Lifted by the heat of an explosion, a singed flag colored with red, white and blue threads, soared high above the barren ground looking upon the detailed destruction of war. It drifted and weaved through clouds of smoke that spill from the earth like a dark creature slithering up into the sky. Finally the flag escaped the scrapped city where only fire existed, and sank to the soot covered ground. A hand concealed by a brutalized glove, burned, torn, and with the fingers removed, slowly and ever so carefully removed the flag from where it lay. It was now about the size of a letter that the man would receive from his wife and children every so often. Due to its singes it continued to shrink, becoming the size of a cash bill and then a coin. The man shut his hand tight and stared off into a distance, light by flames. He could not bear to see the beacon of hope vanish. He turned his hand over and spilled the ash remains onto the shattered pavement of the old world. The man was tired and could barely stand but extreme training was drilled into him and so he refused to rest. Blackened by soot and coated with small cuts the man was in need of a wash and medical attention. His dress was a navy shirt, heavily patched and with many pockets, each bloated, full of ammunition. He wore a bulletproof vest over his shirt, dotted with holes where bullets had pierced the Kevlar. His pants were thick and warm with hard plating around the knees. Two large knives, each caked with blood, which had become crisp and dry, were strapped to the bottom of each pant leg. A belt of magazines, which tightly wrapped around the man, shimmered in the glow of the fires. On the very side of the belt, a pouch held a small gun, which the man’s hand was attracted to, lightly stroking the hilt, but then letting go and bringing his hands up to his face, cupping them and blowing to warm his frosted figures which then wandered back down to the gun. The man bent down and removed his thick rubber boots; its inners lined with thickly woven wool, and then caressed his aching feet. The dry cold bit at his feet, which turned a bright red, and realizing his mistake, the man pulled his boots back on. A large gun was slung under his arm by a strap; it was heavy and it stifled him, but he could not surrender to his discomfort.

The man, after what seemed like hours more of stumbling along the crumbling pavement, collapsed, falling to his knees unable to stand despite his unbreakable will. It was night now and the moon poured its milky light over the vast desert like terrain, revealing scattered mountains in the distance. The man bathed in this light, taking in its beauty, and trying to forget. To forget the cold of night, and the heating blaze that plagued the land. The man was dragged unwillingly away from his peace, as a figure, cloaked in shadows, glided from darkness that stretched miles into the distance. The man did not react at first, thinking how the mind preys on those foolish enough to become its victim, but the figure did not fade or retreat as the man expected. Closer now it was visible, but some how avoided the moons detection, keeping to the shadows. Tall and skinny, draped with black cloth that hung like a robe, and holding a slightly crooked staff reaching several feet higher then the man, the figure neared. A curved blade on the very tip of the staff gleamed without light, and sent panic into the man who fell off his knees and onto his back, where desperately, he clawed at the ground, attempting to back away. Tears streamed from the man’s sunken eyes, desperate for sleep, as the figure stepped from the darkness directly in front of him. The man petrified by angst, watched what he could not call a man, loiter in front of him, but then saw its shadow which stretched servile yards along the road and that greatly resembled the figure, with the addition of two wing like objects sprouting from its back.

The man, now drenched in sticky, sour smelling sweat, looked as though he was melting as layers of grime poured off with his perspiration. He turned away from the thing as it adjusted its staff; the blade now aiming toward him. He waited, waited for a sharp pain and then darkness, but when this did not happen his gaze returned to the figure, who was now on one knee extending a helping hand. The sun was rising behind the mountains now, and color lit the cloudless sky bringing little heat to the cold earth below. The man was warm however, and all fear and worry seemed to dissipate giving him a feeling that he had not experienced in a very, very long time. He tried to think and rationalize but all he could conjure was the figure’s extended hand. He felt compelled, not forced, to reach out and grab the boney offer, in fact he wanted to. As he lifted his hand to meet the other, he found it was light and warm as if it was floating in a newly prepared bath, and as it drew closer the surroundings of destruction and flames melted away, and images of his family appeared, welcoming him to the light. As he clutched the hand of death he drew his last breath and happily proceeded to his fate.

Left behind, a body dressed ready for the burdens of war, lay sprawled across the ground, the skin red and cold from the nipping winds. One of the body’s hands laid under its chest holding a small photo, it’s image smudged and worn away, the other extended out as if offering a handshake to a nonexistent friend.

