Simma woke up, his vision blurry and his head throbbing. He had been drowning in memories for about two days now. What had caused such a thing to him?
His eyes dilated, and he saw someone sitting beside him. It wasn't any of his friends. It was Zolomon, with a charming smile that didn't suit his personality, dressed in his usual white robes.
Simma looked at him, surprised. What did he want this time? Or was he growing fond of him because, well, he was now doing well—on his way to becoming one of the soldiers that would soon defend the Great City?
"Nurse Stacy said that you are going to be fine, and I made sure that you're out of your memory lane," Zolomon said.
"Thanks for... hang on, how did you know about my memories and stuff?" Simma asked, startled. Who is this man, really? he pondered.
"You see, I noticed you were going to kill that young lad, and I had to mutter some words to make you get away from your anger," Zolomon said. "It's no big deal though. It would have been as if you cheated."
Simma was stunned. Here he was thinking he had done it all by himself—but he hadn't done anything. He thought maybe he should open up to Zolomon, tell him about the extra memories he had been having...
But who would believe such a thing?
"Thanks, I guess," he said as Zolomon nodded.
"I want you to meet someone when you recover—someone that will help you learn how to use your powers, how to unlock your Azrax," Zolomon said. "But don't get him pissed off. You won't like him when he gets mad at you."
Zolomon stood to leave. "Ah, is there anything you wish to tell me?" he asked.
Simma thought of the memories again—the voice he had heard: "BLOOD WILL RAIN"—the memories that were not his own, and what seemed like glimpses of the past.
"No," he replied. It was something ridiculous. Perhaps he was losing his mind... since he had once seen a frog as his Azrax.
"Very well then," Zolomon replied as he left.
******
The night had reached, and the stars stood out in the sky. It was as though the sky was cloudless, bat silhouettes on the sky.
At that hour, the village brothel was at its peak, and the tavern was the loudest place. It was the time mostly for dirty businesses done in the dark.
Gwen sat up on her bed, her mind drifting to and fro. She thought of the final stages of the games. She remembered how she had lost woefully the last time she reached those stages.
Her mind drifted to Simma. He was strong, though she hadn't watched his last game, but he won. He had no idea whatsoever how the game was played, but he was advancing better than she had ever did.
Just then it struck her—she hadn't gone to see him since. Lucy had told her that he was awake, but she had forgotten to pay him a visit.
She got up from her bed, which quickly arranged itself, and she moved over to the right corner of the room. There was her wardrobe. She pulled out her clothes and went into what looked like a cabinet, A privacy alcove.
That was where they wore their clothes for privacy's sake. She put on the red garment she had brought from the wardrobe, and hurrying, she left the room and locked the door behind her.
She passed through the hallway and into a large space that had four different doors. Each had the place it led to, and the one to the left, adjacent to where she was, led to the infirmary.
But as she was about to take the turn, a shadow had fluttered past the other way in quick steps.
Curiously, she followed—her mind telling her to mind her own business and visit her friend in the infirmary—but curiosity said otherwise.
She followed the now echoing footsteps through the passageway and down into the spiral staircase. She thought hard where the stairs led to—and yes, she remembered: it led to the dungeons.
Quietly, and at a distance from the hooded figure she was following, they had now gone through the stairs and down into the dungeons.
There were prisons aligned to both left and right, and the smell there was very uncomforting. The cellars were built with rocks and were way deep under the Citadel. There, grave offenders and those that practiced dark magic were kept.
As Gwen followed, she heard someone's voice."You are late," the voice said. It was smooth and soothing, and Gwen knew the voice so well—it was Zolomon's voice.
"Are you with it?" Zolomon said as the hooded figure nodded. Gwen couldn't believe her eyes—Zolomon? What was he doing? Well, for all she knew, no one was allowed deep under here, and if Zolomon was here, that meant he was up to nothing good.
"I hope you weren't followed," Zolomon asked as the man said yes, his voice deep and croaky. Gwen couldn't mark out his face.
