Chapter Text
I'll color this later!
-x-
It's quiet around here.
No amount of listening to music in your headphones could solve it. No amount of calling your friends or siblings does either. You aren't even sure why you stayed in this house after everyone either left or died.
It used to be filled with faces. Your mother and father, siblings, maids, that one uncle. But now it's deserted after your father's death, rocking the grounds just before anyone healed from your mother's. Her death, at least, was peaceful—she died in her sleep. Around eight months later, perhaps the sadness still too heavy to shoulder, your father died too.
His savings, alongside your mother's, had been handed to you and your siblings, cut evenly and everyone took it with eyes never leaving the ground—it felt almost shameful to take such hard work from such a hardworking man after he fell, not to mention the work your mother had before, and now all of it rested in the hands of yours and your siblings'.
Being the youngest, they agreed that you'd make use of the house. They were already older than to just stay in their parents' house, even after they died. Your eldest brother, who had taken the position of the job your father once had, had paid the maids and ushered them out, no more people living in such a large house to be taken care of.
And, one by one, you watched them leave. You weren't against the idea of staying alone in the house you have lived in all your life, you've always taken comfort in staying in solitude, but now it felt empty—far too empty—in the way it made you hear your own echo.
Perhaps it was the size of it, intimidating at night with long hallways and empty rooms—the noise of your steps would pounce back when you walk in front of said spaces, pronouncing out how once they were full of furniture and now they barely had beds and closets. It wasn't like your siblings had taken everything. They had the money to buy new things after all, but personal things still stuck deep, and they all took what made them remember this place—remember the closely knitted family and what it once was.
At least they called from time to time, asking how things were.
They were fine, of course. You had joked and sent a picture to them of a selfie of the dark hallway, typing with it that you aren't alone, that ghost is keeping you and the kitchen company! (It was a joke, of course, but your elder brother had visited you not long after just to make sure the house had not actually gotten haunted with them not around.)
It hasn't. Unfortunately. Your mind itched to do something other than stay on your phone or books most of the time. Your friends would call you to hangout, and that would calm the buzzing in your mind, not to mention that it was a perfect chance to show some well-deserved love to them.
One of the things you were known for is your never-ending care, and having good savings had proved to be a use when it came to cheering your loved ones up. You weren't doing it for show; as a way to scream that you had quite the money, no, not as a lot have claimed. It makes you happy to make the people you care about happy, and what better way than to buy them stuff if you couldn't stay with them for long enough (in your eyes)? When you can't hold their hand or embrace them or run over someone for them?
Like gift-giving, but more approached, you think.
They don't mind—they had shown no disapproval regarding the treatment. You knew they were good friends when they argue that they will pay this time. You were not oblivious nor naive, you would know if they were just using you for the money. A sixth sense, perhaps? You believe you've gotten it from your mother.
It had been quite the while since you last spoke in-person to the friends you have. You hope they are having a better and less boring of a day than you.
Because, now, two years after your father's death, you lay on the couch, restless as ever in a house that seemed to taunt you with its huge structure.
Reading a book won't do it. Watching a movie won't either. It wasn't enough.
So, you think. You think quite a lot about small things that do not matter, not even to you.
Ah, had your approach to that person been off-putting? The one you helped after they broke their wrist, having fell off their bike.
Did that old lady like you? She has memory problems, so you believe her confusion and surprise when you greet her is justifiable.
Would a kid become a brat if spoiled too much? Your lips thin when you remember your niece. She was a sweet child, you just couldn't help but get her the world if possible.
You hope your approach to people hasn't been weird, especially those who hadn't yet grown familiar with you. Does it make them uncomfortable? Would they voice it if it did? You knew quite the people who wouldn't speak up if something was making them feel that way, so you keep an eye out.
(Distantly, you ignore the funny names your friends and siblings call you when it came to your behavior. Inappropriate, but spoken with clear intentions. It made you laugh nonetheless.)
You sigh, sitting up. That just won't do...
You do have a fair share of your father's company, giving you a steady amount of money every month, but you don't fully work there, and that had started to make you feel restless.
You think about exploring an online shop, see what they have and maybe buy some nicknacks that really don't have much use—it had started to become something you would do, sometimes, if just to have something to wait for in the meantime, but now it didn't have any appeal—you don't think it had any after the third time. A useless hobby it was? Yes, definitely. But doing any of your actual hobbies had started to make it feel like tattering at the edge of burnout.
