Golden eyes snapped open as a boisterous voice filled the night air, “Motus!” it called, the voice was shrill, piercing in its tone, driving right through the peaceful rest of a young sleeping boy with all the practiced ease of a knife through warm butter.

  “O-on my way, Sir!” A raven-haired youth yelped at the sound and rushed to get out of bed, tripping over himself in the process and nearly crashing into the floor in a heap. A silver medallion fell from his neck and slid onto the floor, where it was left, forgotten.

  After several agonizingly frustrating moments of trying—and failing—to force a comb through his hair, Motus instead opted to put on a gray baseball cap. No shortage of frustration-born mutters left his lips after he looked in the mirror briefly. A poor attempt at covering it, to be sure, with his dark hair spilling out to fall well under his ears. With a hefty sigh, the boy grabbed a matching gray, lightly oil-stained apron. He picked up a mop and bucket that were pressed against the wall furthest from his bed, and rushed over to his boss and legal “guardian” with quickness.

  His supposed caregiver was a portly man, well-dressed in a pristine, well-taken care of three-piece brown suit, slightly wrinkled at the ankle. A lighter brown plaid pattern crossed over much of the undershirt and vest. Atop his head was a short-cropped, brown, greasy thing pretending to be hair. It struggled to cover his scalp. He was not worth a penny he owned. Referred to by most as Mr. Mansion, a moniker coined from his almost otherworldly “appreciation” for money and all things valuable. If it could be used to garner money, Mr. Mansion wanted it.

  “Now I know damn well, I told you to clean up the shop last night, boy. We’ve got no time to waste; time is money, Motus, and I won’t have you costing me any more of it.”

  “Now get to moppin’.” He said curtly, before he slapped the brim of the cap atop Motus's head, when he turned to walk away, he left a few choice words of ‘wisdom’, large, almost sausage-like, fingers gesturing to the shoulder-length black mop hiding under Motus’s cap.

  “Ah, and boy, while yer’ at it, see about getting a damn haircut, looks like you’ve got rats living up there. It’s bad for business.” Mr. Mansion’s words were dry, and his tone clipped as if he did not want to spend a moment longer than he needed to on the conversation.

  “Yes, Sir…” Motus sighed heavily, his mop of messy black hair falling into his face, shadowing his eyes, and he muttered softly under his breath.

  Hours after the exchange, Motus was still moping and grumbling to himself.

  “It makes no sense how a man like that managed to be half as successful as he is.”

  Motus put a pause to his constant mopping and allowed a long and low sigh to leave his lips, stepping back and sliding down against the wall his back was closest to, he muttered, uncaring as his sweat-dampened shirt clung to his irritatingly itchy back, his voice slightly muffled, the dry, scratching sarcasm dripping from his tone was almost palpable. “Turning thirteen’s gonna be so much fun.”

  The young boy allowed his head to rest in his hands for some time before he was forced to shake his head to remind himself of the various tasks that needed to be accomplished before Mansion’s return. The reminder drew a groan from Motus before he forced himself to his feet. He walked over to the glassware objects, muddled over a day of use, all in need of a thorough cleaning. Motus got to work cleaning the remaining glasses after setting aside a recently cleaned, cool glass of water for himself to drink once he was done.

  While Motus was cleaning, he found himself occasionally glancing out of one of the many large windows in the shop, drawn to the stars he could see glimmering when he heard the clock strike midnight. It was his birthday, and he reasoned he should feel something, anything. A feeling of bitter apathy was slowly rising in the boy’s stomach. The light cast by the moon, gently hanging in the night sky, peering down in a pristine beauty that Motus felt was sorely ruined by the smell of soap that stubbornly clung to his hands. It was just another day, nothing to make a fuss over; it wasn’t as if he had anyone to celebrate with anyway.

  Motus dropped the subject of his birthday from his mind and moved to put the last glass away a few mere moments after the clock struck twelve. It was then that he felt an odd rush throughout his body. A feeling unlike any other permeated his entire body, a rush that sent him to his knees. He was shaking erratically and brought his hands to his face in an attempt to ground himself to focus on something besides the strange, low hum he could hear in his ears.

  The hum, he noted faintly, was not unlike the engine of one of the many cars Mr. Mansion had taken him to see, if a bit more muted. However, setting his gaze upon his hands proved to have quite the opposite effect. They were glowing, a strange, almost alive blue color that seemed to pulse in time with his erratic heartbeat. Moving his hands around seemed to cause a strange, wispy, nearly blue ethereal trail to follow it, like living lightning. Even though he could not see it, his naturally gold irises were replaced, and in their stead was a pulsing electric blue. He stumbled to his feet, and he looked around quickly, confused and scared. His chest moved in a heavy heave as he sucked down air as though he would never again. It did not matter how much he inhaled; he felt as though his lungs were empty, and he could not breathe.

  Motus glanced down to see that his frantic actions had knocked over his glass of water, but it was strange; something was off; it appeared frozen, suspended in the air, as though it were stuck there. The water was halfway spilled out of the glass, but was not moving further. However, the boy would get no chance to observe the oddity further because as quickly as the strangeness had kicked in, it vanished just as suddenly, leaving him scared, confused, and with a massive mess of water and broken glass to clean up.

