharp and seemed far too organized. It was almost inhumane. He inspected one and reached high to grab a valve he spotted.

He tugged on it with all his might to turn it, but then it broke off. He fell onto his ass and then stared at the valve. As he examined it, while swearing loudly, the valve rusted and collapsed into dust.

He stared at his hands as it occurred. He swore quietly to himself and inspected the rust on his palm. He watched it revert to dust and flutter away with the nonexistent wind. He brushed his palm against his thigh, baffled by his vision, but unsure if it was reality.

He looked around for anything else, chalking that experience to his overactive imagination. He found a crate and opened it. The insides were filled with ash. John looked around with an uneasy feeling.

He took a deep breath and put his hands in the ash. Guilt flooded his systems as he felt something hard mixed within the ash. He removed his hands quickly and collapsed near the stream to wash the ash off his hand. Somehow the ash was far colder than the rushing stream.