Tuesday, May 21st – 8:10 PM – ???

Three men in slick, white armor are gathered in a dilapidated building. They are heavily equipped, armed with weapons created thanks to what seems like high technology, to track down criminals, dangerous folks, and monsters of all kinds. Tonight, it’s only one monster.

That monster is a man.

They’re looking for Athomas Killian, a veteran, an ex-journalist who went M.I.A. about a month ago. These men were sent believing the fugitive to be weak. They believe he has information that could be very precious to their organisation. They must capture the journalist… or kill him. They have good reasons to want him dead. Dangerous isn’t even half of it.

A loud crash echoes through the building, like a door getting ripped off its hinges before slamming against the floor. The three soldiers turn around, shaking, suppressing terror as much as they can.

Impossible.

Before they can react, they see a ball, crimson red in color, gently appear from the surface. Its texture is strange, creating red marks on the wooden planks. The soldiers begin to panic.

It’s definitely him.

One of the men presses on the side of his white helmet. A tiny holographic screen appears in the right corner of his eye, with patterns suggesting a voice recording. He’s sending an S.O.S.

“This is Sammy! I repeat, this is Sammy! We believe we found the target just like requested, now please send ba—!”

Before he can beg for reinforcements, the ball of energy launches straight at the three soldiers. Midway, it turns into a giant blade that slashes through the first soldier, sending his dead body flying with the sword toward an unidentifiable room, crashing against the walls. In a hurry, the two other soldiers dash in the direction of the ball of energy. The armor should be enough to protect them in normal circumstances. It’s also really good at hiding how terrified they are.

They both prepare their weapons, trembling. They then give themselves the signal to open fire. The two soldiers end up shooting aimlessly at a large area resembling a kitchen in this abandoned apartment.

Athomas is not here.

A useless waste of ammo.

Before they can finish emptying their supplies, the aforementioned ex-journalist, an older gentleman wearing a wrung-out green coat and dark, stained pants, is behind them, a look of fury in his eyes that his glasses cannot hide.

“Garbage from the system!” yells the target.

Without warning, gigantic spikes pierce both soldiers in the back, killing them instantly.

Athomas looks unsatisfied, grunting at the thought of how many more lives he believes must perish for his survival.

Tuesday, May 21st – 8:25 PM – ???

At the top of a building, Athomas stands. His body is covered in blood. He walks through the desolate, bygone neighborhood of Mésosville, a ghost town, a place where you ruminate about the twisted fate of its country, Atmos. Even from such a melancholic place, the chaos from Troposville echoes, calling out to Athomas. This is where he needs to go next.

A voice cracks in the back of his head.

“You should have let them do you in. You should have let them kill you, brutalize you even. You lost everything. Nothing else matters, so why bother? Why does it matter to you?”

The man tries to wash these thoughts away. Just like the blood on his hands, they won’t stop staring at him, staring at his mistakes, his failed marriage, his lost profession…

At least, that’s how this usually plays out.

For Athomas Killian, journalist extraordinaire, it is as simple as speaking the words.

“Check for status.”

A strange holographic screen, covered in gold and green crystals, appears out of thin air, floating above his head, with a message cryptic in its presentation and its language.

[Athomas Killian { LV: 01 } - Health: 73/100% - MP: 13/100% - SE: None - EXP: 3950/5000 ]

Athomas breathes in before stating out loud:

“Blood Censorship.”

The screen changes, displaying text that says everything he needs to know.

[ Blood Censorship - (WARNING: Mass of blood detected on your body.

Would you like to clean it? :Yes :No) ]

“Do what you gotta do,” states Athomas, without an ounce of worry.

[ Blood Censorship - { Passive Skill - Blood Wash } : Enabled ]

In just a few commands, all the blood that covered his body disappears into a ball of blood that floats in front of him, like magic. The man in his forties looks clean again, all particles and stains of red washed away from his clothes. His demeanor remains focused, serious, unshakable. He clenches his fist before looking at the city from atop the building he stands on.

“This city is cursed. I’m sure of it. Why did the last 26 cases happen to citizens who come and go here? Why has Troposville become the bed of mutations?… No. I know better. Those demons come from within us… from within our nightmares. And the government wants to exploit that power for themselves… while they simply clean everyone off the map, without warning… I refuse to stand by, isolated!”

Athomas grabs something from his pocket. It’s a USB key.

“With this, we can change the world! We can end this senseless cycle! Just like you promised me…”

His voice hardens.

“Martin! Let’s destroy this system!”

Thursday, May 23rd – 4:30 AM – Troposville

In a small house, nothing fancy, in a decent area of the city, two men live together as housemates.

One of them, Jano LeGrand, a 21-year-old Caucasian, orange-haired doofus, is asleep like a baby for once, in a vegetative state of comfort, in his room filled with random plushies and action figures. Some are about as tall as his bed frame.

The other, Clark Deschaines, a 24-year-old Black man with a shaved head, is twitching in bed, grunting in his sleep.

Images flash, darkness, bottles of alcohol, a TV destabilized, constantly glitching into white noise. Voices crack in the back of his head; they are distant, sometimes amounting to gibberish. They seem angry, angry at him. All of it builds to a crescendo when a giant monster appears, about a dozen times his height, gnawing teeth sharp and ugly beneath a metallic, pyramid-shaped head, ready to bite his head off.

The creature screams loudly enough that Clark wakes up, gasping. He can feel a migraine beginning to hit him as his vision blurs.

His room is bathed in faint nocturnal light that seeps through the window to his right. He looks around. His blurry vision doesn’t help him recognize the poster of a famous author or the few books stored on a shelf near his bed frame.

A bit of silence…

Clark sits there, waiting for the certainty that he’s back in the real world. This kind of nightmare hits the brain like a truck, and the overwhelming rush of questions doesn’t help. Curiosity and terror are a lot closer than we think.

The young man takes inventory of his condition. He checks his wrists and arms for wounds. His body is intact. His lean, muscular physique, akin to old statues of forgotten philosophers, is intact.

The one mark on his chest is the large slashing scar across his torso. This one’s the usual suspect. Nothing new here. The rest was just a figment of his terrible imagination…

…an imagination that rewinds a little too much for his taste.

The young man facepalms, frustrated. Somehow, his housemate hasn’t been awakened by all the raucous.

“Goodness. I’m gonna need a specialist real soon. Poetry books are officially off the table.”

Dumbfounded, he resigns himself to leaving his bed and looks closely at the alarm clock sitting on a desk next to his window, a small digital clock displaying the time in big, scarlet-red numbers.

4:30 AM.

“You’ve gotta be kidding. Waking up this early… feels like I only got an hour of sleep. Oh well, screw me then. Guess I’m starting my day right now while the moon is still up.”

And so, with heavy bags under his eyes, the young Black man decides to take the bull by the horns and start his day sooner. It’s not what his heart desires, but in this crucial moment of his life (of which he has no idea), starting the day on the right foot is of utmost importance.

Which is why…

He goes back to sleep.