You should know better than to overwork yourself using your own hobbies.
Anything else on the waiting list of burning? You have called your siblings, texted friends, listened to some music, watched TV (though you did not like it much), read a few books, and finished all the work you had.
Maybe...
Taking hold of your phone, you immediately sit it aside not even a moment after grabbing the device of doom. You think you might actually burn if you stay on it anymore than you already had.
"Fuck." Standing up as if you'd been in the army in mock to your own restlessness, you speed walk to the door, taking your keys off the counter and snagging a coat over yourself. It'll be freezing outside by now, the season nearing winter. Getting in your comfy shoes, you close the door behind you and skip to your car as if it was your getaway from flames.
Another thing to do: drive around the city. Does it suck all the fuel you have? It sure does. Does it bring coldness over your burning hands? As much as it could.
So, with no real destination in head other than the usual route you take, you wake the car with a twist of your keys and pull out the driveway. It was only around five but it's already cold, and since you're planning to eat out, you're glad you'd gotten a heavy coat to shield you from the wind.
The car heater does its job just fine, not letting your knuckles freeze like they definitely would when you get outside.
Life outside is... wild.
Before you were even born, so many decades ago, planet Earth was deemed approachable by other aliens, and bit by bit Humans began to travel space. It was messy. Other aliens claimed that Humans were dangerous—they aren't wrong. Humans were greedy and selfish. Planet Earth is sectioned into cities, not for the sake of naming locations, but for the sake of claiming what they believe is theirs. They hate each other. They're racist and cruel. They're also stubborn and willing to fight everything for the sake of living even when they do not deserve it.
Aliens aren't wrong when they say such things despite it not always being true. While a majority is as they claim, a few Humans are also kind.
That won't get to the other specimens. They believed wholeheartedly that Humans could be ranked as dangerous to everything despite their considerably weaker bodies, and you do not think their minds will change anytime soon.
Still, it gave Humans a raise to not be messed with. Now, planet Earth stands as the most dangerous but also the safest planet in the thirty systems. Aliens live here all the same, mostly scientists or aliens who lost their homes, they are free to do as they please, as Humans have realized they cannot stay behind on such technology that was offered just because of fear of the unknown.
They live individually and are treated equally, if you weren't to mention the handful of racist people.
Others... were taken as slaves.
At first, it was seen by other aliens. Those who take other specimens as pets. Then, it spread to Humans like a plague. The wealthy people would have their own slaves for whatever reason there is. The more docile the better.
It disgusted you, but you really can't do anything about it no matter how much your ire would rear its ugly head inside your chest—when it felt like you would overheat like some sort of old laptop—nor when you have to hold your tongue hearing just the mention of the current society.
You were rich, yes, but you can't buy the freedom of everyone even when the delusional thought crosses your mind at night.
What a world that reeked. It felt as if time was repeating itself. Do they not learn? Do they have to take everyone with them when they fall?
Poor fools. One day their abuse will come to bite them in the ass, and you pray to be there to watch it unfold.
You shake your head lightly, looking up at the ships in the sky. This was the norm now, the norm that will set everything on fire in no time.
Let the fools burn.
Along the way, you buy your favorite drink, sipping it, and letting the familiar taste wash over you. It would do little to wash the anger and bitterness whenever such thoughts cloud your mind.
You try not to grip the cup in hand too tightly. It isn't doing much to clear your head.
The subject is too scornful to think of it when you are driving.
It's starting to get dark outside, the sun set in the horizon over the bridge could be seen, its light casting a glow over your windshield, almost blocking the view as a car ahead suddenly stopped—
You jerk your foot over the brakes, getting the car to a screeching halt. Your drink falls over your legs and smears your clothes, the cup rolling somewhere you didn't bother to check.
"What the fuck." The words leave your lips breathlessly as you peek out at the car ahead. There wasn't anyone else besides you two, so there can't be any traffic. Why the hell had they stopped? Is there an animal on the road? You knew this area didn't have many people, so a lot of dogs took it as theirs. You think for the river under the bridge where they could drink and take shelter.
There's a man outside, hands holding a bag as he dragged the thing over the railing. Oh, God, more people who throw their garbage here? Was it really worth the long drive? What, does he have some illegal shit in there? You huff a sneer out, almost pulling the car on drive again if the sack hadn't caught your eyes.
