After a frantic search, Derek found something he could wear. He paused, trying to formulate a plan to reach the nearest safe house, but the frustrating truth was that he couldn't recall where it was even supposed to be.
He paced the room, desperate to make sense of his situation. He longed for it all to be a dream, but he knew all too well that everything was real, if the throbbing headache he was feeling was any indication.
The distant whir of a helicopter sliced through his daze. A deep voice boomed from its speakers.
"This is the emergency rescue squad. Remain calm, we are coming to help. If you can, signal your location."
Soon, more helicopters joined the search, their spotlights cutting through the gloom, seeking out survivors like him.
Derek weighed his options. Finally, he decided to reveal himself.
He reached for the door, relieved to find it unlocked. But as his hand touched the handle, a dark blade materialized from the shadows, barring his way. The long blade was coated in a thick, repulsive substance, inches deep, rendering it more of a flattened club than a blade. Derek followed the blade to its source, and his heart seized. A weathered, scarred arm held the weapon, but the wielder, he couldn't see.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
A raspy voice echoed from the seeming void, and then space itself seemed to unravel, revealing a figure cloaked in tattered black. His head was bald and deeply wrinkled. One eye was milky white, devoid of life, staring into oblivion. The other a sharp, assessing gaze, trained on Derek, who had instinctively retreated to the floor, consumed by terror.
A flicker of confusion crossed the figure's face before Derek, gathering a shred of courage, blurted out, "Who... who are you?"
A glint of amusement sparked in the man's one good eye, as if such ignorance were a grave offense.
It seems the revolutor is a naive one, the old man mused. Then, aloud, he said, "Forgive my manners, revolutor, but I go by the name Hunter."
Hunter sheathed his gruesome blade, bringing a wave of relief to Derek. He found the courage to stand. He didn't know why, but he sensed, somehow knew, that this man meant him no harm.
"We need to leave," Hunter said, his gaze fixed on the glass door.
"We? What 'we'?" Derek asked, incredulous. "I've barely known you for a minute, Mr..."
"Hunter," the old man grunted.
"Right, Mr. Hunter. But I think you have the wrong... revolutor."
"Damn, my memory's all messed up," Derek cursed under his breath.
"Thanks, but no thanks. I'll find my way... somehow."
"Too late," Hunter scoffed.
Then, in a flurry of movements that Derek could barely register, the world outside seemed to vanish, replaced by an impenetrable barrier. He felt as if he were observing everything through thick glass.
"Where the f.."
"Silence!" Hunter hissed. "If you move too much, they'll see you."
"Who?"
At that moment, the hospital door burst open, and a squad of special forces agents stormed in.
Ordered by the government, they had tracked Derek to the hospital, intent on capturing him dead or alive. The life of one orphan was a convenient price to pay for the safety of the world, or so they believed.
Derek hadn't fully grasped the gravity of the situation before. Now, he realized the entire world was hunting him. If the destruction wrought by the wraiths continued, he might be forced to sacrifice himself to save humanity.
The fate of the world rested on his shoulders. Yet, that wasn't what truly plagued Derek's mind.
The real question was, why were those abominations after him?
"Derek felt an illusory pane of glass shatter, as the last of the special forces agent marched out of sight. The stale hospital air suddenly felt clean, the distant sirens a song of freedom. He could feel the world in utmost perspective again. It appeared Hunter replicated that stealth move that allow him to mirror the surroundings earlier.
"If you want to stay here and allow them to capture you, be my guest. I know you are smart enough to know what's at stake here." Hunter said, trying as much as possible to keep his grating voice low, not for fear of the special forces, but because he'd rather avoid a conflict.
Derek was silent for a moment as he contemplated his choices, but before he made his choice, he needed a question answered.
"So Mr. Hunter, why are you helping me?"
"Because, it's my job to guide the revolutor." He remarked, then sighed. "I think they heard us." He continued. "Climb onto my back and don't let go until I say so."
Derek nodded and adhered, a prickle of unease running down his spine.
Carrying Derek, Hunter walked outside the hospital. Under Derek's grip, his body began to transform. Derek could see and feel flesh writhing and bones rearranging. The tattered garb melted away, replaced by a chaotic eruption of feathers. Eventually, Derek found himself perched precariously on the back of a creature that resembled a bald eagle, but twisted and wrong. Patches of raw skin showed through sparse, mottled feathers. Its beak was too long, curved like a scythe. He would have definitely let go if not for the clear instructions he had been given.
Derek was soon snapped out of his awe as the bird took to the skies, an ear splitting caw echoing through the alley. Fear tightened its grip on him.
Was this salvation, or something far worse?"