  “Did I—did I imagine that?” He questioned himself intensely, staring at his decidedly less “glowy” hands. “It’s official, finally happened, I’m going insane,” he groaned and shook his head in silent resignation.

  Motus had managed to get the water cleaned up, and his constant shivering and shaking dulled down to slight tremors. During his cautious cleaning of the mess—with the sacrifice of many a brave paper towel—he learned that his ordeal, despite feeling like hours, was only a paltry few minutes. He was picking up the last of the glass shards when a shrill shriek tore through his concentration with all the ease of a hot knife through butter. The sound startled him, causing him to prick his finger on the final shard, drawing blood.

  It was an odd shade that he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps if he peered closer to get a better look, he could be sure. Unfortunately, he could give it no more thought before he was roughly dragged to his feet by a large, meaty hand. The sudden action tore a yelp from his lips. Upon looking up, he was greeted by his not-so-friendly-looking boss and “caretaker.” He did not look amused. His stern tone and angry eyes reflected exactly what he thought of Motus at that moment.

  “I did not leave you here by yer’ lonesome in the unholy hours of the mornin’ to make more messes than the ones I made you clean.” Mr. Mansion barked at the boy.

  Motus flinched terribly at the heavy hand that clapped down on his shoulder. Mansion stared down at the young boy, a somber edge to his voice despite the sharp words that came next.

  “Yer’ not gonna make me go and get the belt again, are you?”

  “N-no, Sir.” Shaking his head so quickly, it was a wonder he did not get whiplash; Motus responded, his voice meek and his hands clammy.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Mr.Mansion smiled, a greasy smile that wouldn’t have been out of place on a weasel, his dark brown eyes shining with a modicum of cruelty,

  “Good lad, it’d be a shame if I had to do that. I’d hate to have to hurt you, my boy.” He said as his features softened.

  Liar, Motus thought bitterly, as he remembered the myriad of bruises he had littering his arms and torso that had been skillfully hidden underneath a long-sleeved black shirt. Subconsciously rubbing at his arms where he felt his newest addition to the ‘family’ forming, he kept his head down and his eyes firmly locked onto his shoes.

  Mr. Mansion reached out to ruffle the boy’s already messy black hair, and Motus flinched back violently. Seeing the sign of ‘weakness’ gave Mansion pause before he shed his guise as a snake sheds its skin and threw away the “fatherly” persona that had been there mere moments prior. Mr. Mansion spat words that dripped like poison from the plump man’s lips, his jowls flapping in his rage.

  “Worthless, yer’ worthless, you hear me!”

  As he gripped his hastily retracted hand as though he’d been burned, the portly man turned and quickly walked away. Slinking into his office upstairs, he left Motus with his head still down, his hair shadowing his eyes. Wet spots gradually began appearing on the floor, minutes after Mansion had left. Motus struggled not to let any more tears escape his eyes as he choked out a broken, “Y-yes, Sir.”

  He closed his eyes and slowly slid his back down against the nearest wall as he let them flow freely, staining his cheeks as he cried, quiet sobs racking his body as he wholeheartedly agreed with the man who was supposed to be his caretaker; he was worthless, he was just a boy whose own parents did not even want him. A boy who could do nothing right, the screw-up, expendable, dead weight, maybe—maybe he deserved all of this after all; but what he wouldn’t give to leave it all behind, to be more than just the screw-up he’d been all his life. If only for a day, if only…

  “ATTENTION!”

  A stern-looking man with long silver hair and a matching beard called out, exuding a militaristic air. His eyes were the stern gaze of someone who had seen far too much, revealing the toll his work had taken on him; stress lines marked an otherwise remarkably handsome face. However, the most striking feature was, amusingly, his eyes. They were a deep, warm shade of brown that periodically pulsed with an intense, roaring orange hue.

  He wore a dark gray, skin-tight shirt, matched with black pants that looked like some form of flexible armor. Draped across his shoulders was a forest green cloak of sorts. He held a look of pride as he stared at the four individuals in front of him. An equal number of young men and women. As he paced back and forth, he scowled to himself, building a sense of dread and anxiety in the group before him. He took a calming breath and opened his mouth to speak, and they tensed in preparation for an order.

  “There has been another awakening.”

  The group opened their mouths in unison, more than likely to comment on his statement. However, he raised a single hand to silence their remarks before they even had a chance to form.

  “By now, the reason you four are being sent out should be obvious.” He let out a small sigh, his eyes pulsing with a new orange hue, and with each pulse, the air got just a bit warmer. “If we felt this awakening, we can be certain one of them did as well.” The Commander scowled, knitting his brows before continuing to speak. “It is imperative that you get to the scene first.”

  A handsome young man with platinum blonde hair and pale hazel eyes stepped forward and, in a voice that flowed like fine silk, he said, “We’re ready to move out, Commander Enka.”

  The Commander gave a quick nod and turned to leave, but not before giving them one last piece of instruction and information.

  “You leave before dawn. Prepare.” Commander Enka said simply, before he walked down the corridor and disappeared from view.