"Then you have to leave. Our business here is done," he said to the man and vanished.
Gwen knew that the way they came in was the only way out, so she hurried off quickly before the man could make her.
She clambered up the spiral staircase as fast and as quietly as she could. She could feel the man's aura near her, and she hurried more quickly, heart beating and fear crouching in.
She reached the end of the stairs and dashed, hid behind one pillar that stood in the passageway as the man walked past. Then, as if he had sensed something, he stopped.
Then he looked back and around, and then his gaze fixed at the pillar. And then, when he saw no one, he strode away quickly.
Gwen breathed out as she came out from where she hid. She had totally forgotten to see Simma once more.
"What are you doing out here, Gwenevier?" came a voice behind her.
"Nothing," she answered quickly, before even letting the question land. "Just wanted—wanted to—eh yeah—to see Simma. I hadn't—" She cleared her throat. "Haven't seen him since he woke."
"Very well then. And stop acting weird, I don't bite," Zolomon said, and walked away, casting a look that kind of said I know what you did and saw, at Gwen.
Gwen hurried back to her room. What she had seen confused her. She trusted Zolomon and wouldn't expect him to be among those that locked in the dark. What was happening?
She thought so loudly that it seemed as if those behind the door of her room could hear her thoughts. "What did the man give to him, and what dirty work was up their sleeve?"
Simma was the last thing on her mind now.
She tried her best to think maybe it was not dirty work. Maybe it was just a mere secret, or maybe he was doing it to help someone anonymously.
Her mind was not at rest, and she didn't think she was ready to start suspecting someone—not now. She had to focus on entering Xenon level. She couldn't wait to see the next upgrade that would occur in her Azrax.
Simma was asleep, but he was no longer on his bed. He was in what looked like a ruined place—houses had collapsed, cars lay wasted, skyscrapers were upside down, and corpses lay littered everywhere.
He walked across lumps of bricks and rocks. Smoke hung in the air, thick and choking, and a deep red moon glowed overhead, casting a grim hue on everything. The sky above was heavy with black, roiling clouds—stormy and unmoving.. The weather was pessimistic.
Beasts lay on the floor, and men, women, and children were lifeless—some were cut in half, and some beheaded. The ground was covered in blood.
He looked back and saw that nowhere was safe. A large truck was still in flames, and the crackling sound of the fire was all that was heard.
He looked at his left hand, and it was covered in blood.
He tried to move his right hand—but felt nothing. A jolt of pain shot through him. He looked down, eyes wide. His right arm was gone. Severed just above the elbow. What remained was a torn bicep, and blood poured freely from it, soaking his side.
There was no one, and nothing moved. To his left, through the haze, stood a small, half-collapsed glass booth. It looked like a phone box—an odd thing to find here.
"Phone," he gasped.
He scampered towards the telephone and wanted to place a call. There was a loud spark, and the telephone burnt.
Just then, he looked at the glass and someone else looked back. He turned immediately, but no one was behind him. He looked at the broken glass again and realized—
No one was behind him. And the refection of him he saw wasn't his face.
It was someone else's face.
He touched it with the remaining hand he had left, and just then—
Just then, the face grinned and said, "BLOOD WILL RAIN."
Simma froze.
A single drop hit his skin.
Then another. And another.
It wasn't water.
It was blood.
A steady stream began to fall from the sky—thick, crimson drops splashing across his face, chest, and legs. It soaked the ground, already drenched with corpses.
"No... no..." he whispered, backing away.
The reflection in the glass laughed.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha..."
Simma crawled backward, panic rising. He only had one arm to drag himself, his breathing ragged.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha..." the laugh grew louder, colder, sharper.
"HA—HA—HA—HA—HA!" It became intense, and Simma kept crawling backwards—heart now throbbing, head spinning, blood splattering all over him, pain searing from his missing right arm—
He woke up with a loud jerk.