He stood still, staring at her place of departure long after she was gone, mind completely blank.
Sunny didn't think.
He didn't dare to.
If he did, something deep inside him would irreparably break.
A terrifying tremor finally returned him to his senses. He had stayed too long. A single second of idleness more and his chances of escape would become zero.
So he didn't. Instead, he recalled the gloomy shadow and started to move. In just a few steps he was already at the edge of the balcony and jumped. Only when he was already falling—the rising speed and wind battering his wounded body mercilessly—did he summon the [Dark Wing]. He ignored the fact that for a moment, he had considered not summoning it.
The sudden deceleration was no less cruel to his body. His broken arms, for one, did not appreciate it in the slightest, but he had no time to complain; boulders were falling around him and he had to spend all his focus avoiding them.
When he finally met the floor, he once again ran to the edge of it and jumped down to the next level. He did it again and again, death biting at his heels like a famished dog—whatever that was—until he finally reached the ground floor.
Just then, a terrible tremor assaulted the Crimson Spire, greater than all those before it combined. The death wail of a once glorious monument to human will and ingenuity was just as pitiful and undignified as he expected.
And far more depressing for it.
He embraced himself with his shadow and ran with all his strength, the desperation to live burning so hot he could almost feel the blood and sweat covering him evaporating.
Just in the nick of time, he managed to exit the Spire before a huge piece of debris completely blocked the exit. He managed a few more steps before it hit him. Pain—a stab so deep, so intense, so all-encompassing that his mind almost crumbled.
[Your shadow is overflowing with power.]
[Your shadow is taking shape.]
The voice of the Spell was merciless, showing no consideration for his plight as it delivered its message.
[An attribute has evolved.]
Did he just imagine it… or… did its voice tremble? He didn't have the time to consider it before another wave of pain hit.
So consumed was he by it that he only regained a sliver of consciousness when a house-sized rock fell at his side, mere steps away from crushing him. He tried to move, he tried to stand up—he didn't even realize he had fallen amidst the pain—but he couldn't. The pain was just the final nail in the coffin; the exhaustion, the terrible wounds—both physical and mental—covering him were too much. He had asked too much of his body and it couldn't give any more.
He tried—gods, he tried—but he couldn't. Burning with indignation yet unable to do anything about it, he fell down once more, unable to move a single muscle. He stared resentfully at the dark sky, wondering how long it would take for a rock to fall on him and end it all. Barely ten minutes, and he was already going to die. How pitiful, how shameful, how utterly pathetic.
What did he expect?
He had deluded himself for far too long—long enough to almost believe it. The moment of truth came nonetheless, and reality cruelly reasserted itself. He was born a rat, lived like a rat, and so too would he die like a rat.
"..."
What was that? Amidst the deafening crash of the Crimson Spire's collapse, he could swear he heard something.
"S..."
There, he heard it again.
"Sur…."
It started as a whisper, all too easily lost in the breeze, but it kept growing.
"Survive…."
Ah. So it was the voice of his dear Master. It seemed even the barrier between the dream and waking world couldn't stop Changing Star from haunting him. Well, joke's on her—he couldn't lift a finger.
"Survive…."
"SUrvive…."
"SURVIve…."
Was it just his imagination, or was it growing louder?
"SURVIVE…"
"…UNTIL YOU COME BACK TO ME…"
"…YOU MUST SURVIVE."
Stop.
"SURVIVE…"
Please stop.
"…MUST…"
He was spent. He had neither the strength nor the will to rise again. In that dark moment of existence, his only wish was to cease. A swift end followed by sweet oblivion.
"…TO ME…"
His wish, as far too often, went ignored.
"SURVIVE…"
Louder, louder, louder, and louder still the command kept repeating; its tyrannical will would not be defied. His body, at least, could not.
So he stood up with strength he didn't even know he possessed—strength he didn't possess, considering the anguished wail of his body at the movement—and started to run. He ran even as a rock hit him, small enough not to kill yet big enough for a bone—or many—to snap gruesomely. He ran, and when his legs failed him he kept advancing on his knees; when his knees failed, he dragged himself forward; and when his arms failed too, he crawled like a worm.
It could have been a second, it could have been all of eternity. Stars could be born and die in that span of time and he wouldn't realize. But then, at last, it was over.
[Your shadow is complete.]
Never did he think he would be so happy to hear the voice of the Spell. For along with the message, the pain—at least the one in his soul—finally disappeared.
He fought to keep consciousness. He needed to assess the situation, to hide. With all that noise, there would surely be nightmare creatures coming. He had to prepare.
He couldn't. He didn't. He blacked out, collapsing at the edge of the ruins that remained after the fall of the Crimson Spire.
-------------------------------------------
5 years ago
Sunny hated working at the bar.
The hours were long, the drunks were loud, the language crude even for him, the smell terrible, and the pay even worse.
It said something about his life—nothing good—that among the variety of odd jobs he did to stay alive, this one was the most tolerable.
What more could he ask for? There was a ceiling over his head, he wasn't cold—although at times he'd have preferred it to the suffocating warmth of human stench and smoke that enveloped the bar. Nobody was threatening him, though whether that was because he had broken the arm of the last one who tried or because of unusual politeness on their part, he didn't know.
It was better than nothing. Nothing would make him desperate, and he knew what happened to the kids who became desperate. He shivered at the thought; he could still remember the tales some of the older kids told about it.
At least the closing hour was approaching. Soon he would be free to leave the cursed place. With the pay, he could afford a synthpaste tub. He could almost hear his stomach growl at the thought—it had been two days since he'd eaten anything.
There would even be a little left to put into his Rainy Day fund—a pun he was quite proud of. He couldn't let her starve when he finally rescued her, after all.
