Trail

Abana, found herself in the sterile confines of the hospital. Her body bore no visible wounds, yet her spirit, like a delicate thread in the tapestry of tragedy, felt the weight of the recent events. The spectacle of survival amidst the wreckage of lives lost cast a stark light on the complexities of her feelings,

Here, in the quiet space of recovery, Abana stood beside Malamu, whose world had crumbled in the unforgiving jaws of the stadium's massacre. While Malamu laid in a quiet repose on the hospital bed, their hands entwined, she shared a silent lament for the losses he endured. Her eyes, pools of empathy, reflected the shared sorrow that echoed through the hospital corridors.

Abana's presence, a subtle comfort, spoke volumes as she stood sentinel by Malamu's side, a guardian of solace amidst the lingering shadows of tragedy. In the silent communion of their shared grief, a poignant dance unfolded—a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of unforeseen adversities.

Three days hence, a naive facet of her spirit lay entwined with the fallen threads of countless lives, a casualty to the grim spectacle she had witnessed. The stench of death lingered in the air, an indelible mark on the canvas of her innocence. Never before had her eyes borne witness to such a symphony of tragedy, where the crescendo of demise echoed louder than the whispered melodies of life.

In a bitter twist of irony, she found an unexpected solace in the absence of her parents from the stadium's gruesome theater. Shame had long been a familiar companion, especially in the shadow of her father's perceived shortcomings. Yet, amid the sea of carnage, a perverse gratitude surfaced for their spared lives. She didn't want them in the stadium because she was ashamed of them but that also had saved their lives, she was doubly ashamed.

With the resonance of tragedy still echoing in the corridors of her soul, she had found herself drawn to the bedside of Malamu in the sterile quietude of the hospital. The complexities of their shared experience, the communal scars etched by the Geto's liberation, tethered their fates in an unspoken sorrow.

Malamu, bearing the weight of loss and the haunting specter of solitude, had once rejected the outstretched hand of Abana. Yet, in the stillness of the hospital, where the antiseptic scent failed to quell the residue of calamity, she stood by his side. Her fingers gently intertwined with his, a silent offering of solace in a world fractured by chaos.

Abana's gaze spoke volumes—compassion stitched into the fabric of her being. The rejection of yesteryears melted into insignificance, eclipsed by the shared vulnerability they now wore like a shroud. The abyss of loss had sculpted an unspoken bridge between them, transcending the barriers of pride and rejection.

Her hand kept stroking his hair so much so that she wasn't even aware that someone else had entered the room.

"How is he?" Akima murmured.

The young man, of medium height and broad stature, appeared both concerned and sorrowful—emotions etched across his features like the aftermath of a friend's misfortune.

He was there when Abana came to assist Malamu in that hospital room, he was still here. Watching how she was taking care of his best friend. It had surprised him yet he acknowledged that every support would be welcomed as it would help Malamu psychologically.

"In a state of shock, he just lost his entire family." The young man, who had spoken eight days prior, had encountered Malamu on the rooftop before the unraveling of Boma Ye. Their rendezvous atop the building was a ritual, a space to discuss life and their dreams. Beyond being the best of friends, their connection was also professional—this friend supplied Malamu with equipment crafted from Maqala. He had fashioned a special cross Maqala for Malamu, complete with a functioning grappling hook. Additionally, he created Maqala bombs and various other gadgets, acting as Malamu's Nganga. Having a personal Nganga was a luxury few Mbilas could afford, and despite Malamu's potential contract with a Nganga possessing two Kongas, he chose his lifelong friend. Matsouma had taught Malamu that loyalty surpassed even power; some, in their ascent, forgot those who stood with them in the muck, a mistake only Matsouma viewed as such. This insight didn't come from a moral code but from the understanding that loyal individuals held valuable secrets, crucial for maintaining an individual's power.

Malamu's connection with his Nganga extended beyond friendship to the realm of work. His friend held great appreciation, as even orders for Maqala cartridges were processed through him. Not all Ngangas possessed the expertise to create cartridges; Malamu's friend excelled in general equipment and bombs. Allowing Malamu to allocate funds for cartridge purchases demonstrated more than friendship; it was akin to granting copyright to a friend over a work created to sustain him and his family in the future.