Through ebony doors, heavy yet noiseless when in movement, a long hall carved of mahogany and carpeted with a maroon fabric leads to the sanctuary. The hall, dark and dismal created a baleful atmosphere. Doors lining the uniquely molded walls are sinister, and so one would think twice before attempting to venture past. A raw breeze, almost unnatural, leaks from under the doors and coils around any who wander down the eerie passage. In the center of the hall a single chandelier hung slack from ceiling, its lights dimmed to the point where each bulb was a match against the obscurity. The peeling walls were a dark shade of burgundy that in the right light could appear to be the result of a gruesome slaughter, complementing the rug.

A brilliant light, bright red, creates a wall at the end of the hall, and when first introduced would blind one who leaves the dim entrance. This new room, lined with luxurious fabrics and gold tinsels, is bathed in a magnificent light that becomes a distinct claret as it passes though the many stained windows strategically placed to catch the lusterless gifts of the sun, corrupting it. The ceiling, painted a creamy pink, starting off low, grows taller as it nears the center of the room, creating a sort of cone. On the top of the building rotting beams support two massive bells that, despite age, maintain an elegant glow of gold plate and brass. The occasional thunder of the bells is harnessed by the cone shape of the building causing the ceiling to shed small chips of wood and paint. Alluring tapestries, decorated intricately with silver threads, and decadent frills covers the floor, otherwise white with settled dust. Rows of seating, vexatious to those who must be seated for many hours at a time, are arranged toward a slight incline where the carpeting seems to be less worn, and the detailed patterns of the floor are more noticeable. Melting candles with flame, each seemingly solitary from one other shrink, and as they do, spill their alabaster wax down their sides and onto the dry, gnarled table where they sit. The occasional candle is cradled in a small gold draught, collecting its wax into a pearly stew. Dying petals of an ending spring once red are now a crisp pink or brown, and litter the counter top and surrounding floor. An odd, and rare mix of beauty and fear colliding, create the red room.

