First Hour
There was blood on my hands.
How odd, the thought rolled through my mind, but I can't tell if it is mine.
It was still warm, and wet. It coated my hands, making them slick. I felt the oddest sensation as the blood dripped off of my fingertips. Was this blood mine? Did it belong to somebody else? I considered this, disturbingly calm, but confused. It felt like there was a thick fog in my mind, creating a disgusting haze that laid over everything. My thoughts rolled about in a sluggish mess, and my emotions took too long to form -- it felt as though they were caught in muck. A frown pulled at my lips. My body should not be acting like this. At the moment, I was grateful, for I could feel the rabid fear and horror that lurked just beyond the haze.
If I discovered the source of the blood, would the haze lift?
Hesitantly, I lifted my gaze from my bloody hands. The cause for the stain on my skin must have been close. The blood was still warm. Very warm. Blackness covered the room around me, disguising whatever it may have held. Still wrapped in my eerie calm, I lowered my hands to my sides and stood, straight and tall. Whatever was in the room, I would most certainly handle. My patience stretched as the moments ticked by.
A light flickered on somewhere, coming alive with an electric twang.
What I saw made the haze in my mind blow away; and the horror that I'd felt flooded into me. Shock boiled through my veins, replacing blood with ice. Fear caught in my stomach, twisting and cramping it into sharp knots. Bile rose in my mouth, and for a moment, hysteria broke through the shock. It might have sounded insane, but I actually felt like laughing. Choked sounds escaped from me as I took a faltering step backwards -- they sounded like little chuckles. When I felt my foot come down on some part of a human body, the sounds died in my throat. The need to be sick replaced them. Now I gagged, swallowing and breathing in deeply, trying to calm down.
What surrounded me was carnage. It was horror incarnate.
Blood coated everything like a second layer of paint. Bodies lay scattered, twisted at unnatural angles -- some of them missing parts. Weapons, ranging from guns to knives, were scattered about. . . Some of them were embedded in the people. Inwardly, I wondered just who was capable of doing such. . . Terrible things.
A moment later, I knew the blood on my hands was not my own.
I couldn't help the retching then, as I doubled over on myself and hugged my stomach. Painful heaves racked my body, and my eyes watered. Clearly I hadn't eaten much, as barely anything was expelled. After I was sure that my body was done, I carelessly wiped my mouth with the back of a shaking had. Instantly I froze, realizing just what I had done. I remained like that, frozen, as I tasted the heavy uniqueness of copper on my tongue. Letting out a sharp squeak, I used my forearm and scrubbed at my mouth, rubbing so hard that it became painful.
I am not capable of killing anyone.
(Oh, but you're capable of so much more. . . )
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to calm myself down. No. I was not capable of killing anybody. I stared down at the ground, looking at my feet, grateful for the small patch of blood-free floor I stood upon. My hands remained clenched at my sides, and my cheek was beginning to ache inside of my mouth.
The electrical buzzing sounded once more overhead, flickering. Apparently it had been damaged in the fight that had occurred. Closing my eyes, I breathed in through my mouth, unwilling to subject myself to the stench of death and blood that lingered. The first logical thing to do would be to get out of the room. . . A room littered with blood, corpses, and weaponry. The light flickered on once more, and I surveyed the room quickly.
There. The door.
(There's no reason to run. It's who you are.)
The door couldn't have been more than thirty feet away from where I was currently standing. It was open, and light spilled from it readily, beckoning me to the hallway that surely lay beyond. The only problem? I would have to pick my way across the body-strewn room to get there.
The notion of it nearly made me sick again. Since biting my cheek seemed to help me deal with naseua the first time, I did so again. There was no way around this. Either work my way to the door, I stand there, forever in the presence of dead bodies. The former seemed far more appealing than the latter. Closing my eyes, I mentally steeled myself, gathering together what shreds of courage I had left.
Slowly, I took a step forward.
You can do this. A few steps, and you'll be out of here.
(You will never escape what you are.)
Choking back the sickness that threatened to overwhelm me, I bit my cheek harder, increasing the pressure. Gingerly, I made my way over the floor, using the pain in my cheek to help distract myself from the sick sights around me. It did a good job -- but it couldn't block out the smell. A thick, coppery, cloying scent laid over the air, wrapping around me and making my head spin. It was the stench of death, blood, fear, and war. I did not need any other person to tell me that.
Focusing only on the door, I edged closer to it, fighting my way over to salvation. Nearly losing my balance, I finally placed the back of my hand over my mouth (no blood on it, as I checked quickly) to help filter out the smell, but it did little good. There was so much blood everywhere. . . This room would smell like this for years. . .
(Revel in the red. It is what birthed you.)
Let me find a way out, I prayed silently.