Commissioning Maqala cartridge orders brought tax benefits, a remarkable advantage for a Nganga. Malamu, by entrusting the purchase of Maqala cartridges to his friend, shared these advantages with him.

Regret weighed on him for not being there to protect his friend. During the onset of Boma Ye, he chose to stay at his forge, preparing superior equipment for Malamu, believing that Malamu would excel. He, too, had to push himself to the limit to provide Malamu with the best possible equipment. Both shared the same dream—to journey beyond the mountain through the mist-covered forest.

However, the unfolding tragedy was devastating. The Geto had been unleashed, launching a projectile into the private box of the stadium where Malamu's family was at.

"His girlfriend, his parents, his friends... even Matsouma, all..." Malamu's friend burst into tears.

Akima took him by the hand. "Little brother, don't cry. Although the news is terrible, I can tell you that Matsouma is alive. Even though it doesn't change the loss he has suffered, at least knowing he's alive might give him some hope."

"Matsouma is alive ???" Malamu's friend was surprised.

The two men were murmuring while Abana didn't pay any attention still stroking Malamu's hair.

Suddenly, Akima, rising from his prone position, unfolded in a manner unnatural and unsettling, as if his very being contorted in the act of getting up.

"Are you okay?" inquired Malamu's concerned friend.

"I am fine," Akima replied cryptically.

As he ascended fully, a peculiar twist manifested in his body, attempting to turn in the opposite direction, defying the usual laws of anatomy.

"I will call the Mbilas!" Malamu's friend, gripped by panic, threatened to summon the Mbilas for assistance.

" Young man, do nothing that could endanger your friend lying on this hospital bed. This is not within your jurisdiction." Akima's voice resonated, yet the words seemed to be uttered by another, an unseen force speaking through him.

' I can't speak.' Akima thought, trapped in a surreal experience akin to a dream where one wants to speak but words elude expression.

His body, seemingly under the influence of an unseen will, guided him towards the exit of Malamu's hospital room.

'Well, it's good that the kid stayed calm and didn't try to escalate the situation.' Akima contemplated, acknowledging the fortunate calmness of Malamu's friend who refrained from escalating the bizarre situation.

Malamu's friend stood rooted, witnessing the macabre spectacle of a body moving as if devoid of its own volition. Feet crossed, torso tilted, Akima advanced towards the door, a spectral figure in this unsettling scene.

'—should I escalate the situation, bolster my courage, and confront the mysterious force guiding Akima's body? But I am not really a fighter—' Malamu's friend inner dialogue resonated with the delicate scene unfolding in front of him.

Could he really transform his fear into resolve, molding his emotions into a coherent response?

Akima on the other hand was distancing himself emotionally, severing the ties of panic to better assess the unfolding spectacle — weaving the threads of his emotions and logic into a cohesive strategy.

'But how…' Malamu's friend began to question the inexplicable when a sudden discovery disrupted his thoughts. He started to reach for his Maqala communicator in his pocket when, a Maqala paper, found itself in his hands—with words veiled in mist.

**When I leave through the door, let this paper fly out of the window, don't alert anyone. Not Abana, not Malamu. Trust me, I am the leader of the expeditionary team.** The enigmatic message carried the assurance of Akima, and in the face of this cryptic directive, Malamu's friend stood silent, watching as Akima's body navigated toward the room exit with an otherworldly determination.

The mist on this paper had Akima's signature. And the words seemed to have been written 15 secs before he started acting strange.

Questions swirled in his mind, akin to the complex strategies devised by Mbilas in the face of enigmatic opponents. 'How could this be happening?' 'Is Akima under some mysterious influence?' The unknown loomed before him like an undiscovered [State] ability, its true nature veiled in mist.

…

As he observed Akima's body, seemingly manipulated by an unseen force, navigating towards the exit, he felt gripped by a sudden surge of anxiety, feeling the weight of the inexplicable press upon him — a cold shiver tracing the contours of his spine.

His fingers twitched involuntarily, a subtle manifestation of the internal struggle he was facing.

The creaking sound drew his attention to the ajar door, revealing a glimpse of the mysterious hallway beyond.