The old man as if given joints, shook uncontrollably. His tendons gave away a screeching noise when moved. Strings coming from a place of nowhere surrounded the frozen man. His movements became more erratic as the strings settled towards his joints.
As if waking up from a long dream, the old man gained a dash of light on those dull eyes. His pupils—guided by a strange red light, became fluid as if it was one with the light. The red light came from nowhere yet seems to come from everywhere only situated at one spot.
His back straightened, creating a symphony of bone-breaking melody. His eyes still being guided, turning the red light's attention towards the face of Dirga Prasetya. The old man's legs and hands—bounded by the strings puppetered the body. Creating the illusion of choice.
The inside of Dirga's mind was scrambled, a mix of questions and questions stacking up—becoming a jenga tower, leaning towards a dead end. No win. No lose. And as each block was unanswered, the bliss of ignorance began to fall back from his shoulders.
Dirga might be a poor man in the trilogy of survival with wealth, power, and dignity. But, the one thing he still has is the survival instincts from the brawls in the streets and getting scratched by cats. And one thing on his mind right now is,
Run. Right now. Don't look back.
He wished he could do that, but alas, Dirga froze in fear, as the old man adjusted his hips and back. The man pulled of a mask into an almost perfect illusion of a young man in an old body.
The old man touched his back, giving it some pushes to realign his spine. Dirga tried to look at the old man's face, yet the only thing he could see is but a pair of round, fierce eyes. The old man coughed, and coughed. And that small cough evolved into a painful, loud one casting out a puddle of red dark black onto the white room's floor. His lips stained with a dark red. The corners of his lips revealed a slither of a tounge—licking the splotches of dark red littered around his lips.
"What the... who— No, what... are you ?" Dirga smirked, his lips revealing an air of satisfaction. Though, his eyes tell another story. His eyes fixated on the dark black under the old man's boots, went more alert.
The old man straightened his shirt, leaving no creases behind. His wrinkled hands ate away at the flesh, leaving only skin and bones left. The man stumbled to his right, the strings still attached. And as the strings adjusted for weight. The old man finally opened his mouth. And out came a raspy, smoker-adjacent voice.
"Come with me."
Dirga chuckled, his eyes still believing this is all a hallucination. "Why should I ?" He challenged it.
The old man froze, as if he hadn't expected this answer. Whether it is truly his own expression or staged, Dirga doesn't know.
The old man froze and just as if adrenaline jumped towards his body, the old man ran towards him. Leaving a gust of wind at his wake.
Dirga, finally ran. But his breaths became shorted as if something weighed down on him. And not even getting a few centimeters off the old man, Dirga's hand was gripped tightly by the old man. The old man's expression never wavering.
Leaving a hand-printed red mark on Dirga's arm. But just as he wanted to punch it. Something blocked him.
And Dirga had nothing to do but accept it. But can he really accept that ? Hell no.
"HEY !! LET GO !!" Dirga's other hand clawed at the old man's body trying to get leverage against this situation. "LET GO YOU F*CKFACE !!!" Dirga can only spout obscene curses out and about towards it. Nothing works.
"Cease your blabbers, Prasetya." The old man muttered. If Dirga hadn't been so close in proximity on the old man, he wouldnt have heard it.
He knows my name ? No... that can't be. That's impossible. Think, Dirga think.....Just... use a FAKE NAME !!!
"Prasetya ?? Who the he-hell is that ?" He feigned ignorance. His voice becoming more chipped towards the end. "My name is Laksa..."
Come to think of it... Laksa really sounds good about now...
"Laksa ? That isn't what you said last time. Prasetya. But fine, if it helps you Laksa..." The old man laughed. A huffed, short laugh. His breath going out in a black smoke.
As the footsteps became much louder, the site of their destination became much clearer. The old man still bounded in strings, released his grip. The red mark gradually regained its original colour. And in behold, a supermarket revealed in a blink of an eye.
"Why did YOU guide me here ?" Dirga asked or rather Laksa asked. "Why ? You are more rather to be fixated on the why than the inside ?" The old man tilted his head far too low, as if mocking gravity.
"Get inside, Laksa." The old man ordered in a stern voice, mimicking the voice of a father figure. The old man shoved Dirga towards the automated doors. And inside, he was greeted by the cold air of AC life. The supermarket was full of bustling life with children, mothers, and fathers. And normal people surrounding the racks of products.
"Where the hell... am I ?" Dirga froze, the assult of the life in this supermarket brawled with the outside panorama full of white rooms. The customers bustled, not caring about the newcomer dressed in rags and a jacket full of tattered holes. The racks were filled with both snacks and drinks. But a nig banner attracted the large number of customers.
"DEATH SET !!! MAXIMUM OF 1 FOR EACH CUSTOMER !! NOW YOU CAN BUY IT WITH JUST ONLY 1 SET OF DREAM NUMBERS !! TAKE IT WHILE THE DISCOUNT STILL LASTS !! ONLY 8 DAYS LEFT !!!"
The banner painted with pastel colours eased the eyes from the invite. And as Dirga went near, a small line can be seen at the far right end of the banner.
'*Further questions can be answered in Aisle 3.'