It's moving.
Aah. So you have animal abusers here, too, huh? Dickheads who need to learn to have a heart and spare some mercy. Boiling anger roars its ugly head in your chest and you find yourself getting out of the car—just being outside makes you angry at times, the view of living beings treated worse than dirt would make you tremble with rage. You have already been quite pissed the whole ride here, the thoughts of how cruel people can be filling your mind—and, here this bastard is, proving those aliens right.
Mom raised you well, and so did dad. You're not leaving this barbaric man to abandon whatever soul is in there.
Though, as the sounds get unmuted when you exit the car, you felt your boiling blood suddenly run cold, freezing you on the spot. Someone is screaming, crying out desperately in hoarse tones and choked sobs. You didn't need to look around to confirm it was coming from the sack—you couldn't look around, not with the man suddenly locking eyes with you.
Despite his dirty clothes, his car screamed that he was wealthy. And suddenly, you are moving again. "HEY!" You yell out, watching the man scramble closer and closer over the edge. You think it was happening too fast, or maybe too slow, but your mind and body scream for you to hit him—stop him from whatever he is doing.
You were looking for a reason to break someone's face lately.
You are burning, but with a different kind of fire.
It made your mind go blank and it only locked on target. The satisfaction of seeing him sweat in anticipation wasn't enough, you needed to hit him.
Your steps were firm and steady, teeth gritted and eyes looking him down. Because, of course, who's standing in front of you could only be a killer. If he has the heart to throw that sack in the river then it is murder.
And killers are always murdered. The police wouldn't mind you hitting him just a little, would they?
You'd say you don't curse a lot. But that's a lie, and you hate lying. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" You question, still approaching—you were trying to gain some time, to distract him to get closer. The sharp edge in your tone loud and clear, ordering the man to stop.
And stop he did not do.
"The fuck ye are?!" He yelled back, gathering his composure after the shock of being seen subsided.
Oh, heaven, he has the dignity to talk back and curse? You don't answer, your steps pickup pace just as the man does, using all his power to haul the kicking sack closer over the edge.
Have people lost their minds? Was he really fighting you off so hard so he could kill whoever was trapped in that bag? You knew some people were heartless, especially with the outsiders; like the collared around the city, but this was insane.
"STOP." You order, willing your tone to not sound desperate. You were still a good distance away, you knew you wouldn't make it if you run, that will only make him dispose of the sack faster. You have to stop him, if just long enough to be close.
The man snaps his jaws like a mad animal, spit visible in the yellowish light dusk was offering. "That ain't yer business, kid!"
You're baffled, you'd say. Why is he so adamant? Why does he act as if what he's doing is right? Perhaps you're actually standing in front of a madman.
Your taser is on the ready if push came to shove.
"I said stop." You hiss.
Deep inside, you realize how close the person in that bag is to death. You are their hope. The thought makes you feel too many unpleasant worries.
He isn't stopping. No guilt shows on his face as he hauls the sack over the edge, making the poor soul in there yelp, cutting through the cries that stung over your heart. The pit in your stomach twisted and you found your body going on overdrive. You ran over, almost stumbling over the cement.
Who is he to take someone else's life? To snuff away their soul and leave their body rotting.
The man snaps his head towards you, maybe surprised or shocked by the sudden move, but you pay him no mind. You had to catch the bag! A fall like this into the waters is a killer if no one reached them in time—
The sun finally sets over, taking away all the shine it casted as darkness made every shadow stands out.
You see him let go. You see him push the sack over. Icy water seemed to splash over your heated nerves as your chest comes crashing over the stony edge, hand outstretched as if to catch something.
You caught nothing.
"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!" You repeat as if it were a prayer to save the fallen soul, alarmed and angry and desperate. Your eyes landed on the man, his eyes as cold and devoured of any emotions just like his soul. Though, he does spare a wide-eyed, surprised expression your way.
It's sickening. You feel your breakfast make its way toward your throat, but you hold it down.
Before you knew it, your fist came crashing into his face, sending the man over his back with a cry of pain. The pain that shot on your knuckles is ignored as you watch him stand up, hands unhooking a device from his belt.
A taser.
But oh, it wasn't just any taser. You recognized the logo, who wouldn't. This was the taser they use against the collared. And he was going to use it on you? Was he insane?—No, he is insane.