Glacially slow, the hour came, and he started gently ushering the drunks away. If he allowed them, they would stay all night. He couldn't afford that; once he left, he'd only have four hours of sleep before his next job.
When the last one finally left, he started the arduous task of setting everything in order. A quick glance at the counter told him everything he needed to know—the owner was blacked out, snoring loudly with a can of synth beer still in his hand. He wouldn't get any help. What a novelty.
Once the chairs were arranged and the tables wiped clean of stains and fluids—some of which he neither knew nor wanted to know the source of—he picked up the mop. As he set to cleaning the floor, he heard a low groan from the counter.
"You there, Sanny?" Old Bert—or at least that's how the drunks referred to him—called out, his words slurred and difficult to understand.
"Yes." At this point he didn't bother correcting him; the old man seemed to take perverse pleasure in misremembering his name.
"Good, good. You're a good kid, Sammy, the best around. You wouldn't believe the kind of miscreants I dealt with before you came along."
Ah yes, they wanted to be paid fairly for their work. The horror.
No reflection of his thoughts appeared on his face as he kept cleaning in silence. It might look like the old man was trying to have a conversation, but Sunny knew adults well enough—especially Old Bert—to know he was being talked to, not with.
"Did I ever tell you about my wife?" the old man asked.
One hundred fifty-six times, but who was counting? Sunny wisely chose not to say that and instead shook his head, still focused on cleaning. Just a little more and he would be done.
"She was beautiful, you know that, Sazzy? Most beautiful woman in the world. We married young, our parents didn't like it when they found out she was pregnant, but it's not like I wouldn't have done it anyway…" Old Bert kept rambling; Sunny didn't bother listening. He had heard it enough times to recite it without flaw. "…and then she abandoned me when that damned Spell awakened her!"
Please don't cry, please don't cry, please don't cry.
He did.
Damnation!
Great. Now he was going to spend who knew how long trying to comfort the annoying old man. He approached and softly patted him on the back like one would pat a hungry tiger—whatever that was—slowly and very carefully.
"It only proves what I always say, kid. You cannot trust anyone. You give them your love, your devotion, your EVERYTHING"—it would have been far more tolerable if he at least stopped switching volumes so erratically—"and they will still leave! The only one you can trust is yourself. Trust no one, Sarry, you hear me? Lie—lie like your life depends on it. Cover your heart in ice."
It wasn't the first time—he desperately wished it were only the fiftieth—that he heard those words. And yet… this time they hit like a PTV. Just a few weeks ago, his friend—the only one he had in this accursed world—had almost killed him. It all happened so fast, and before he knew it, he snatched the knife and the other kid was bleeding while Sunny ran as fast as he could.
He didn't dare to go back yet. He didn't even dare ponder if that wound had killed him. Affordable medical attention was a myth in the outskirts—along with nightmare creatures and honest politicians.
The reason? A half-empty synthpaste tube. Just the usual for street rats.
"When you're sad? You smile." The old man kept going; once he started one of his rants, there was no stopping it. "When you're furious? You joke. And when you feel like the world is crumbling? You laugh. That's what you have to do if you want to survive." He delivered the final words like they were divine wisdom, tried to take another swig from the empty can, and promptly fell asleep again.
Sunny… Sunny just sighed and moved on, finished cleaning, turned off the lights, and put a threadbare cloth over him. It would be really inconvenient if he died of a cold.
"Am I crazy for actually listening to him?" While he pondered, he recovered his pay—plus a little extra for having to listen to the old man's rants—and left.
-------------------------------------------
Present day
Sunny lay in the rubble, far too wounded to move, and so he had been reminiscing about old times—anything to stop his mind from going there.
"I haven't thought about Old Bert in a while." A self-deprecating smile appeared on his face. The old man had been a bastard through and through—Sunny had spit on his makeshift grave when he finally died of a failing kidney—but his words had stayed with him for a long time.
If only because of how often he seemed to fail at them despite trying. He had tried so hard to isolate himself, to not trust anyone, and yet he failed. He had made new friends—some betrayed him, and some he betrayed in turn before they could do it. He even fell in love once, or at least that's what he thought back then. It looked like an ember compared to the burning sun he felt for…
No. He was not going to think about that. Not now, not ever, if he could avoid it.
Moving on—she betrayed him too. On some of his worst days he could swear the scar—both above his ribs and in his heart—still bled. A new one had joined it, far worse and bleeding like a river.
"You fool, you absolutely idiotic fool, you knew it would happen," he muttered angrily to himself. "You knew she would betray you too."
He knew it. He had known for so long… so why did it hurt so much?
His mind kept wandering, its only aim seeming to be causing as much damage as possible.
Cassie… after all he had done for her…
"Who are you lying to, you idiot? It was obvious who she was going to choose. You only have yourself to blame for this."
After all—when had anyone picked him? When had anyone but his almost forgotten mother cared? Truly cared, not just pretended long enough to get whatever they wanted from him.
But noooo, he had to lie to himself once more. He had to believe it would be different now that he was a Sleeper. It was such a beautiful lie too—so sweet, so delectable. In the end, the results spoke for themselves.
It was too much; he felt like he was going to explode from all the conflicting feelings inside him.
In an attempt to distract himself, he opened the runes to check the new attribute. It was easily found. Right where [Fated] used to be, there was something new.
[Attribute Name: Beloved Child of Fate.
Attribute description: You are a beloved child of fate, enjoying its undivided attention and interest. Whatever the future entails, you will be a centerpiece in it. This is a terrible curse.]
"Ha…" He caught himself before laughing.
Even the Spell was pitying him now. That thought proved too much. All of his barriers broke, and he started laughing uncontrollably.
There was no joy in it.