"Hurry the fuck up and drink."
A man dressed in makeshift scrap armor pointed a gun at a pale-looking boy. He was staring at one of the other orphans who had been brought to this hellhole.
Black blood was still draining from the bullet hole in his head. Already signs of 'The Change' had morphed him; moist skin and the pungent odor of rot.
"Drink it! If one of you isn't compatible we're all fucked! Hurry!"
The doors just ahead of them kept shaking, irregular sloshy thuds drumming against them. Through the glass screen, Aire could make out a changed, smashing their head against it.
"Fuck it, we all knew what we signed up for."
Another boy beside Aire hesitantly dipped his hands into a blackened well. Its source was a woman who had been crucified to a wall, blood dripping from the rusted nails driven into her hands and chest.
He took a sip, and stood up, closing his eyes. Chest heaving expectantly.
Each breath between the thudding door tore at their hearts.
His veins suddenly lit up with a red glow…
"Okay, so he's one of them," the armored man sighed in relief. "Quickly, what are your powe—"
The boy's veins began pulsing like thrashing snakes, and then burst.
Black blood rushed out of his mouth and eyes. Tears streaming down his cheeks alongside the thick black.
"P-Pleas—"
A gunshot.
Aire sighed, spatters of black blood now stained his already filthy cloaks.
He turned to look at a corner of the room. There a bronze contraption hovered next to the ceiling, camera light pulsing red as it focused in on them.
'I bet those bastards are enjoying this.'
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," the armored man groaned, clutching his hair. "I had one more run. One," he whispered to himself, before staring up at the bronze drone and then back at the door. Its hinges now hung on by thin, mangled twigs of metal.
He looked to Aire. It was just the first level, and only the two of them remained from their group.
Crass, the armoured man, tightened his grip on the gun, first pointing at the door, and then slowly lifting the barrel to his mouth.
"You know, I thought we had a chance," he said, his hands shaking. "Thought maybe I could finally be free…" Tears began streaming down his cheeks.
Aire stared at him, nodding slightly. 'You were an idiot for thinking that,' he thought, but he could understand the sentiment. If there was one thing he wanted more than anything else in this world, it was to be free.
"There's one magazine left," Crass said, wiping away his tears. "Take it from me kid. Those bastards won't send help. We're better off going out on our own terms."
Aire stood up. "Wait, dont—"
A shot, and a smear of red across his face.
"...stand so close to me," he muttered, wiping the blood off his face.
[Ten new viewers have tuned in to your station.]
Aire looked up to the camera, flashing a middle finger.
'Fucking witches.'
***
According to the bullshit that people whisper in the hives, everything went to hell about a century ago.
That's when they first appeared... the witches.
They were the first to be changed, the first gods among men. Humanity was promised advancement... hope; But I think they were idiots for believing that.
The witches quickly came to understand that they were far greater than their non-powered counterparts, and soon sought to take control of the world governments.
Humanity took that as a threat. And so, the planet screamed war for decades.
I hear we had powerful technology back then. Devices that could summon the sun in the dead of night. Imagine that.
But not much good that could do for us, when witches can eclipse stars.
I don't need to tell you how the war went.
We now live in hive cities. Human farms used for experimentation, food and whatever fucked up thing the witches feel we should be on that day.
But these days, our biggest commodity is entertainment.
What great fun it must be, to see humans cheat, and steal, and kill to survive.
Yeah, I know. What a bloody good time to be alive.
*
Aire studied the mess around him for a moment. He'd known survival was a stretch—but for his group to last less than a few hours?
Hopeless.
He wondered what the others felt before they died. Were they happy to finally be free? Or had they gone to rest in fear?
How did that fear taste... did they feel more alive in those final seconds? He wouldn't know. He was the only experimental in the group; no one else bore a curse rune. Or at least, they hid it better than he could.
He glanced at his leg, twisted at the knee like a snapped branch. His rune was hidden in plain sight.
The witches had taken his leg. And with it, his fear. A gift and a curse. In some sense, a blessing that not many others could survive receiving.
'Why am I doing thinking about all this? I'm running out of time.'
He gripped his crutch, trying to relieve pressure from his deformed leg. The pain had been there for a while now, dull and familiar; however, it was getting worse. But even if he could get painkillers, there was no way in hell a cripple could outrun a first-stage Changed.
'The blood is the only way,' he realized. Though he hated the thought, he was playing right into their plans.
He wobbled past the corpses as fast as he could, towards the blackened well. Why they would offer humans the chance at magic was beyond him, though he had a few guesses.
'Maybe they want hybrids. I guess watching powered humans die really tickles their balls.
Behind him, the door cracked; metal screeching as it peeled open. Death waited on the other side. Wet, drooling... hungry.
Aire dropped his crutch and fell to his knees. His fingers dipped into the bloodwell. It seemed as if he were praying to the witch crucified above.
The door slammed open behind him, crashing inches from his back.
'Now or never.'
He drank.
It tasted... wrong. Metallic and sweet, but foul like rotting meat. It burned his throat as it slid down to his stomach, bubbling as it rested.
But nothing happened.
He spun around, expecting the monster.
But it was gone.
When he turned back to the well, the crucified witch above was no longer there.
[Please note: A special viewer has tuned into your station.]
'What the hell is going on—'
A shadow zipped past his eyes, and a blink later, warm, sticky flesh clasped his chin. He was dragged to his feet, coming face to face with a corpse.
No… not dead.
The thing stared into him, eyes like sunken pits. Strands of withered black flesh clung weakly to its skeletal frame.
'The witch?'
"Fearless mongrel," it whispered in a hoarse voice. Aire squirmed to free himself, but its bony hands held strength beyond anything he had ever encountered before.
The witch smiled, thin rotting lips giving way to yellow golden teeth. "Then take my flame, little mongrel. Burn as I once burned."
It forced his mouth open and vomited black sludge down his throat. He thrashed, but it held him still.
Pain clawed at his throat and crawled deep into his flesh, deeper even into his very bones. His mind went blank... it was all too much.
He went limp, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.
"Give to them, what they have given me," something whispered.
The last thing he saw was a single notification.
[You have inherited the 'Cabin of Fear'.]