Darius.

Sparkling embers cascaded like hellish snowflakes, accompanied by the staccato snaps of splintering wood and the unmistakable reek of the charred flesh cooking. 

Screams of pain and the sound of crackling fire were all assaulting my senses.

I stared at my trembling hands, slick with crimson-red blood. I had no idea what went down. It all happened so fast.

I looked around frantically, still unable to reconstruct the event sequence that had precipitated this abattoir. But there is one undeniable truth that pierced through the chaos and confusion and tsunamic rush of full-sensory overload—something I didn't want to believe.

"I did this," I whispered in horror as I gazed around with puffy red eyes already leaking saline.

The inferno around me roared, its flames becoming sentient and taking on an accusatory tone as they bellowed their condemnation.

"Yes!! You did this," the flames taunted, their voices echoing in a demonic chorus while intensifying their heat. "Murderer!" they added with a low growl as they coiled around my limbs.

With one tug, they suspended me in the air with their fiery tendrils pulling on each of my four limbs.

"I am not," I stammered, shaking my head in denial while gritting my teeth from the pain of my limbs being stretched out and on the verge of being dismembered.

I couldn't suppress the tears that welled up or the desperate pleas for mercy that escaped my lips.

"I didn't mean it. The voices did it. I'm..." I stuttered, beseeching the flames to spare me. However, it became evident that the flames had made their inexorable decision.

"Join them, demon!!" They let out one final bellow as they funneled into my mouth, and I let out one final short, ugly gasp.

My eyes went wide, unable to even whimper as I choked on the fire scorching me from the inside out and I woke up from the nightmare.

"Gahh!" I awoke with a violent start, gasping for air, and ensnared in damp sheets in the middle of a cramped room that was brightly lit by the assaulting neon glow of the streets outside. 

"Goddamn nightmares," I cursed as I heaved for breath, my hand clutching my chest in a futile attempt to calm my jackhammering heart that's pounding against the inner walls of my rib-cork, threatening to burst out. 

[shallshii baa'a, indatoo] The voice in my head spoke in fluent gibberish that carried a mocking tone.

"Shut up," I said as I hit my head with a clenched fist. Then I stumbled up, reaching out with trembling hands to the rickety table beside the worn couch that doubled as my bed. My fingers closed around the cool surface of a pill bottle. The harsh rattle of pills as I retrieved the drugs caused by my shaking hands echoed in the silence of the soundproofed room.

They weren't prescriptions or anything like that—I couldn't afford the credits for such a luxury in this burg. Just some Tetrameth wonder pills that helped me daze off the voices in a soup of more happy psycho-conjured hallucinated voices and also suppress all those memories and the associated feelings that made my life a living hell.

But they seem to work less and less on the demon living inside of me who spoke with a thousand voices as the years went on, but as much as I forced the voices down to the deepest recesses of my mind with all my will, I can still hear him whispering his wicked gibberish in the back of my head.

I popped the bottle open, letting its contents scatter on the table. Then I reached for the amber bottle with a little liquid in its bottom. Unscrewing the cap, the scent of alcohol bit into my senses.

I swallowed the pills, washing them down with a burning gulp of the cheap hooch. It was a welcomed pain, a distraction from the nightmare still echoing through my consciousness.

I sat there, fingers pressing against the bridge of my nose, eyes closed, hoping to bury it all and reclaim my mind for myself.

I opened my eyes and let out a deep sigh. I looked around for a moment. then decided there was no need for me to attempt to go back to sleep.

For most people, sleep is an opportunity to rest and momentarily escape the real world. However, for me, it offered little respite. The nightmares persisted, haunting me for years on end, and I am still clueless as to what happened that day. The only thing I was sure of was that I picked a hitchhiker that is now riding my psyche into a cliff.

reflecting on my situation led me to chase theories like a junkie after a fix—some dragged me through the gaudy sessions of high-priced psycho-theropies, and others dumped me at the stoop of churches. Neither offered answers nor cures.

Yet I knew very well that something was deeply wrong with me. And I dreaded the day it would spill over and it stopped being only my problem. for I already glimpsed it, and it broke me.

Whatever malignant rot lurked within me that is daily trying to claw its way up and take over me again would make the evils and cruelties this city could conjure look like child's play. The only thing standing between it and the world was a thin film—a broken, baked, and insignificant street kid. 

Shoving those bleak thoughts aside, I reached for my nexus, purposefully ignoring the missed calls from Goliath and a couple of favor dealers I was indebted to as I navigated straight into the social cyber diseasescape, preferring its ambient psychosis to my own.

@NocturnaDaily: "A high executive from Gilsoft Corp was caught in the crossfire in Murkvill's active combat zone. Gilsoft asserts this was no accident, vowing to identify those behind this blatant assassination attempt and promising there will be consequences."

@NoctuTechNet: "Introducing the latest in robotics: the Saar crop's quadruped Ironhaund! Set to revolutionize warfare and crime fighting, these robotic canines are poised to change the game in defense and law enforcement. Are we witnessing the dawn of a new era in defense technology?"

"Hmm, interesting," I muttered, glancing at the latest manifestation of man-made horrors beyond comprehension.

@ArcFoundation: "A new decade begins with promises of high economic growth, technological advancements, and social problem-solving. Are we on the brink of a transformative era, or will challenges persist? Here's to the possibilities of the roaring 20s!"

