Chapter 14: Intuition
He opened his eyes to find himself in a cedarwood house. The air hung thick with the scent of resin and damp earth, and overhead, a single old fan turned lazily, clogged with spiderwebs. It was dark, the hallway stretching into an endless void. Then came the crying—his sister's voice, Maya's, thin and terrified, echoing from the heart of the house.
He followed the sound, his breath loud in the oppressive silence. The corridors twisted, the wooden floor groaning underfoot. The crying drew him to a dimly lit room, where the air grew colder, biting at his skin.
"Maya?" he called, his voice tight with dread.
The sobs emanated from a closed bedroom closet. Sweat slicked his face, cold and oily. His hand trembled as he grasped the knob and pulled the door open.
Maya was inside, curled in the closet's shadowed recess. She wore a simple linen shift, her head bowed, dark hair a tangled curtain over her face. Her pale arms hugged her knees tight. In one small hand, she clutched a kitchen knife, its blade dark and wet with blood. She rocked gently, the eerie, childish sobs unbroken.
His heart hammered against his ribs. "Maya," he whispered, throat dry. "It's me. It's Arthur. It's alright now."
Slowly, he reached for her shoulders. His hands made contact, and he gave a gentle, reassuring shake.
Her head came loose.
It tilted back into his cupped palms, the neck a ragged, wet stump. Her face was pale, eyes peacefully closed, yet the sobbing cries still issued from her lips. Twin streaks of blood, thick as tears, ran from beneath her lashes down her cheeks.
He recoiled, hurling the head away. It thudded to the floor. He stumbled back, collapsing in a heap, tears of horror blurring his vision.
The head righted itself. The crying sharpened. "Arthur?" it gurgled, blood bubbling at the lips. "Big brother?" It began to crawl toward him, dragging a glistening red trail across the wooden planks.
Instinct took over. He scrambled to his feet, desperate to run, pure terror liquefying his muscles.
But the headless body in the closet moved faster. It lunged, the knife flashing. It tackled him, its weight impossibly heavy, pinning him to the floor. He fought, thrashing wildly, but its strength was vast and unnaturally cold. He saw the bloody knife rise high.
It plunged down—
—toward his heart. The killing blow. The one that would have—
Arthur bolted awake.
He was on the floor beside his bed, the concrete cold against his sweat-soaked skin. Tears streamed unbridled from his eyes into the darkness. His heart palpitated wildly, like a hammer thumping against his chest. He gulped down air, desperate to steady himself.
He had to cool down. Breathe, Arthur. Breathe.
He drew in deep, measured heaves, emptying his mind, focusing only on the chill of the concrete against his skin.
[It seems you are already awake, Arthur.]
Damn. The nightmares must have surfaced because he hadn't taken his barbiturates or drunk himself to sleep.
[Arthur, are you okay? Detected: primal broadcast from your hyperactive amygdala, perhaps unleashed by the silence of your REM sleep. Also, increased pulse rate, blood pressure, and sweat proliferation.]
He shouldn't have let her go. Shouldn't have said goodbye when she needed him most. He'd just tossed her away, blaming it on his own vulnerabilities. His hands wiped the silent streams of tears from his eyes, tracing damp outlines on his cheeks before landing soundlessly on the concrete floor.
"I'm sorry, Maya. I shouldn't have..left you behind"
He sniffled, appreciating the silence the damn bot had observed. He pressed his lips together, wiping the remnants of tears from his eyes.
He just hoped she was safe—maybe pursuing a better career than his, owning a production firm or managing a bank, anything to escape his own miserable predicament.
He stifled a bitter laugh.
After all, she'd always had a knack for greatness. Even Dad had said it. She was the light in their family.
Damn those good old days.
He hauled himself up from the ground, which felt surprisingly deep—had it always been this way, or was it his disjointed perception? And how the hell had he ended up here? He clearly remembered crashing at the cemetery.
Well, due to the information overload, his brain had called a "time out" and gone on a brief hiatus.
Guess it was yours truly who helped.
[So, what was that, Arthur? A behavioral pattern for humans? That's never registered in my functions before.]
His form drifted toward the window. Through the thick, dark curtain, he glimpsed the vestiges of daybreak, the world painted in a slight gray hue. From his third-story vantage point—perhaps enhanced by his new superhuman sight—he took it all in.
"Well… just some recurrent nightmares. Not exactly common around folks." His hands drew the curtain upward, and the scent of damp air and vegetation filled his senses.
[Oh. I shall update my functions based on that.]
[Concerning the added stats: How do you wish to distribute them, Arthur?]
His hands, bathed in the early morning light, reached for an apple on the sill. But the moment he enclosed it in his palm, it erupted into splinters of juice and pulp.
"I thought you had it under control, Bo—Mimir."
[Arthur, should you still stick to calling me Bot, I shall resume addressing you as "Host."]
He sighed exasperatedly—a nice counterpoint. His eyes wandered around the room,From the single, worn, machine-woven tatami mat in the center, providing the only insulation against the chill to the heavy, utilitarian wooden desk and straight-backed chair, holding a beautiful black typewriter, a huge black radio,and the scarlet telephone against the right wall before wandering to the wooden armoire in the corner near the solid, paneled wood door with its brass knob.
If his body still had enough power to crush an apple like that, then perhaps… Come to think of it, why had he woken up on such a weirdly deep floor? He'd crashed on the bed, hadn't he?
His eyes traced the high, adorned ceiling with its fan and electric bulb, then to…to..
his world shattered. His form crumpled to the floor, carving another low crater. His eyes widened in horror.