Max closed his eyes; his concentration was intense to the point where beads of sweat were pouring down his pale face. He tightened his grip around the bow in his right hand, and notched an arrow. Mike and Hana, Max’s friends watched from a slight distance in awe as their friend pulled back on the bow and an aphotic aura began to swirl around the tip, and then quickly meld over the entire arrow. “Come on!” Hana shouted, “You’ve got it this time!” The immense power of the enchanted arrow created a strong wind blowing dust and small stones around Max like a vortex. He pulled the string back even further and the darkness around the arrow grew. “Do you think he has it this time?” Mike shouted over the powerful winds.
“I don’t know,” Hana said as dust and stones coiled around them. Max’s eyes opened and glowed with an ominous darkness. With a scream of triumph, Max released the arrow, which flew a few feet and then dissipated into the swirling blackness.
“No, not again!” cried Mike, “You were so close!” “You’ll get it next time Max; we’ll get this right.” Hana sighed. “Lets go, its almost dinner anyway,” Max murmured.
“Damn it!” Mike hissed under his breath, “We’re late. Sara is going to have our heads!” They turned to leave, not noticing the strange figure camped up on a tall cliff studying them intently through a pair of binoculars. He was holding a small two-way radio and wore a black trench coat and sunglasses that covered his mouth and eyes. The falling sun made the figure a three-dimensional shadow. “I believe your search is over,” the man said into the radio in a bottomless voice. “Excellent, let us move to stage two of the plan, return to me,” a less deep but strangely monotone voice replied.
Max, Mike, and Hana were all residents of the Love and Care foster home, Max being the most recent guest of the three. When he was first brought there when he was 15, not much was known about him. There were no records of his birth or parents. For a while Max didn’t exist. He was a tall kid for his age and smart despite his lack of schooling. His hair was coal black and his skin seemed to stay a pure white even on the sunniest of days, and his eyes were dark and hypnotic. Overall he was a good-looking boy, but from the start was distant and strange. It wasn’t till two years later that Max allowed people into his life, Mike and Hana, his two best friends, his two only friends. Mike and Hana were the only ones that knew about Max’s powers and they kept it a well-guarded secret.
The three kids sprinted along the final length of the long dirt road to the orphanage, Sara’s lair, the owner of the orphanage and a retched old hag that acts like a saint in front of the donors and charities, then uses their money for drinks and other petty needs. Sara also takes great joy in tormenting the poor foster kids under her control by serving them spoiled food, taking away shower rights, and sometimes even locking them out side all night.
The kids still sprinting exited the dirt road and entered into a clearing of mud, dirt, and weeds. In the center of the clearing a small rotting wood building, gray from age, struggled to stand on the swampy terrain. The stone chimney that once stood tall was now broken in two, one half in pieces on the ground slowly being consumed by the swampy ground. A small piece of paper on the door read,
“To my beloved children, it has just become 7:00 and you are not here so you will be sleeping out doors tonight. Don’t be late next time.” Mike tried the door to find it bolted shut. “It’s locked,” Mike whined.
“I guess we’re going to have to take another way then,” Max said dryly, as he walked around the decaying building. He pressed his hand against the wall and a shadow began to spread across the entire area, darkening until you could no longer see the wood it covered. Max walked into the darkness and disappeared, “Are you coming?” Max asked as he stuck his head back through the wall.
A full moon lingered in the sky casting shadows across the ground outside. Max, Mike, and Hana sat cold and hungry in Max’s room hiding from Sara who would cast them back out into the night if she knew they were inside. A low growl emitted from Mike, “Uhhh, I’m so hungry I could eat Sara’s cooking!” Hana and Mike laughed quietly in the dark room, which then fell silent. A chilling growl echoed out side, “Wow! You are hungry!” Hana marveled. “That’s not me,” Mike stuttered. All the kids looked at the cracked window with anticipation. The loud grumble and snapping of tree limbs shook the house as it drew closer but then silenced as suddenly as it started. “What was that?” Hana stuttered. Without warning a muscular clawed arm tore down the side of the building sending clouds of dust into the air. The creature leaped through the dust screen reveling its self to the kids. It was lizard like; covered head to toe in moist scales and was armed with sharp talons. It stood 10 feet tall and occasionally reveled a along forked tongue. The creature howled maniacally as it lunged toured Hana. “Help!” she screamed as the monster pulled her out into the night and began to retreat into the woods. Max who had been knocked against a wall jumped to his feet, a ferocious fire dancing in his eyes. “Mike, get my bow!”
Max ran out of the hole in the wall, bow in hand, ready to find the beast, now waiting on the edge of the tree line. Max narrowed his eyes deep in thought, “It looks like kidnapping Hana wasn’t what it came for, but if not that, then why?” The beast dropped Hana and began to charge Max, who with one hand held his bow behind him and allowed a thin layer of darkness to rush over his weapon. The monster swiped at Max only to be knocked back by the bow into a few trees’, which toppled over. “Ya” Mike screamed. “Now finish him off!” Max notched an arrow and fired only to witness the same results, the arrow dissipated as it left the bow. “Its no use, I’m not strong enough to control my power if I don’t have direct contact with it,” Max muttered to himself angrily. The creature charged again at a surprisingly fast speed given the impact it took from Max’s attack. The creature swiped Max who flew back into Mike sending them both toppling to the muddy ground. The creature turned and walked back to Hana who was unconscious on the ground. It lifted her up to its drooling jaws as if to take a bite. Max recovered from the attack and readied his arrow. “Nooo!” He screamed as he let the arrow fly. A strong darkness twisted around the arrow ripping up the ground beneath it as it flew toured the beast, and then into it. The wolf monster seemed to expand where the arrow hit, and a black light shot out of the creatures wound. The beast howled one last time before it disintegrated into countless small flakes. Max stood slightly bent over panting and Mike rushed over to aid Hana. “What was that all about?” Mike asked as he scooped up Hana. “I’m not sure,” Max answered “But why would a brainless beast like that come here of all places and try to specifically take Hana? It also seemed to know I would go after her and...” “You’re over thinking things, we have to worry about Hana, and what Sara will do when she sees this mess,” “Oh, and of course how to use your power like that again, I mean that was awesome!” Max frowned, there must be more to this, he thought as he helped Mike pick up Hana.
Max and Mike carried Hana into the orphanage, oblivious to the series of small cameras set up in near by trees. In an unknown location a man sat watching the battle on replay. He was tall and skinny around and wore a combat suit plated with steel colored a somber gray. He was no more muscular than the average healthy man. Perhaps his most distanced feature was the strange mask he wore, concealing his face. It was, like his apparel, made of tenebrous colored steel, and was marked by gash not quite deep enough to brake through the cheek of the mask. He sat on a stone throne in a room of darkness except for the light on the throne and TV playing the recording. “Congratulations Max, you have past your first test,” the man said in his monotone voice that seemed to carry around the dark room in an echo. “Doctor, is our next challenge, ready?” A short man wearing a blood spattered lab coat and read night vision goggles stepped out of the darkness “And ready for your command,” he said in a thick German accent. A pair of large eyes glowing a demonic red appeared in the darkness behind the Doctor followed by a loud grumbling and a rattle of chains. “Excellent” the masked man said followed by his immoral laugh and a loud clang from a clock hidden some where in the dark giving off the first strike of midnight.