@HeroGuildNocturna: "The Nocturna Isle Hero Guild is recruiting. If you have the skills, wits, and courage, we want you. Exciting opportunities await those ready to take the sword against the shadows. Serve, protect, and thrive! Nocturna Needs You; Apply Now!"

@Picco420: "The Sōryū Rō syndicate is preparing for The Twin Dragon day to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Triad and the Yakuza merger of the triad and the yakuza, all of the streets of Kōtetsu Gai are being cleaned and filled with their troops to make sure no one disturbs their big day"

The usual torrent of dystopian news sludge, propaganda, and memetic detritus swirled past as I doom-scrolled into the emergent dawn: Nocturna's prosperity myths and security theatrics, the rising robot warfighters, and simpering optimism from the techno-utopians drowned out by raw bites of primal scorn.

I grunted at some and snorted at others, seeking any nanosalve for the accursed knowledge burning an event gradient across my soul.

Hours passed in mindless scrolling. However, the sickly morning light finally crept through the grime-skurred window, and I realized the night had slipped away unnoticed.

I finally tossed the nexus aside and treated myself to a refreshing sonic shower. Afterward, I caught my haggard reflection in the smudged mirror. Despite barely cracking sixteen, streaks of white were already salting my raven locks—Nocturna aged a body faster than its years. The weary bruises beneath my eyes spoke volumes of the toll both this city and my inner demon have exacted.

This city tends to do all kinds of things to you, and each person's body and mind react to it in their own way, but for me, it's speed-running aging and having my ass haunted.

I was a kid whose life was hustling nonstop. You fight for your life today, so you can survive to do the same tomorrow.

Born and bred in the literal gutter, there was no day in my life where I didn't know struggle, but for me, I wouldn't even call it that; it's just how things are; I never knew a different life nor did glimpse an alternative around me.

The grind was a fact of life on Nocturna Isle. You didn't have a choice; it was like breathing—either do it or suffocate. But like everyone else it was fueled by the quest for the heights, the Zenith of Living, the peak of the elite, and I saw myself sitting on the Thornthrone as I turned into gold.

For now, though, I was still at the bottom, a glorified mule boy living on meager credits that I scraped from the bottom of the barrel called The Obsidian Quay. 

Toweling off, I slipped into my usual comfy chic: black combat jeans with patches all over, well-worn skullcrusher boots I'd snagged from the rotting corpse of some unfortunate Nocturnal who'd met his end in a dark alley—he wouldn't need them anymore—and a cozy sweater topped with my favorite shearling trench coat. 

Approaching the table, I checked my combat knife, ensuring it was in optimal condition and also out of habit. I strapped it visibly to my person—an aesthetic gesture more than anything. I never used it, never intended to, but in this city, open carry was the norm, a cultural machismo statement, and a practical necessity. Everyone in Nocturna Isle was a sovereign, and everyone had to be able to protect that sovereignty, whether through a security carrier subscription or honing the skills to protect oneself. So everyone flaunted their weapons openly, a testament to the harsh survivalist reality and culture of Nocturna Isle. Sometimes, though, it wasn't a matter of if, but when you'd find the need to use it.

But I couldn't afford a gun or even a Taser, so I made do with serrated steel.

I took one last look in the mirror, offering a tired smile and a nod of approval. Dangerous? Hardly. But at least I looked the part for this burned-out burg.

Satisfied that my style was on point, I turned to the table, securing my medication that was scattered on its surface back into its pill bottle. I then reached for my Nexus and Credstick, slipping them into my pocket. With everything in place, I headed to the door.

The moment I keyed open my door, I was welcomed with all sorts of noises and smells that assaulted my senses. The vibrations in the air resonated with the thumping beats of music blasted by the punks who were still partying in the building, and the stench of hookah and drugs clung to the air, forcing a cough from me.

Stepping out, my gaze swept across the hall, cluttered with perennial squatters doing and talking about devil's know-who or what. Some were plugged up and lost in cyberspace, while others held open gambling circles. Some exchanged saliva—ever present, they were indistinguishable from the architecture itself. 

They were the goons and their wanna-be gangster groupies that worked for the current de facto slumlord running this particular cancer cell in Nocturna's bloated underbelly. Born and bred in the Thornthrone, you get used to these societal bacilli infecting every goddamned megaplex.

Ignoring the ambient degenerates, I made my way through the long, dirty hallway, which was filled with the endless doors of the rental hab-units.

Posters and graffiti covered the walls, and grime, garbage, and disease covered the floor.

The edifice stood as one of the primordial megaplexes, erected by the desiccated husks of mega-corporate titans now long extinct. Its tenure traded multitudinous hands amid the ceaseless hostilities between syndicate and splinter gangs and whatever group the street has conjured that week; these cancerous parasites metastasized with viral proliferation. 

The resident gang's Cyberrunners had cracked its cred-system, siphoning due remittances into their illicit coffers. The monetary system in the city made it nearly impossible to go overdue. Everything was digitized. 

The moment your room credits ran out, the water and electricity inside would shut down, and anything left inside became their property property.

With that said, I made a beeline to the elevator and headed down to the city.

[Darius'dal!! shallshii baa'a, indatoo].