[My Apologies ,Arthur. It was unavoidable.]
He stared at the splintered visage of his bed, now bearing a human-shaped hole in the middle and a deep burrow beneath it. The wooden frame's legs and body lay split and splintered.
So, earlier, he'd crawled out of the hole in the bed. His eyes went lifeless. First, money for a new bed. Then for cement plaster to fill the burrow. The costs were already climbing into the thousands.
He hadn't even received his monthly salary yet, and he'd just curated a budget that would devour it entirely. This was how he was going to live out his life?
[I offer anti-depression Therapy]
Damn you, bot. Veins popped on his forehead. He needed funds, not therapy. Damn the world. Damn… damn…
He slammed his fist into the ground, birthing yet another crater.
His eyes widened, and his body went rigid. He couldn't even vent his anger freely now—he'd just added more digits to the bill.
Defeated and haggard, he stood, his eyes nearly lifeless. They wandered to another shallow crater from when he'd first crashed to the floor. Like a walking dead man, he shuffled to the right wall, toward the desk and wooden stool.
[Hey, Arthur. You sure you don't need therapy?]
His form slumped onto the chair, dark hair ruffling forward to frame his face, hiding his emerald green eyes.
"438 to speed, 400 to strength, 400 to agility, 400 to stamina," he muttered, his hands gesturing vaguely toward the radio.
[Oh]..After a short pause…
[Points acclimation completed.]
[New stats:
Name: Arthur Lynch
Identity: Grim Reaper
Rank: Wraith
Physicality: 40 (+400)
Strength: 14 (+400)
Speed: 20 (+438)
Agility: 10 (+400)
Stamina: 9 (+400)
Intelligence: 21
Knowledge: 9
Memory: 12
Aura Reservoir: 234
Aspectal Domain: Unforged
Attributes:
Death (Extreme)
Soul (High)
Illusion (High)
Intangibility (Medium)
Soul Collection: 2/1000
Weapons: Death Scythe (Grade: Mythic)
Title: Hope of the Fallen
Fate: Financially doomed
Threat: Depression
Wish to integrate Intelligence stats from Aura Reservoir?
Yes // No]
But what answered was silence.
[Arthur, do you wish to know more about the Aspectal Domain?]
This time, it wasn't silence that replied, but the static hiss from the huge radio filling the air as Arthur sat slumped, listening.
The sound of static gave way to a steady, formal male announcer's voice.
"This is the national broadcast. Today, Friday, January 27.
The Soviet Union has extended formal diplomatic recognition to the Polish Provisional Government in Lublin. All peace-loving peoples must recognize the true powers that will shape a liberated Europe.
On the Luzon front, our forces continue their fierce and heroic resistance against the American invaders at Lingayen Gulf. The enemy advance is being met with determined counterattacks, inflicting sustained heavy casualties.
In the European theater, German allies maintain strong defensive positions against Allied forces in the Ardennes and Alsace regions.
Over the homeland, enemy reconnaissance activity was observed. All citizens are reminded to maintain strict blackout discipline and report immediately to their neighborhood associations for fire drill preparations.
The entire nation must unite with ever-greater resolve. Increase production. Practice frugality. Final victory demands our total commitment.
We now conclude this bulletin."
The broadcast blipped off, leaving the earlier silence to reclaim the air. His brain soaked in the news—it seemed the war would come to Hiroshima as he'd predicted, but not as long as he'd thought.
He slicked his hair back, aligning the crumpled strands. The misty scent of morning filtered in, refreshing his soul.
His mind drifted to what the Indian reaper had said: the Convergence of Death, a bright flash that might wipe out thousands.
Come to think of it, he hadn't really known much about it. Perhaps He'd been too busy to remember or..give it some thought..
[An explosion. A great one. That's all I can say… for now.]
His face contorted in confusion. But the Indian reaper had said he'd know all of it if he became a reaper. Or had the motherfucker lied?
His brows twitched.
[He didn't, Arthur. You must be no less than a Phantom. Only then can I disclose it fully—for if you were to know now, you would likely act contrary to it. You still possess human connections to the world. Becoming a Phantom is the only guarantee you won't change what is to come.]
His brain completed the thought,because as a Phantom, he'd have no ties to the world, and thus wouldn't care about its affairs. He smiled a little—an ironic one—as he stood.
Other than his kid sister, what other connection could he possibly have to the world? Let alone Hiroshima.
His mind flashed with images as he walked toward the door: an explosion. When he'd received that surge of information, it had come with fragmented glimpses—a U.S. base in a desert..nuclear research.. Robert Oppenheimer..Niels Bohr..A missile. His face twisted. The details were distorted, but the message was clear.
Was the coming cataclysm a nuclear apocalypse?
His mind reeled at the thought, yet it birthed a sliver of conviction.
[Do not peer too deeply into it, Arthur. I strongly suggest not.]
He grabbed a folded gray towel from his wooden armoire, draping it over his shoulder, along with his other bathing necessities.
Well, perhaps Mimir was right. It was of no use—unless he had more clues, of course.
"Tell me, Bo—Mimir—how much time do I have till the next reaping?"
[00:33:56
Hos..Reaper Lynch.]
Veins popped on his forehead,quite a petty payback. His mouth stretched in a hungry yawn as his hand grasped the brass doorknob.
All the mysteries, the reaping, the power-ups—his eyes wandered sorrowfully to the broken bed. The expenses… they could wait.
What really mattered was getting out of this reek of ichor and rotting flesh, and grabbing a mouthful—or more—of mungo, those sweet buns with red bean paste.