XVIII - The Night Soldiers Memories

It was all an illusion of course.

So there I was, sending Kichil off on a twisted trip through his own mind. Set him up with a little happy dream, you know? Just to see what he's made of.

Turns out, the guy's got some real messed-up fantasies. Wants to off me and have a little fun with the corpse, if you can believe it.

But hey, I'm not one to judge. Watching him squirm in his own delusions, it's like a sick kind of entertainment. Can't wait to see the look on his face when he snaps out of it, and realizes it was all just a mind game.

That kind of disappointment, it's gonna eat him up inside.

But while he's lost in his own head, I figure I'll take a stroll through his memories. See what makes this nutjob tick.

Bet his mind's like a freakin' horror game on steroids. And me? I'm just itching to hit play.

Let's start reading this tragedy book!

I see...

Growing up in the heart of South Dakota, surrounded by the vast expanse of Sioux territory, Kichil's roots ran deep. Raised by his grandparents amidst a team of siblings, he was the youngest, the one with the fire in his eyes.

But it was his grandfather who fucked him up.

A Vietnam War veteran, he wore his tales of bloodshed like badges of honor, boasting of his malevolent conquests with a chilling pride.

Trophies of his atrocities adorned the walls, disgusting snapshots that spoke of his bad deeds.

And young Kichil, favored among his brothers by his old man, drank in every word, every image as if they were the gospel truth.

In that household, superiority was the currency, earned through acts of violence and domination.

To Kichil, the line between man and beast didn't exist, his actions were justified by a sense of entitlement.

In a world where pigs were butchered without remorse, who could fault him for seeing himself as the butcher and other humans as pigs?

He'd never crossed that line before though, not until he ditched high school and headed out west to Los Angeles, The City Of Angels, or Devils...

Drawn by the siren call of a cult, they had a twist on the old Sioux traditions, blending it with their own brand of mysticism. Their sacrament? Ayahuasca, the brew of visions, the key to unlocking ancestral wisdom and crazy enlightenment.

The Night Soldier, dove headfirst into that pool of superstition, drowning himself in the illusion of enlightenment.

Then, one night, amidst one of their ritual chambers, he finally made contact.

His ancestors came and spoke to him, their voices resonating with his soul. They categorized him as the chosen one, but their praise was laced with disappointment, a bitter sting for his delayed arrival.

Their command was clear: blood must be spilled. And so, a natural-born killer, with the haze of drugs and delusion clouding his senses, he obeyed.

The cult members fell like dominoes before him, as they screamed in agony.

But when the haze cleared, he was left with nothing but a newly acquired madness. The dead remained dead, their bodies lying cold and lifeless on the floor with a sinister painting drawn by blood spatter.

It was the schizophrenic voices that haunted him, infecting his already broken mind like an infected computer full of viruses. The voices spoke of ancient lineage, of ancestors proud and vengeful, guiding his hand to mete out punishment upon the heretics who dared defy their legacy, smithing them like the punishing hand of the spirits on Earth.

Driven by these spectral whispers, he became an instrument of death, executing those chosen by his twisted psyche, each act a massacre orchestrated by his own mental illness.

But even the most cunning predator leaves traces, and his grisly trail led the authorities to his door.

Knock, knock, it's the police!

They caught him and found him to be clinically insane.

The psychologists delved deep into his fractured psyche, unraveling the threads of his madness to reveal a mind torn between hallucination and reality.

A person who literally cannot separate real from illusion, how sad.

They threw him into the asylum, locked tight with bars of steel and walls of stone. But madness is a cunning foe, you know?

He found his escape, with the help of The Earl, but what he saw was of course a spirit.

I suppose The Earl likes to play camouflage games.

Fueled by the power of his newfound toy, the contract. He remained pathetic, a lost soul beyond redemption.

As I delved deeper into his memories, I found where this broken man had hidden his contract, he swallowed it and it resides in his acidic stomach.

Madness knows no bounds, yikes, what a crazy place to hide your contract.

Emerging from his memories, I woke up to the real world, battered and bloodied. I could barely stand but I had newfound clarity.

With Kichil sleeping, I left behind a structured heaven dream I had crafted for him, while I stepped into the harsh reality of the physical world.

Another limit broken, another boundary crossed. I carried Kichil on my back, and we slowly made our way to my apartment, where deeper thoughts awaited.

A creeping sensation slithered down my spine, a feeling that someone, or something, was watching my every move. Was it one of the contract holders, lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce? Now this would be unfair to me, come on.

With a swift turn, I scanned the street, my heart pounding in my chest because I was on the verge of passing out.

Lord have mercy.

To my relief, it wasn't a contract holder that met my gaze, but The Earl himself, chilling atop a streetlight while eating popcorn like some omniscient observer.

His presence was as chilling as it was unnerving, yet there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he savored the popcorn and chaos unfolding below.

Two insane men brawling for their lives. With a subtle nod of acknowledgment, he tipped his cap in my direction, acknowledging my resilience in these Carrington Games.

Returning the gesture with a wry smile, I knew it was time to retreat.

With a sense of urgency, I slinked back to the safety of my apartment, the weight of the night's events and Kichils body heavy on my shoulders.

I entered my apartment, my heart pounding like a jackhammer against my ribs. Kichil lay sprawled on the living room floor, lost in that dark tune I created for him.

Stripping off my blood-stained clothes, I tossed them into the washing machine.

Approaching Kichil's form, I inserted my hand deep into the cavity of his gut, fingers looking for the prize I sought.

With a triumphant snarl, I withdrew his contract, clutching it tightly in my crimson-stained fist.

Standing there, naked and bathed in the glow of dawn's first light, I surveyed my handiwork, my first contract holder kill.

There was no room in my Church of Truth for the likes of Kichil, a deranged soul lost to the shadows.

I had no faith in lunatics; they were nothing more than rabid beasts, waiting to strike when least expected.