“Those who can't sacrifice anything, can't change anything in this world.” – Shingeki no Kyojin
Number Thirty
She could shout. Maybe someone would hear her and realize that a person was buried deep in the debris. Or she could use her power. Make everything around her disappear. Erase the rocks that pinned her leg on the ground. Widen the hole so that she would be visible from outside.
But there was one teeny-tiny problem. Actually, three.
She’s ravenous, dehydrated and extremely thoroughly exhausted.
Breathing took effort. She had to exert herself to keep her eyes wide open. And she was losing the battle. Her eyelids were heavy. She couldn’t fight sleep any longer.
If she closed them now, who knew when she would ever open them again. Worse, she might never get a chance to wake up. So she had to keep fighting. Until the end. . . right?
Abcidee wondered what her father was doing. What Arashi was doing. They would have discovered her disappearance by now. Were they searching for her? Were they worried?
She also wondered about the people from her forgotten past. Krad and Ivan and Rael. Were they safe? Were they one of the agents shouting orders above her? Was it possible that one of them was nearby, and maybe, magically, feel that she’s here, dying?
This was pathetic.
She wanted to laugh. In her head. It was all in her head. Under the great weight of the rock that crushed her leg, she could do nothing but daydream. Simply thinking wouldn’t accomplish anything, but what else could she do?
No wonder her father wanted her off and away. She’s no good here. Deadweight.
However, a part of her told her otherwise.
She was valuable. Not as a person, but as a symbol. The victory flag.
It did make sense in a way. Creed had been keen on protecting her, keeping her away, while the Light wanted her, not because of her power, but in order to make her father suffer.
Whoever had her was the winner.
She was the prize. The trophy.
Pitiful that she had to see herself in such a harsh, demeaning fashion.
Now that she thought about it, her whole existence had been defined that way. People lied to her, betrayed her, hurt her, and at the same time cared for her, cherished her, loved her. . . because she was Abcidee Faye Creed.
Her whole life had been a cruel game of push and pull.
But what her father and everyone failed to consider was that she was not a mere pawn. That she was not a thing to be tossed around. She had a life, a mind, a heart, and in this ridiculous position she found herself in, in this outrageous battle between Creed and the Light, she was a victim.
Always had been the victim.
Creed and the Light had defined her twenty-one years of existence. Now, they were going to be the cause of its end as well. Pathetic. She couldn’t even get a choice on how and where she would die. The helplessness of it all was depressing. And she hadn’t even truly lived because she was yet to uncover the true her.
She had been many things, but none of them were real. Incomplete. That’s what she was. Incomplete… Broken…. Fake.
In this sleep-like state, Abcidee pondered about the things she had learned. Snippets of her past. A retrospective of her reality. Faces and names of people she once knew.
Not much, yet too much.
Should they define her? Those things she did as Faye Summers? The lie of an existence she had as Abcidee Reeds?
Who was she really? Some kind of hybrid from both? A totally different persona? What made her… her? Because, quite frankly, she wasn’t sure. Everything seemed unreal. A dream. A nightmare. An illusion.
Dammit!
She wanted to break free from this. She wanted her memories back. She terribly and wholeheartedly hungered for more than just wishing and hoping on her part. She didn’t want to die. Not yet. Not like this. She had to fight. She had to survive.
To live.
To be alive.
To be herself.
To be a functional human being in this sick reality.
No more running away.
Let them find me! she begged to whoever was up there, looking out for lost souls like her. With all of her might, with all of her heart, she prayed. And please, let me find myself. To remember what I have once lost.
But this was no movie. This was real life, and answers would never appear in a snap of a finger. She was not afraid though. She had faith in what Cecilia Saw. Abcidee had yet to fulfill her mission. In one way or another, she would live. She just had to believe.
She smiled to herself, and closed her eyes. She must never despair, because no matter what happens, Cecilia promised her that there were always two sides of a coin.
Falcon was pleased.
His new host was young, strong and fast. He easily evaded attacks; his reflexes unnaturally quick and precise. Penetrating defenses was effortless as well. He was unstoppable. Invincible.
Krad was the embodiment of everything he treasured and despised. If only he was Gifted, Krad would have been a perfect assassin.
But he was not, and he would never be.
Falcon kicked the dead at his feet and moved on to his primary purpose. He shut down the security system, disengaged and unlocked the door, and then entered the candle-lit room. There was no need for hesitation. He knew everything, from the tiniest screw up to the type of cement used on the walls.
Because the ex-agent Meric Underwood was the one who designed this captivity room. Stupid Kreuz Creed didn’t even change the outlay.
Young Richard, beaten and badly bruised, was chained on the other side of the wall. He was hanging upside down, arms, neck, torso and legs attached to a huge slab of iron. The enchanted chains were weakening for the Gifted.
Well, being UnGifted had his own use after all.
“Wake up,” he said. He pulled out a knife and let the tip touch Richard’s forehead. One green eye peered open in response.