Something shot out and wrapped around my ankle, holding me in an iron grip. My heart stuttered in my chest, and it startled me so badly that I did lose my balance -- and as I fell, I landed directly on another body. A startled scream rose in my chest and began to bubble out of my throat, but. . . The sound didn't come out. Nothing but a breathy whisper emerged, and shock rolled through me once more. What was wrong with me? Had something happened to my throat? Why couldn't I scream? These questions swirled through my head, distracting me from what had just happened. A raspy breath caught my attention in the next second, and I stared down at my ankle, discovering it to be a hand. I traced the limb back to the body of a man, whom was currently glaring at me, blood dripping down his face. He had a gun clutched tightly in his other hand, although it hardly looked like he had the strength to pull the trigger.
(Ah. . . So beautiful. So breathtaking.)
I flinched away from him as he raised the gun, training it on me. His hand shook so bad that the gun couldn't stay locked on me for very long. Instincts inside of me told me to run, to get away, but fear kept me frozen. All I could do was wonder stupidly why he was trying to kill me. I hadn't done anything to him. I'd woken up here with blood on my hands. I stared at him, watched his lips move, but there was blood roaring in my ears. My heart was racing at a million miles an hour, and the drumming downed out his words. I wrenched my eyes shut, muscles tensing, waiting for the bullet that was sure to penetrate my skull and kill me. I'm not certain, although I think I tried to whimper with my non-functioning throat.
His let out a small cry and a pained gurgle, before he managed to groan. I heard the gun clatter uselessly to the floor, but there was no eardrum-shattering bang, no intense pain in my skull. My entire body shook, and I felt like a leaf in a storm. I heard something moving, and curiosity began to rage in me. Why wasn't I dead yet? I was waiting for the end. . . Was he waiting for me to open my eyes? I did so, but slowly, unsure of the scene before me.
Instantly I wished that I hadn't.
(You cannot shy away from the truth. It's impossible.)
There was a man standing over me, garbed in the strangest armor I'd ever seen. In the blinking vision of the light, I could barely see him. I could make out a blade, strapped to his arm, now tinged with red. My gaze travelled to his face, and fear boiled inside of me once more. The man before me had red eyes. The gaze befitting of a demon. He wore a mask stained with blood. He had done this! He had murdered all of these people! I was going to be next. I knew this.
The demon wearing a man's skin stared at me, red eyes gazing at me. I stared back up, too terrified to move and run for the door. Any second, that blade was going to pierce me. It took me a moment, but I realized that concern was shining through those red eyes. He shifted, turning to face me, and the knife strapped to his wrist sank into an invisible sheath. He was absolutely silent, not a sound coming from him. Fluidly, he came to crouch in front of me. Fearing an attack, I tried to back away from the demon, but there was nowhere to go.
Besides, I was sitting on the corpse of a man. I didn't have much choice.
He stretched out his hand towards me, the skin there covered by a fingerless, black glove. Out of instinct, I raised a hand to shield myself, thinking he was trying to hit me. Amidst the carnage, my reaction wouldn't seem too out of place.
(Yet you fear those you hold dear to you?)
"Don't touch me! Don't get close to me!" I tried to say, but nothing came out. My throat made no sound. In a way, it was as if something thick was stuck in my throat. Not a single word would leave me.
I wrenched my eyes shut, just so I wouldn't have to see the blow coming. The pain would hit me, yes, but surely it wouldn't have to hurt as badly if I watched. . .
The demon's hand touched me, gently coming to a rest on my cheek. Curiosity made me open my eyes, made me wonder why the blow had not come yet.
The bloody eyes that stared at me, cold and killer-eqsue, openly displayed some kind of concern. Affection. Silence radiated from him in waves, but there was no malice there. His hand moved slowly, skirting up over my cheek and onto my ear. I felt his fingers brush over something I hadn't noticed -- a small metal device. It was clipped onto my ear like a little headset, although I couldn't figure out why. How could I not have noticed it earlier? I peered up at the demon, questioning.
(Soon you'll remember. Of that I may promise you.)
He seemed to be asking me questions too, although I couldn't decipher what he wanted. The fear I'd been harboring towards him eased, and somehow, I knew that he was not there to harm me. Something akin to a sigh escaped from him, and the hand that had been on my cheek feel to my arm. In a graceful movement, he pulled me up to my feet alongside him, wrapping one arm around my waist in a secure hold. It flustered me, and I struggled against him, not liking this at all. He'd just invaded my personal space, and now he was wanting me to cling to him? I could walk. Really.
Even though my shaking legs told me otherwise, I knew I could do it.
When he started to walk, I frowned. He was forcing me to cling to him -- almost as if he knew I wanted to walk on my own. Giving up after a few steps, I reluctantly allowed myself to be half-dragged out of the room. In a way, I was grateful towards the demon man. He had gotten me to the sanctuary of the hallway much quicker than I could have done myself. We stepped out into the brightly lit and clean hallway, and only then did he release me.