  The four released a breath they did not know they were holding. The blonde boy who had spoken to the Commander spoke soon after, his voice much less stressed, a bit relieved even. “Commander Enka is terrifying, agreed?”

  “I hear ya, Jackie, man’s eyes feel like a wildfire—” A young man with long brown hair started with a yawn. “—it’s like he’s trying to incinerate my soul or somethin’, y’know?”

  “Stop being an idiot, Wade. He physically can’t burn your soul. Just do your job, and you’ll be fine.” A girl with auburn hair and jade-colored eyes said, her tone slightly agitated.

  Wade grinned lightly before sliding down the wall behind him until he was sitting firmly on the floor with his back pressed against the smooth surface. His shoulder-length brown hair flopped over to cover one of his forest green eyes, slipping free from its bun.

  “Well, excuse me, Zemora, sorry if I’m not a fan of fire—” Wade chortled at some joke not yet made “—plants are flammable, in case ya' hadn’t noticed.” He said with a disarming smile and a gesture to himself, his efforts were rewarded with a tired expression from the exasperated girl.

  She snorted at him and his antics and rolled her eyes, “You’re a waste of time.”

  Zemora stepped away from the group and walked down the corridor to her room to pack for their trip. Travel between the realms was never an easy thing. The journey once in the mortal world could very well take them days—or hours if she was lucky. Time was not always consistent between the realms.

  Zemora sat on her bed, reflecting on her earlier thoughts about her team after she was certain she had packed all the essentials.

  “Did Lord Va’ Co-Zak have another child?” she wondered idly, sighing as she adjusted her backpack and walked out of her room. Zemora had encountered more than one of his children in her relatively short life. The Lord had developed a reputation for his numerous fleeting affairs with mortals—they caught his eye far too easily.

  As she moved back down the corridor that housed the room where her earlier meeting had taken place, Zemora noticed that the room was empty. She walked past it and headed toward the metallic stairs leading down to the vehicle hangar. Instead of taking the stairs, she opted to vault over the railing. She fell the full length of the four flights but landed in a crouch with a soft thud, far quieter than one would expect from such a fall. With an ease that seemed almost unnatural, she executed what would have been a lethal jump for a mortal, moving with the grace of someone hopping off a curb.

  Rising from her crouched position, she immediately jogged toward the area where the vehicle awaited to take her group to their destination.

  A moderately sized black truck, unmarked, unadorned, and wholly unassuming. Gripping the railing of the transport truck and using it to pull herself onto it right as it began to drive off, Zemora noticed something with visible annoyance. Despite her being relatively early, the rest of her team was already there, and had been for some time, judging by how comfortable they all looked. Zemora sighed heavily and looked around the group she’d come to call family over the last three years, casting her gaze back towards the building that was slowly getting smaller and smaller in the distance. She looked up to the sun and quickly glanced around once again, letting her thoughts roam.

  ‘I wonder if the new blood is a girl?’ Zemora thought. ‘We could always use another.’

  The red-haired girl found her thoughts idly wandering over to Wade. Just as the truck exited the long, sleek, metallic hallway that was the vehicle hangar, it was replaced by another stretch of passageway leading into a cavernous tunnel. The boy in question was all too engrossed in his current herculean task of checking his shoe for rocks to notice her lingering gaze. Quietly and quickly shaking her head of useless thoughts, Zemora gave the scenery that blurred together as they zipped by, another passing glance. She took in the colors and shapes blurring around her for a brief moment before ultimately deciding she did not want to sit through the entire journey. Zemora exhaled softly as she closed her jade-green eyes, deciding sleep was her best course of action. As if on command, she began slowly dozing off, almost willing sleep to claim her, and was lightly snoring seconds after her eyes closed.

  Wade looked at Zemora’s sleeping form and grinned ever so slightly before turning back to the long stretch of tunnel blurring past. As he expected, it was a relatively boring fifteen minutes of staring into well-lit stone walls before something occurred. The truck came to a stop at an odd golden gate formed of interlocking hexagonal patterns, with glowing blue lines in a grid-like formation spreading out from the center. The driver, a young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties but held the gaze of a man much older behind dark rimmed sun-glasses, looked at the gate and spoke, pulling down his shades to reveal eyes glowing a minty green color.

  “Mozuin, V’ ku a’f Min’ Kon Zu.” The driver spoke in a language that sounded ancient; the words seemed to hold a power all their own, shaking the cavern as the words vibrated past his lips. The gate opened quickly after his words, opening into a swirling mass that formed a gateway of green energy.

  The Driver pulled his shades back, once again hiding his eyes—eyes that were now a beautiful sky-blue—as he pressed down on the gas once again and drove through the gate. Their surroundings shifted; gone was the cavern with dark brown walls, and they now found themselves in a heavily forested area. The trees directly in front of them began to pulse gold.

  The road beneath them was suddenly gone, replaced with a dirt path that the driver paid no heed to, simply slamming his foot down and speeding into the distance. Wade had looked away sometime before the completion of the sentence. The driver had spoken to the gate more than enough times now for Wade to know the phrasing by heart. He decided to take a page from Zemora’s book. He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to take him, which it did mere minutes later. He knew they were on the clock now.