“What are you doing here?” the boy snarled in distaste, albeit feebly.
He raised a haughty brow.
“To free you, of course.”
“Go away.”
He ignored the boy. Must be delusional. Torture could do that to weak minds.
Assuming that the password for the lock was already changed, Falcon tampered with the finger pad and struck a knife at the buttons. He unscrewed the lid, yanked the cover off and skillfully rearranged the wires inside. There was a soft beep, and then Richard’s bloody body fell on the ground.
“Get up,” he ordered. “We have chores to do.”
“You – you’re traitor!” Richard tried to launch an all-out offensive attack.
Falcon lazily dodged the pathetic-looking bolt that he released from his clenched fist.
“I don’t see how that could be a threat, niño. Get up or I’m leaving. In your state, I don’t think that you’re worth saving.”
Richard gaped at him like a silly fish as understanding dawned on him. He knew only one man who spoke like that.
He lowered his head in submission.
Falcon stepped out of the room and scanned the halls. It was empty. He strained to hear any sounds that would give away any signs of life. None. He had killed them all. No reinforcements. Bien.
Richard shuffled behind him.
He kept a snail’s pace just to humor his wound-licking son. It was the dead of the night, and his men had conquered the entire South region of Creed’s prided head quarters. He had nothing to worry about.
Once he arrived at the camp, he sent Richard away to the healer’s quarters, and he returned just in time for the meeting. For hours, Falcon briefed his captains about the new strategy he wanted to implement at the stroke of midnight, as well as the follow-up operation for the morning. He planned to have the majestic downfall of Creed by tomorrow evening. He would hammer them weary, each and every agent, hold them at the throes of pandemonium, and at the end, he would savor his victory through watching Kreuz Creed’s defeated expression as his beloved agents betray him one by one. To end the wonderful show, he would then use his daughter’s marked body as a ritual sacrifice to celebrate the all-encompassing triumph of the Light.
He was bursting with energy.
Finally. Finally, the time had come.
As soon as he was satisfied that his orders would be delivered effectively, he dismissed his commanding officers and then proceeded to lighting his favorite cigar. Antsy, and maybe a little bit too wired, he got up from his chair and walked aimlessly around his camp. No guards followed him. Just Richard, his ever faithful shadow, always a step behind.
“Why him?” the boy queried quietly.
Falcon continued to walk.
When he realized that Richard had stopped dead in his tracks, he irritably turned around and narrowed his eyes at the boy’s wounded expression.
“Que?”
Richard raised his head. “Why is it always him?”
He couldn’t understand whatever shit the boy was spouting. “What are you on about?”
“Will I never be good enough for you?”
“Huh?”
“Why didn’t you give me a mission? Don’t you trust me?”
He bit his cigar. Too young. Too soft. “Nonsense.”
He was just about to leave when he heard sizzling in the air. Electricity.
“Why can’t you see me? I am your Gifted son! I can do better than him! I am more superior to him! Why can’t you see that? You gave him position, you gave him your men, you practically handed him everything, and yet he betrayed you! I didn’t! I am devoted to you! Still, you chose his body over mine. What does he have that I don’t? Why am I never good enough?”
He just shook his head at his idiot of a bastard son. The answer was in plain sight. He was too much of a simpleton to not notice.
“You are not Trisha’s son,” he frowned, huffing the rest of his cigar, “you will never be enough.”
Falcon continued with his rounds. From where the young man stood, he could hear his father’s voice from when he was still a young boy, about the corruption of Creed, about how abhorrent its Master is, about his plans on how to destroy his former organization.
And then, only then, did Richard truly comprehend why all his efforts would never reach his father. His father had no heart. He could offer no love, not even acknowledgment. He owned no conscience. He had lost his sense of humanity.
For him, everyone was a tool. Those who weren’t were to be killed.
Meric Underwood was a ruined man who lived in the past, who had his eyes dead set on one and only one thing: revenge.
There was no hope.
Krad saw the army that Falcon had amassed. He saw the destruction. He saw the damage. The roads painted in fresh blood and dark ashes. The smoke that reached the sky. The miserable battle cries of those who refused to give up. The faces of people who once had dreams and families and friends.
So many lives. . . lost.
He wanted to make it all stop, but he was nothing. Even if he fought, it wouldn’t change a thing. So he stopped.
He stopped fighting.
He gave in, and let his father win. He cocooned himself in the tiny crevice of his mind. The headache disappeared, and he was at peace.
Finally.
[just a filler chapter. i'm done halfway with the next. will be uploading tomo]
HEY!!!
I have news everyone!
As soon as this story ends, I will be launching a BE ONESHOT FAN FICTION contest. ^-^) *winks, winks* Time to show me the writer in YOU! Yeah! And there will be prizes (cool, very cool prizes, i promise). But of course, only if you want it? It can be anything, a scene within the story, a character side story, or maybe an alternate reality, as long as our favorite BE characters are in there.
So. . . interested?