***
Tryl's creepy laughter echoed throughout the dimly lit chamber, a chilling cascade that seemed to seep into the cracks of the cold stone walls. The sound twisted like jagged knives in the air, displacing everyone in the group—scattering them like frightened shadows amid the crude assortment of items strewn before us. What meager stocks lay at hand could barely be called weapons; they were relics of desperation, rusted blades, splintered clubs, and makeshift spears forged from scavenged metal.
These items ranged from the utterly mundane—dull knives and wooden staffs—to rarer, more expensive pieces that gleamed with an unnatural edge, promising deadlier potential. The better the weapon, the higher its price, marked in glowing points etched into holographic displays hovering above each one. But how were we supposed to earn those points? No clue, no hint appeared anywhere in sight, leaving us groping in the dark of our ignorance.
Akhu looked up at the alien overseer, Tryl, who was still giggling with that eerie, guttural laughter that rattled like bones in a grave. Someone earlier had dared to ask about the enemies we might face—what manner of creatures lurked in the trials ahead.
But Tryl had simply shushed them with a theatrical gesture, pressing a long, clawed finger to its lipless mouth. "What fun is there if I spoil the surprise for you?" it had crooned, its multifaceted eyes glinting with malice. *Sadistic freak,* Akhu mused bitterly. *He's reveling in our fear and dread—it's no rocket science. The ones pulling his strings are enjoying it just as much.*
Power over the weak, superiority over the inferior. This was the brutal law of the jungle distilled into a more complicated equation, where cosmic freaks orchestrated the suffering of lesser beings for their amusement.
The realization ignited a surge of red-hot anger deep inside Akhu, flames licking at the edges of his resolve. He had been born into a world of flickering screens, devouring tales of heroes who charged into the fray without hesitation. He loved reading novels about epic fights, underdogs rising against impossible odds. Naturally, that had birthed a savior complex in him—a quiet idolatry of the fictional, a creed he tried to live by, even when reality shattered it time and again.
He still remembered the sting of being called out for it by his past lover, her words cutting sharper than any blade here. She had accused him of loving the role of protector too much, of dating her only because she was spiraling into the trenches and he could play the knight. In his friend circle, even if he wasn't the most liked, whenever someone needed help, he was there—extending a hand without question. Even if he hated the person, he would never turn away. But later, when he faced his own difficulties in a new relationship, she threw it back at him: "Let it go, Akhu. You can't save anyone in this world unless they want to be saved. And even then, it's not something people should do in reality—unless it's an extreme scenario."
That whole situation made him chuckle now, a hollow, bitter sound lost in Tryl's lingering echoes. *Savior? Him?* He couldn't even save a helpless puppy on that dead-cold winter morning. He remembered it vividly: trudging through the frost-kissed streets, his breath fogging the air, when he spotted the small, broken form by the roadside. Mangled legs twisted at unnatural angles, laborious breaths rattling from its tiny chest like whispers of surrender.
He had stopped, heart clenching, and knelt beside it. Scooping the shivering creature into his arms, he hugged it close, sharing his body heat against the merciless chill. He tried to keep it alive just a few moments longer, whispering promises of a vet as he cradled its fragile warmth. But reality proved unyielding, as always. The puppy's breaths grew softer, shallower, until they faded into silence in his embrace—its final moments not alone in the frozen gutter, but held gently, feeling his heartbeat instead of the indifferent wind.
He had shed no tears that day, no mournful wails tearing from his throat. Only a quiet resolve: at least it died in his arms, wrapped in his warmth; at least he was there to keep the poor soul company in its last breaths; at least he had been its fleeting guardian. Then, with trembling fingers, he closed its glassy eyes.
The memory burned him now, deeper than ever—a searing brand of failure and regret that twisted in his gut. Would it be the same this time? As death loomed in this alien nightmare, if he could save just one person before he went... would it finally give his pathetic life some shred of meaning?
He chuckled in a low growl, shaking his head. No, Thinking about it was useless and he had no time. He will do whatever feels right, Whether it's courage or the fear of dying it will be on his terms once more.
He always did things according to what he felt in his heart,
So.. why should now be any different? It's not like I have much time left...
Akhu mused, Why not go out with a bang and maybe.... Just maybe he would feel free.
***