That taser would fry your nerves if it was set on a high voltage—if it was used on a collared being that has a higher pain-tolerance and is way bigger than a mere Human—and you aren't even exaggerating! You'd either die or become straight out paralyzed! You've heard that they don't work on anyone who isn't holding a collar, but who knows how true that statement is.
So he wasn't keen on going home with only one kill?
Your eyes avert from his, trailing over the river. If you could make it...
Snapping back, you quickly run to your car. The man is way bigger than you—heck, he looks like he never leaves his couch with how he reeks—so it would be hard to face him on. It doesn't mean you can't take him down with a strategy, but it might put you in danger of getting badly hurt. While your father didn't raise a coward, your mother made sure that all of her kids knew how to defend themselves.
She had made sure you wouldn't act on something that is stupid, and you are not adamant enough to break that streak now.
Now you didn't have time to fight a gross man, not with the risk of someone else's life.
The man, which you dubbed as dickhead, screamed curses your way, spit flying all the same from his mouth.
Agh.
You heavily ignore it, putting your car on drive and speeding to reach the underside of the bridge. It wasn't far, but by the movements of the water, you'd say the bag had already drifted away.
Unless he put something heavy with it.
The thought makes your blood run cold. Your hands tighten around the steering wheel.
The tires hit dirt and you stumble out the door, getting your taser out, which had a flashlight attached to it. The bag has to be here somewhere! The water is somewhat clear despite the darkness, but it was harder than ever to search such open waters like this.
You hear a car somewhere above the river. Ah, the fucker is moving. Would he run away? Would he come and search? For you or for the bag? Maybe make sure it actually drowned...
Your dash cam had caught everything, at least. He wouldn't be able to run from the law.
The night felt like it grew colder, chilling your shaky hands. Your eyes trail from the bridge and try to calculate where the bag would be by now.
"Fuck." You run to your car again, put the taser away, and turn the fog headlights on. It illuminates the river in yellowish light as you strip from your coat.
Everything was happening far too fast. The life of someone else sits heavily in your own hands.
And before you knew it, you dove into the cold waters.
It wasn't that deep, not as much as it seems to look, but people could drown if they knew nothing about swimming. And while you aren't the best at that, you knew enough to not drown yourself. The waters aren't salty, not a lot of fish could be seen, and as the rocks from the bottom come into view, you start looking around with squinted eyes.
By now you aren't sure anyone could survive lack of oxygen this long, especially with how panic can make you breathless, but your mind is too clouded to let this thought sink in. It was too frightening, even if you didn't know who the victim is. You were the only person who saw what happened and you aren't just going to walk out without doing anything.
How could such a fragile thing as a soul have you as its only anchor to safety, even when it did not realize that?
You could just be their only hope to survive.
Their only hope to see daylight once more.
How cruel is that?
Your lungs sting, reminding you that you also need oxygen, but you don't relent, too stubborn to swim back up yet. You still have time to search more—your efforts hadn't gone out the window.
You can't let them die.
You can't give up on them just because it seemed impossible.
Anger suddenly pools in your chest, giving you another push of adrenaline to continue. Water had soaked through your shoes, through everything but your lungs. Did it reach that point to the other person underwater?
Once this is over, and you are determined, that man is six feet under.
Something blinks in a light near you, snapping your attention to it as if you were a fish and it was the light of an anglerfish. Eyes widening, you quickly kick your legs towards the bag, seeing it still kicking all the same, if just a little slower. It fills you with hope as you snatch it up, hauling the thing in your arms before swimming back up. It was way bigger, and yet smaller, than you thought, but at least the kicking had stopped once you grabbed it.
Your head breaks the surface, gasping greedily for air, then hug the sack upward so it was out of the water as well—you think your arms are wrapped around the person's chest, you can feel its distant heartbeat like that of a caged bird.
Your free arm pushes you towards the edge, swimming while coughing out the water you accidentally inhaled. With a splash, you lay back on the grass and mud with the bag beside you, breathing in.
Everything was far too loud.
Is the person still crying?
There is a ringing in your ears that does not wish to quieten.
"God. Oh, God. I'm gonna kill this man." You mumble, forcing yourself to sit up. Your freezing hands come to your hip, where the taser was, and take out a pocket knife. It glints in the starlight like a candle in the dark.
Sawing the tight ropes from the front of it in quick succession, you let the wet ropes fall down with a heavy, wet sound.
And with another twist, you cut away the sack.