Playing The Victims [BL]

Chapter One Hundred & Forty-Seven | Fourth World

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Falcon knew he was dreaming. He also knew that every aspect of what he was seeing was due to his restless mind which had yet to recover from recent events. But that didn't stop him from being afraid.

How could he not? When standing in an unfamiliar open space all on his own. The only thing he could identify, was the metallic stench that entirely engulfed him. With every heavy breath he took, droplets of warm blood fell from his hair and onto his already-covered cheeks. There was no end to the thick liquid. If he breathed too quickly, he feared it would get clogged in his throat and lungs.

If this was the first time he suffered from these paralysing dreams, he would be more inclined to believe it was due to the unavoidable bloodshed of the battle against Hawk. But instead, everything was the same— the weight, the smell and the temperature of the blood that coated his skin.

Faceless bodies lay all around him, strewn about at odd angles and completely motionless. There was a strange twist of emotions inside of him, one which made him suffer an overwhelming sense of responsibility. As if he were the one who had killed everyone, and now stood over their corpses as the lone survivor.

Falcon stiffly looked around and his exhausted gaze fell on a body that lay not too far from where he struggled to stand. A young man, with long brown hair. And discarded yet within his reach, was a broken bow. Arrows having all been used up some time ago, rendering the young man defenceless.

It was like trudging through thick snow, every step draining more and more energy out of him. Until finally he reached the body, one his trembling hands reached for. But as he tentatively turned him over, Falcon inadvertently felt a huge sense of relief as the face below him was not one he recognised.

In fact, just like the rest of those around, the body had no features that would give him an identity. They were the weight of his guilt, just another number in a long list. But it wasn't a list that belonged to Falcon, and the longer he was forced to suffer these scenes, the more confused and paranoid be became.

He stepped away from the body he could easily see now wasn't Finch and turned his attention to what was around him. Trying desperately to find some landmark that would give him some indication as to where he was located. But the further he looked out, now eyeing the horizon, more came the appearance of dead bodies. It appeared to be never ending.

In the past, the dream would never last this long. It had never been so vivid, to the point where Falcon could smell the death around him. His stomach responded and threatened to bring up what little food sat in his stomach.

While suppressing the urge to vomit, something caught the corner of his eye. Instantly, Falcon whipped his head around and found there was now a vague-looking figure standing atop a hill. His back was facing towards him, so Falcon couldn't see much of the person's features. But he could deduce that he was tall and broad shouldered.

Perhaps the culprit for all these bodies.

Before even thinking about approaching this man, Falcon glanced down at the bloodbath beneath him. Weapons of all sorts of shapes and sizes, covered the ground. But not only that, Falcon recognised some which were the original skeletons of the weapons they used today. Original's they quickly got rid of in order to use the more robust and long-lasting weapons that had saved his life on countless occasions.

He had no choice but to choose one of the unreliable tools, his movements sluggish and practically uncontrollable. He had no idea why his body was moving as slowly as it was, but he could only grit his teeth and be patient. Regularly looking back to the figure on the hill, who had yet to move an inch.