Eleven years melted away as Lorian sat perched on the edge of the ancient, tattered chair. The cybernetic medical clinic reception hummed with the dull, sterile light of the lumen, a harsh contrast to the comfortable glow of home he vaguely remembered. He idly traced the chipped paint of the cracked glass desk, the only sound his gentle fiddling with the wooden figurine, the clinic's solitary paperweight. He missed the warmth of wood under his fingers, a stark contrast to the cold, metallic reality of this place. Three months. Only been three months since he'd left everything behind, following Solomon's gruff promise of a trade, away from his mother's hopeful and desperate instruction that he earn his keep. So far, the 'trade' consisted of cleaning up after the mildly sick, the radiated, the ones seeking a shiny new cybernetic limb. Nothing like...this.
The clinic door slammed open, a gust of wind scattering the carefully arranged paperwork into chaotic swirls across the room. "Damn it!" Lorian snapped, turning to glare. Standing in the doorway was Solomon, his usually stoic face contorted with a desperate urgency Lorian had never witnessed.
And in his arms… a man.
He was a ruin. Stab wounds riddled his torso, crimson blossoming against his threadbare shirt. Slashes marred his right arm, visible through the tattered fabric. Blood dripped freely, pooling on the already grimy floor. Lorian, only nine years old, gasped, recoiling in his chair, a silent scream trapped in his throat. The smell of iron and fear assaulted him.
Solomon's cybernetic eye, usually a steady blue, whirled wildly, assessing the situation with terrifying speed. His voice, rough and urgent, cut through Lorian's shock. "Lorian! Ready the examination slab ready! Now!"
The order snapped Lorian back to reality, albeit a reality painted in shades of crimson horror. "O-okay," he stammered, scrambling to his feet, legs suddenly heavy. He stumbled towards the medical wing, the image of the blood-soaked man burned into his retinas. This wasn't radiation sickness; this wasn't a bad cough. This was…death. It tasted metallic in the air.
He fumbled with the controls of the hydraulic examination slab, his hands shaking so violently he could barely manage. This was what Solomon did. Solomon, who had taken him from his family, promising a trade. But what if he couldn't do it? What if he broke down?
Just as the slab began to whir to life, Solomon barged in, his expression a thundercloud. "What's taking so long?" he roared, his voice laced with an edge that sent a shiver down Lorian's spine.
He didn't wait for an answer. He carefully placed the wounded man on a chair near the slab, then pushed Lorian aside, his strong hands quickly adjusting the controls. "Like this, see?" he demonstrated, his voice softening slightly as he explained.
Then, with a surprising gentleness, Solomon lifted the man, laying him carefully onto the cold metal of the slab. "Hold on," he murmured, his voice a low hum against the man's ragged breaths. "Everything's going to be alright."
The man, barely conscious, was muttering something unintelligible in a faint, fading voice. Lorian's eyes were glued to him, wide with a mixture of fear and morbid fascination. He was so small, so helpless.
After what felt like an eternity of frantic activity - a flurry of sutures, disinfectants, and whispered curses from Solomon - the man's heartbeat finally stabilized. Solomon let out a long, shaky breath, relief washing over his face.
He glanced at Lorian, who was still rooted to the spot, staring at the slab. Blood spattered his face and clothes, a gruesome reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. His face was pale, his freckles standing out like splatters of ink.
Solomon knelt, placing a calloused hand on Lorian's shoulder. "You alright, kid?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.
Lorian swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Who…who is he?"
Solomon looked at the man on the slab, then back at Lorian. "He's just a friend," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Don't you worry about a thing."
"Are you sure?" Lorian pressed, his voice trembling. He looked down at his hands, still slick with the man's blood. The reality of it, the finality of it, crashed down on him. He burst into tears.
Solomon pulled him into a tight embrace. "Hey, hey, it's alright," he murmured, his voice thick with something Lorian couldn't quite understand. "It's alright."
A few minutes later, Lorian sat back on the old reception chair, the rearranged papers looking neat but sterile under the harsh lumen light. Solomon emerged from the medical wing, a can of soda in each hand. He popped one open with a hiss and handed it to Lorian.
He studied Lorian's face for a long moment, his cybernetic eye gleaming. "You're one lucky kid, you know that?"
Lorian sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Why?"
"Because of him." Solomon gestured towards the medical wing with his soda can. "That man we just patched up…he's a father. Got jumped defending his daughter from some human traffickers. Took a beating for her."
Lorian's eyes widened. "What happened to the daughter?"
"She's with her mother now, safe." Solomon took a long swig of his soda, the fizzing sound filling the silence. "Poor kid." He sighed, shaking his head.
He turned to Lorian, his gaze intense. "Look, kid, over there…" He pointed towards the door leading into the medical wing. "Treating people, taking care of folks…that's what we do. Life down here is rough, real rough. And what we can do, you and me, is bring a little bit of life back. Heal their wounds, stitch them up, try our best to lift their spirits. We can bring life to this dead, forgotten sector, understand?"
Lorian nodded, his tears drying on his cheeks. He felt a flicker of something new, something bigger than himself. "Yes," he said, his voice stronger. "How can I help?"
Solomon's expression softened, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You can start by cheering people up," he said, his voice gruff but kind. "And maybe try not screaming every time you see them."
Lorian managed a watery smile. "I won't," he promised. "I won't scream."
"That's a promise, kid?"
"Yes," Lorian said firmly. "That's a promise."
The memory slammed Lorian back into the present. He gasped, his lungs burning, his eyes twitching. He lay sprawled on the cold, shifting ground, blood trickling from his eyes, nose, and ears. The endless abyss was real, and he was in it. The chamber walls continued their unsettling dance, a hypnotic, nauseating rhythm.
Cassia. He had to remember Cassia. "Cassia!" he croaked, his voice raw, trying to clear his bloodied vision.
He looked beside him. Cassia lay still, the horrifying black veiny tubes snaking up her skin like parasitic vines. A disturbing purple aura emanated from her unconscious form, a visual representation of her life force being drained by the endless abyss, feeding it like a psychic battery.
The sleeper choir's discordant melody still assaulted his mind, an unsettling symphony of madness. But something had changed. It wasn't as overwhelming as debilitating as before. He could…resist as long as his eardrums were in their current poor condition. His will solidified. He could save them.
He saw them then, his friends. Izari floated in the air, convulsing violently. Three of the sleeper choir creatures forced Rona to kneel before the abyss, his face a mask of terror.
Lorian gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand, the pain a searing fire in his bones. The burning desire to save his friends pushed him forward, giving him the strength he needed. He focused, channeling his energy, a small explosive charge coalescing around his index finger until it glowed with an eerie light.
He remembered Solomon's words, the weight of his promise. He remembered the blood, the fear, the helpless feeling of being a child in the face of unimaginable horror. He wouldn't be powerless anymore.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered, and zapped the unconscious Cassia with the energy beam, hoping, praying that it would be enough. His entire future and the
lives of his friends lay in his hands.