Prologue
The Innocent awakened, dripping with sweat and with a gaze of terror upon his face. “What ominous vision is this?” asked the Innocent aloud. It appeared that he had fallen asleep in some twentieth-century classroom which could be no older than a year. There were no signs or posters in the instructional space to proclaim a hint as to what subject he should be learning. No other desks adorned the floor but the Innocent’s own, old and dilapidated, in the center of this strange area. The only other object in entire room was a single chalkboard which lay on the wall, held squarely by two rusted metal screws. The Innocent pondered his settings for hardly a moment before rising slowly out of his chair and hobbling painfully toward the board. Blood from his left leg dripped and splashed on the floor like water from an underground stalagmite. As he walked he could feel the hole into which the 9mm bullet had become embedded. The youth, puzzled by his leg injury and his surroundings, was gripped with a sudden idea as to his escape route. A broken stick of chalk lay next to the board with a small piece of unscathed parchment beside it. The boy could not read the cryptic symbols, so he reached for the chalk instead.
As his hand touched the chalk, he felt a small current moving swiftly through his arm. Instead of pain, the current felt like knowledge. It was like knowing exactly what he was put in this room to do. Charged by the current, the Innocent began scribbling furiously on the board. The youth’s mind was simultaneously flooded with excitement and fear as his hand stopped writing. He took a painful step back, still favoring that damaged leg, and read the curious message, “10,9,8,7,6,5,4 3 2,1”. During his reading he noticed a slight shimmer on the wall that could have been created by heat waves or decaying sanity. Then, as if by some otherworldly command, a jail cell door of iron bars appeared. The boy looked at the door but could not perceive what lay beyond it, despite the gaps between the bars. He reached out a tentative hand and touched the cold steel. Another current ran through his body, but this time the current of knowledge was laced with anxiety. The Innocent recoiled back and reached into the side pocket of his blood-stained blue jeans. To his surprise, this intuitive reach yielded a small key with a bloodied hammer emblem engraved on the top. He examined the keyhole on the door and suspected a perfect fit. He was correct. The key slid in easily and the door swung open with an audible click.
The iron came to rest against the sterile wall with a disturbing CLANG! The Innocent’s eyes began to adjust to the pitch blackness which filled his field of vision. He could just barely make out a cobbled, descending staircase which seemed to be both timeless and endless. The youth debated taking the first step and tried to imagine what was at the bottom. He tentatively stepped into the disorienting darkness and used his feet to feel the steps. His hands gave him a general layout of the hall. It was about three feet wide and seven across. As he slowly descended, he wondered if this endless, dark passage led to freedom. His hopes of freedom were quickly overcome by fear of what lay at the exit. The boy began imagining Inquisition-style torture chambers and pits of venomous snakes. Lost in his thoughts, he nearly ran into the door which marked the end of this endless hallway. The door was identical to the previous one, except for the unnerving red drops leaking from the keyhole. The youth put the key into the door and again, a loud click and louder clang announced his arrival.
The bright light from the next room assaulted the Innocent’s senses as his eyes struggled to adjust. When they did, the boy took his first step into an oddly familiar room. In fact, the youth had entered into what seemed like a highly aged version of the room he had awakened in. The sterile paint had all but chipped away, leaving the room looking especially haggard. The floor was plagued by a multitude of cracks, varying in size from hairline fractures to a wide fissure near the center of the room. The mysterious blackboard had eroded and spilt in three places, forming a mosaic of dread and regret. The most familiar part of the room, however, was the single desk, still standing in the center of the room. It showed no signs of further decay or age whatsoever. In the desk sat a disturbingly recognizable youth with shoulder-length hair as dark as the depths of the sea and eyes that burned with the fires of Hell. He also had a deep bullet wound in his left leg. The two youth’s eyes met and the tension became like an electrical storm. The dark-haired boy stood up from his chair and spoke with a voice like a fox’s, “Hello Innocent. They call me Vengeful.” Out of nowhere, he pulled out an M9 pistol and shot the Innocent squarely in the chest. Blood spurted out from his midsection and he fell to the ground with a pathetic whimper. Both his leg and chest bled profusely now. As the blood left the Innocent, the dark-haired boy’s leg began to heal. His wound closed as the Innocent’s wounds opened.
With a satisfied grin, the Vengeful knelt beside the other youth and plucked the key out of his fingers. Then he said joyfully, as if to a friend, “Thanks for the key… And welcome home.” With the key in one hand, the gun in the other, and a gaze that could have frozen Venus, he opened the cell door, sauntered out and locked the Innocent in behind him.
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