Pact of the Broken Sun
Chapter 2 - Echoes of Defiance (1)
Location: Earth - The Undercity
Year: Y.P. 100
Designation: The Collapsed Realm
The Aetherium Collective – that singular, whispered name was the only thing that anchored Kaelen Vance in the gnawing bleakness of his existence. It was a beacon, a flickering promise of defiance in a world consumed by monstrous dominion. Just the thought of striking back, of exacting a bitter vengeance for what the Lunar Strikers had done to his parents, was the only balm that could soothe his perpetually raging nerves. Approximately a month ago, amidst the clank of rusty pipes and the distant, guttural growls of his captors, he had accidentally overheard two Lunar Striker guards idly discussing the 'troublesome nature' of this burgeoning resistance.
Before that fateful conversation, Kaelen had been utterly oblivious. Their enclosure, a crumbling section of the Undercity repurposed as a human livestock pen, rarely received any verifiable news from the shattered world beyond their walls. Ever since that pivotal day, Kaelen had made it his sole mission to subtly pry information from the ever-so-careless guards. After a month of meticulous snooping, he triangulated a rough location of their primary base concealed within the vast, labyrinthine depths of the Undercity. He longed to gather more, but a cold, unavoidable reality pressed down upon him: he was agonizingly short on time.
'If only it wasn't for this mark…' Kaelen's lean fingers involuntarily grazed the faint scar on his right shoulder, the distinctive insignia of the Feral Collective, burned onto his flesh. He glanced out of the grimy, cracked window, where the mutated moon hung low in the bruised sky, casting a sickly, ethereal glow through the perpetual atmospheric haze of the Collapsed Realm. Its pale light was both beautiful and terrifying, a constant reminder of the primal forces that had reshaped their world.
He had been 'marked' by his owners. Within their grim enclosure, this branding was perversely lauded as an 'honor,' symbolizing he was 'chosen' to fully assimilate into the Feral Collective, destined to live as a Lunar Striker after enduring sixteen years as a human. Kaelen received his mark the day his parents were violently torn away by the Lunar Strikers, destined as macabre offerings to the Silent Rot and the Vitae Dominion. The memory remained a searing brand: his father's guttural screams, his mother's tear-streaked pleas. He remembered the blank, indifferent stares of his fellow humans, paralyzed by fear, offering no help. He remembered the crushing weight of despair that had threatened to consume him.
In that despair, something snapped. He lashed out for the first time. The then twelve-year-old Kaelen, fueled by untamed grief, snatched a heavy, dented metal baton a guard had dropped. He remembered a surge of impossible energy, a desperate, animalistic cry. He leapt higher than ever, his small fingers wrapped so tightly around the baton that his knuckles were bone-white.
And then… his memory blurred. He distinctly remembered a voice, a whisper in his mind, but its words were lost. The next thing he knew, the guard lay crumpled, his skull brutally split open, a grotesque mess. Kaelen stood over him, the bloodied baton still clutched in his trembling hand. All of this unfolded right in front of The Alpha Matriarch, their formidable 'owner.' He still remembered her chilling smile, her ruby-like eyes gleaming as if she had unearthed a hidden treasure. It was on that day she 'marked' him. Kaelen, bewildered, hadn't understood the ritual, only the searing pain a hot, primal rod of iron searing into his flesh, leaving the chilling symbol of his new bondage.
Almost four years had crawled by. Now, his sixteenth birthday loomed, merely five short cycles away. That meant in five days, he would be forcibly taken from the enclosure, spirited away to a specialized 'mutation facility' to be turned into a full-fledged Lunar Striker a 'weremutt' as he bitterly called them doomed to serve the Alpha Matriarch. This, they repeatedly assured him, was a great 'honor.'
'Honor, my ass. I won't be anyone's slave.' Kaelen's thoughts were a burning ember of defiance as he waited for the last of the human captives to succumb to sleep. Only once the camp was quiet, could he finally enact his plan. Thankfully, it was a full moon that night, a monstrous, swollen orb. On such nights, the usual Lunar Striker guards were replaced by the 'voluntary guards'—humans who abandoned their own kind to serve the strong, even though they were treated like absolute filth. The Lunar Strikers themselves couldn't tolerate prolonged exposure to the full moon; it made them lose themselves completely to their primal nature.
Kaelen detested the 'voluntary guards' with a visceral hatred that surpassed even his disdain for the Lunar Strikers. They were traitors, spineless sycophants who sold out their own kind.
'Time to move.' Kaelen's mind clicked into focus, adrenaline a cold wash through his veins.
He slowly crawled off his worn cot. His movements were fluid, silent. He took a small, battered sack prepared over weeks: two water bottles and a few protein bars pilfered using his 'marked' status. His vital possessions were a long, thin rope with a small, sharpened hook – his makeshift 'weapon' and utility tool for scaling the treacherous walls.
With his meager equipment secured, Kaelen felt a surge of grim readiness. But fate intervened. His luck ran out the moment his bare foot touched the cold, grimy floor outside his quarters. He rounded a decaying corner and his heart slammed against his ribs. Standing directly in his path, casting a long, ominous shadow, was Captain Elias Thorne, the imposing figurehead of the Voluntary Guards.
Thorne stood at an intimidating 6'0" tall, a dark-skinned man whose presence exuded oppressive authority. He was clad head-to-toe in dark, functional gears, perfectly camouflaging him with the Undercity's labyrinthine passages. A massive, jagged brown scar twisted across his nose and consumed the lower half of his square jaw. His ears were unusually large and pointed, much like those of the Lunar Strikers, a disturbing anomaly hinting at a deeper allegiance. He wore his medium-length, wavy, dark brown hair unstyled, framing a neatly trimmed goatee beard. A chilling, ornate tattoo, identical to the Feral Collective's mark, was clearly visible on his palm, signifying his status as a proud, self-proclaimed slave. Behind him, a dozen other heavily armed men moved in synchronized precision – his patrolling team.
Kaelen knew this man intimately. Elias Thorne had once been the closest friend of Kaelen's father, a confidant. Yet, he was also the man who had directly betrayed him, ushering in the Lunar Strikers when they came for Kaelen's parents. Kaelen felt a searing wave of disgust for this man, and for the sickening, saccharine way Thorne acted friendly, despite knowing Kaelen's hatred.
"Pretty late for a night stroll, Kaelen Vance," Captain Thorne's voice was a low rumble, laced with false cordiality. A predatory smile played on his scarred lips. "Where are you going with all that baggage, anyway? For your own sake, I hope you're not planning something as stupid as your father did."
"Why? Are you planning to out me and get another promotion, backstabber?" Kaelen snapped, his voice a furious hiss.
"Woah… easy there, little fella. Such fire." Thorne chuckled. He unclipped a polished badge from his left shoulder, the Feral Collective insignia gleaming ominously. "As for your question, I absolutely will, if I feel the need to. You have been honored with a mark, boy, and for your sake, I hope you will honor it as well. Obedience is the key to survival, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah, now leave me alone. I have to train," Kaelen retorted, his eyes flashing with defiance. He spat deliberately at Thorne's feet, a small, defiant act of contempt. "I only have five cycles to build myself up as much as I can before they take me away to their damned facility." He turned abruptly, heading towards the makeshift gym used by the Voluntary Guards – another perverse 'perk' of being marked. He had access to their resources, though it rarely brought him joy.
"Another fool, just like his father...." Kaelen heard Thorne mutter behind him, words laced with familiar pity and disdain. Captain Thorne merely shook his head, a ghost of a smirk on his scarred face, before resuming his methodical patrol with his team, oblivious to the storm brewing within the marked boy.