I went from clinging the demon to clinging to the wall, thankful for the support it leant me. My body was beginning to grow sore and tired, exhausted and fatigue running rampant in my muscles. Odd, how I hadn't noticed that before. I wondered how it had come to be -- but then the question got swept away in the tides of others that were running around inside of my head. They buzzed there, annoying me, as I had no answers. I didn't know how I got there. I didn't know who he was.
I didn't know anything.
Glancing up at the demon, I found him staring back at me, red eyes concentrated on my face. I looked away, unable to stand the sight of those strange red eyes. Surely I should still fear him, as he had murdered a man right in front of me. I just. . . Couldn't bring myself to feel any fear. Not when he was involved. It was very odd, seeing as the moment I'd opened my eyes, I had been swept away into mind-numbing terror, and when he was close, it just seemed to be. . . Melting away. It was almost as if a close proximity to him soothed me. Why? I didn't know the demon. . .
Something tickled in the back of my mind, but I brushed it aside wearily. I had no desire to deal with any of this. I didn't want to go rooting around inside of my head, trying to find out answers to the questions -- I didn't know what I would uncover. Surely it would be horrible.
(That's right. Rest your mind for now, cracked and broken as it is.)
The demon moved around me, and stood before me once more. I looked up at him, finding the sight of those red eyes wholly unnerving.
"What do you want?" I asked, but nothing came out. My lips moved, yes, but no sound emerged. Frustration rose inside of me -- how could I have forgotten? One would think that after a failed attempt at screaming, I would remember something like that.
"Zero, what's wrong with you?" He spoke, ending the silent treatment I'd gotten from him. His voice was deep, scratchy -- like he was unused to speaking.
Actually hearing someone talk sent a pang of relief through me. Good. I wasn't deaf. That still left the question as to why the hell I couldn't speak. I didn't bother opening my mouth again, as it would be stupid to try and talk again. What was with this name? Zero? My name wasn't Zero, it was. . . Oh. Oh.
A different kind of fear washed through me.
I don't know my name.
(Let them name you as they please. Only I know your true name.)
"Did you get hurt? Zero, stop acting like this." His tone reprimanded me, and inwardly I felt anger building towards him.
I wasn't acting like anything. I couldn't very well reply to him. He stopped, satisfied that I was uninjured (which was good by my book), and returned to staring me straight in the eyes. I stared right back, feeling a little undignified. It wasn't as if I was purposefully doing anything. I was exhausted, had just walked through hell, and had thrown up. That should have been enough to warrant some downtime, right? No, as apparently he had other plans in mind.
"Come on, Zero, talk to me." His voice sharpened slightly, bordering on a command. I glared at him, emotions twisting together.
"Obviously, I can't, as I have no voice." I snapped back -- or. . . Intended to. Anger had gotten the better of me. I'd forgotten, again.
"I know you don't." He replied back smoothly, and I stared at him, in shock once more. My poor heart. At this rate, it was going to give out on me or something.
"You can read my lips?" I mouthed, with no intention of forcing my voice out. He stared at me, confused, bloody eyes shrouded in it.
"Zero, you know I can do that. What's wrong with you? Did you get hit?"
His hand swept over my head, fingers searching my scalp for any kind of injury. I lifted my hand and batted his arm away (some part of my mind cringed and expected retaliation), and he stared at me once more, gaze conflicted with a manner of things. He slowly stood, took a step back, giving me some room to breathe.
"Tell me what happened." He said slowly, and I blinked at him.
"I don't know. I don't anything that happened." It was the truth. The horror of not being able to remember my name was not all that shocking -- but now that I thought about it, I didn't remember anything. How I'd gotten there, my name, or anything else. It was all an empty, blank slate. Irrational fear tried to grip me once more, but I refused. I wasn't going to fall prey to that again.
He fell silent, and a growing anxiety began to bloom inside of me. Why was he looking at me like that? I couldn't even begin to tell what he was thinking -- I must have been as easy to read as a book -- as everything he thought was locked behind those bloody red eyes. A tense moment of silence passed, and finally, he spoke.
"Tell me who you are."
"I don't know who I am. . . I don't know. . . " I felt like I was being crushed under weights as I lipped the words. It was true. . . But it left me feeling so, so lost. Lost, alone, afraid. . .
(You will never be alone, for you are always under my wing.)
The demon looked as though I'd slapped him across the face. His expression dropped, and as I watched, his eyes revealed a startling vulnerability. It was there for all but a millisecond, and then it was gone once more, replaced with that mask of murder I had come to stare at. e eyes concentrated on me, searching my face -- probably trying to see if I was lying.
". . . Your name is Zero," He began slowly, hesitating, eyes uncertain, ". . . And you're like me. . ."
"What are you?" I could not stop the question on my lips. It rolled off before I could stop it. I wanted to know. It was ripping me apart on the inside. I wanted to know what he was -- what I was. The look in his eyes told me that I was not going to like the answer at all. Seeing as he knew me, and he was a murderer, I figured it wouldn't be all that great anyway.
"You're a weapon. An assassin. It's what we do."
(Never forget who you are.)
